Before them lay a sea of apparently pathless grass, through which the river crawled slowly until it seemed to be lost among huge lily-pads. Cutting through the saw-grass in all directions, spreading out like the lines in a human hand, were many shallow water-courses.

"Which one shall we take, Dave?" asked Norton.

"Take dat one first," replied the guide, pointing. "By-a-by we come to camp. Dave know."

Taking the pole, he got into the larger of the two canoes, and Alec, Chester, and Mark took their places in front of him, as it had been arranged by drawing lots. In the other canoe, which was managed by a young Indian named Jim, the other two boys and Norton stowed themselves. At the last moment Captain Vinton had decided to remain at the settlement and await their return, for a short trip in the Everglades had no charms for him. This was perhaps just as well, for it evened the crews of the canoes, and gave a place to young Jim, who was a better guide than the worthy captain.

Both Dave and Jim knew the direction of the Seminole camp, and though they headed off into the wrong water-course once during the morning, they did not go far afield. The streams were wonderfully clear, except in places where the guides had to pole through enormous patches of water plants and grasses. For six miles they pushed into the Glades, and about noon they reached a small inland island on which was a rude landing made of wreckage from the coast.

Dave explained that his tribesmen often transport planks and timbers very long distances, lashed to their canoes on the outside. At this landing they found numerous poles standing in the mud where former owners had left them at random. The boys borrowed some of these poles, for they were eager to learn the art of swamp navigation from their friendly guides.

They all landed, and soon they were enjoying a fine lunch of fish, fruit, tea and hardtack. Later, strolling along the shore of the islet, Jim shot an alligator, which he deftly skinned with his sheath-knife. Then he hung the skin upon poles to stretch and dry.

"Me leave um here 'till come back," he said.

"Why, Jim, aren't you afraid somebody will steal it?" asked Billy in surprise.

Jim frowned and shook his head. Dave glanced sharply at the young scout, as if he were vexed at Billy's question.

"Nobody steal," he said quietly. "Only Injuns around here-miles, miles." He waved his arms in a comprehensive sweep of the horizon. "Seminole always honest," he added.

"That's the truth, all right," said Mark. "A Seminole is as honest as the daylight."

Whereupon the question was dropped, although Billy could not refrain from whispering in an aside to Mark. "Did you say as the daylight, or in the daylight, sonny?" And Mark grinned a response.

After lunch, with Dave's canoe leading the way, they continued their inland voyage, marveling at the strange country through which they passed. Sometimes, plunging the pole through several feet of mud that underlay the clear water of the streams on which the canoes glided, Dave and Jim struck the hard rock bottom of limestone. The oceans of saw-grass, the occasional groves of palm, wild fig, mangoe, and rubber trees, the clumps of cypress, all were rooted in a bed of mud of various depths.

Pushing on slowly, they came at last to a good place for a camp that night. It was a small circular island, on the top of which was the framework of an Indian's lean-to shelter. Covering this with grass, rubber blankets, and netting, they soon had a comfortable "shanty," fairly well protected from mosquitoes and snakes; and there they spent the night.



Chapter XVI. The Friendly Seminoles.


About noon of the next day they arrived at the Seminole town which was their destination.

As they approached the village, which was located on a broad triangle of land slightly higher than the surrounding expanses, they noticed a little wharf along one side, and close to this wharf a number of canoes of different sizes. Standing in one of these canoes, a large one, was an Indian, who was working hard with a curious piece of mechanism. It was a sheet of tin roofing about three feet square, into which holes had been driven, with the rough side up like a nutmeg grater. Across this sheet, back and forth, the Indian was violently rubbing the roots of the coonti plant.

"What on earth is he making?" asked Billy.

"Starch," replied Mark promptly. "The Indians eat coonti starch like pudding, and it tastes mighty good, when you're hungry. I've been told that it's very nourishing and healthful, but I've never eaten much of it."

Having landed, the party stood watching the starch-maker, while the two guides made the canoes fast to the wharf. Then Dave and Jim led the way in search of friends in the village.

A few braves were standing around, gazing at the young strangers, or now and then exchanging a few mumbled words of greeting with Jim and Dave, whom they addressed by their true Seminole names. All the other men of the little village were absent, perhaps out fishing or hunting.

Not a woman or a child was in sight; they had run away to hide behind trees or within their palmetto huts. It was only when they were assured that the visitors were of the most friendly nature that they came out, eying the strangers curiously and distrustfully. One small boy whom Jim called to him was disposed to be friendly with Billy, who bought of him a bow and arrows. Norton had brought several boxes of colored beads, and he scattered handfuls of these among the children, who scrambled and scampered away for them in every direction with joyous cries.

After a while the hunters began to return in canoes, singly or in twos or threes. Beyond greeting the two guides briefly, they paid very little attention to the strangers, but continued their occupations serenely undisturbed.

On a platform close to the water's edge, two Indians were skinning some freshly killed otters. In a hut nearby, an old man, a silversmith, was making earrings and crescents of hammered silver. Further on, an Indian boy was hollowing out a log for a canoe; and three squaws were drawing water from a spring on the island, using big gourds to carry it.

Old canoe trails led from this island in all directions through the salt marshes, and the boys would have greatly enjoyed following a few of them, had time permitted. But the hours were flying, and soon the scouts would have to return to the settlement where Captain Vinton and the Arrow awaited them.

Accordingly they left the main part of the Seminole camp, and retracing their steps to the crude little wharf, embarked once more in their canoes. The friendly Seminoles gathered in a body on the wharf, to see them off; and soon the two canoes were headed down stream, following very nearly the same course over which they had come.

By dint of hard and rapid poling, the guides managed to reach the lean-to island before nightfall. Aided by the slow currents of the water trails, travel down stream was more rapid than it had been; nevertheless, it was a thoroughly tired and sleepy company of explorers who rolled into their sleeping-bags in the shelter of the lean-to that night.

Next morning, however, all were early astir, for Dave had suggested an alligator hunt. After breakfast they started off in the canoes, resolving to run up any small creeks they might find in search of these reptiles.

It was still very early. A light mist was rising from the countless acres of saw-grass, and the sun was shining through a veil of fleecy clouds. Slowly, almost noiselessly, the canoes glided along the water-courses, while their eager occupants hardly dared to speak, lest breaking the vast silence should alarm the hidden game.

The canoes were moving slowly around a point of land, when Dave, raising his hand, whispered:

"See big one-over there."

At a distance the object which he pointed out appeared to be the trunk of a fallen tree, half in water, half on the mud bank of the stream. It was motionless, and they stared at it without recognizing its shape and color. Expecting to see the glossy black back of an alligator, they observed that this creature was of an ashen gray, the color of an old sun-dried stump.

"Where? What is it?" whispered Chester.

"S-sh!" came the low, sibilant warning from Dave. "Heap big 'gator,-aal-pa-tah. You not want to wake him, scare him."

"Huh!" grunted Jim. "No 'gator."

"What? That old log is a -- "

"Crocodile!"

Even as he spoke, Jim lowered his pole and took a paddle, with which he guided the dug-out forward without noise or splash. Dave followed his example. Together, almost side by side, the canoes with their breathless crews approached the crocodile. But unfortunately, as the hideous creature was to leeward of the canoes, there was no way for them to get the wind of it; and this fact accounted for a sudden startled movement of the beast. It turned its head, opened its huge jaws with a curious loud hiss, and then, straightening itself halfway on its short legs, began to slide backward into the water.

However, at the very instant that it began to move,-and it moved with astonishing rapidity, for so ungainly a brute,-a sharp sound broke the silence. Jim's rifle spoke, and the report rang out startlingly.

With a gentle slide, the huge reptile had disappeared into the water. Anxiously they waited for him to rise to the surface again and show whether he had been fatally wounded. Jim could not tell whether or not his shot had taken effect.

But he was not kept long in doubt. After a few minutes, the water was violently churned by the dying struggles of the crocodile, and the canoes, tossing up and down on the wavelets, were nearly upset more than once. Perilous moments for the hunters! Had either of the canoes, or both, "turned turtle," the vicious and frantic reptile might have avenged its own death!

Instead, it presently lay inert and lifeless in the shallower part of the stream, whence Jim, springing out of the canoe, dragged the heavy body ashore and began at once to skin it, assisted by Dave.

There were many miles still to be traveled, and so Norton decided not to spend any more time in that locality, but to return to the river station by nightfall, if possible.

"Cap'n Vinton will think we're lost, strayed, or stolen, never coming back to civilization," he said laughingly.

"I almost wish we were!" said Hugh with a sigh. "I love the wilds. I'd like to spend a whole year down here among the Glades, if I could. Wouldn't you, Bill?"

"You bet!-if there was some reason, some purpose in our doing it," Billy answered. "I'd get tired of just loafing, though."

"So would I."

"I know you would."

"Well, I wouldn't!" declared Alec, smiling. "Hunting, fishing, exploring, taking photos-that would be enough for me."

"I guess you'd change your mind, Alec, before long," said Norton. "At any rate, we must return to civilization now. I dare say your parents will be anxious for a telegram from us within a day or two, assuring them that we're all well. Remember, it's many days since you last wrote about your adventures, and they'll want to know that we're not shipwrecked, lost at sea, or adrift in the Glades."

"Oh, they'll soon have all the news."

"Besides, we've a long cruise up the coast, back to Santario, still ahead of us," continued Roy Norton. "And Mark is looking forward to seeing his family and friends at Red Key."

There was a brief silence. The Seminole guides had resumed their poling, keeping the canoes almost abreast. A light breeze, warm and pungent with the tang of the marshes and the scent of scrubby pines, passed over the ocean of grass.

Chester broke the silence. "It's been a great trip," he said with quiet enthusiasm. "We've all enjoyed it immensely. I wish those fellows at Red Key could have come along with us; they'd have liked the run."

"I guess they have plenty of adventures," Billy added. "I'll never forget our experiences at Red Key and later at the lighthouse."

Hugh agreed with this statement. Somehow, he felt that the slight part he and his comrades had played in sharing the labors of those brave surfmen and guardians of the coast would linger in his memory longer than any other experience of their visit. It meant to them all much more than their brief sojourn at the Seminole village, with the stalwart braves returning from the chase, the squaws busying themselves with household cares, the romping children, the air of contented aloofness that pervaded the scene.

"Yes, it's been a great trip." He echoed Chet's words with sincerity.

"It's not over yet, thank fortune!" said Chester.

"It has hardly begun!" Alec rejoined briskly.

And, as later events showed, he was a true prophet; for the boys were destined to add many further adventures to their list of exploits before they returned to Santario and to Alec's home.

These adventures will be related in "The Boy Scouts on Picket Duty."

<eob>

Prudy Keeping House

By

Sophie May



Chapter I.

A Queer Idea.


One of Mrs. Allen's bay windows stood open. Between the ivies, tuberoses, and lilies, you caught a glimpse of gilded walls and rare paintings. Better than all, you saw four young faces looking out at a snow-storm; Dotty with eyes like living diamonds, Prudy fair and sweet, Horace lordly and wise; and the little one "with dove's eyes" following every motion of his head, as if she were a sunflower, and he the sun.

"Please shut the window, quick, Horace; the plants will freeze," said Prudy, drawing in her powdered head.

"Things don't freeze in cloudy weather, Prue; but you children will catch cold; so here goes."

"O, Hollis, don't those snow-specks look like little bits o' birdies, athout any wings or any feathers, too?"

"Droll birds they would be," said Aunt Madge. "That reminds me of an old riddle, children, -- 

"'White bird featherless Flew out of Paradise, Lit on the castle wall; Came a knight breathless, Ate it up toothless, Rode away horseless.'"

"Why, auntie, the 'bird featherless' must have been the snow; but who was the knight!"

"Who rides over the sky without any horse, Dotty, and melts snow by shining on it?"

"O, the sun -- the sun!"

"Hollis, I want to ask you sumpin. Does those snow-specks fly down out o' heaven? Does the little angels see 'em?"

"No, Topknot; they only come from the clouds; they are nowhere near up to the little angels."

"Not half so near as you are, Goldilocks," said Aunt Madge, brushing back the child's soft hair.

"I hope you don't mean Fly's going to die," cried Dotty, in sudden alarm, remembering how crossly she had spoken to the child two or three times since they had been in New York.

"No, Dotty; I only mean that we are told, in the Bible, there are 'ministering spirits,' and we believe they watch over good little children."

"O, my shole!" said Fly, folding her tiny hands, and raising her eyes to the top of the window. "Nice, pretty little spirricks out there, only but I can't see 'em."

"No, Miss Eyebright; not even you. Wait till you go where they live."

"Wisht I could go up there now, a-visiting; stay all night, and three weeks and then -- "

"Hush, Fly Clifford; you're the wickedest girl to talk," said Dotty. "I shouldn't ever expect to go to heaven at all, if I said such things as you do. -- O, auntie, I am so sorry it storms! Maria and her mother won't come -- will they?"

Maria Brooks was a little blind girl with whom the family were just making acquaintance. A few days before, when she was walking Broadway, led by her "freckled doggie," Fly, lost on the street, had spied her, and been attracted by the dog, and Maria had persuaded the child to go home with her. Afterwards Mrs. Brooks had taken Fly back to Colonel Allen's; and in this way Aunt Madge had learned about Maria's blindness, and had offered to take her to a physician who could help her, if any one could.

"Yes, Dotty; I presume they will come to-day, for Maria can hardly wait to have the doctor look at her eyes."

"Of course they'll come," said Horace; "who ever heard of brooks minding the weather? Rain water agrees with 'em."

"If you please, Mrs. Allen," said Nathaniel, appearing at the door, "I -- "

"O, they've come -- have they, Nat?" asked Horace. Horace was already well acquainted with the waiting man, and called him Nat, though he was a very sober youth, with velvety hair, and a green neck-tie, as stiff as a cactus.

Nat only replied by handing Mrs. Allen a letter, with a hesitating air, as if he would much rather not do it.

"A despatch!" cried Mrs. Allen, turning rather pale.

Dotty Dimple and Flyaway crowded close to her, and overwhelmed her with questions.

"O, what is it?" said one. "Who wroted it? And why didn't Hollis bring the camphor bottle athout my asking?" said the other.

But the older children knew better than to speak just then. As soon as Mrs. Allen could get her breath, she said, -- 

"Don't be frightened, dears. It is only a message from your Uncle Augustus. He can't come home to-night, as we expected. He says, 'One of my old attacks. Nothing serious. Can you come?'"

"O, is that all?" said Dotty, and ceased fanning her auntie with a book-cover.

"O, is that all?" echoed Fly, and left off patting her cheek with a pencil.

"But, children," said Horace, "don't you understand Uncle Augustus is sick -- wants auntie to go and take care of him?"

"Why, he can't have her."

"Indeed, Miss Dot, and why not?"

"She's got company, you know."

"There, little sister! I wouldn't think that of you? Poor Uncle Augustus!"

"But he says he isn't serious," said Dotty, looking ashamed. "Auntie, you don't think he's serious -- do you?"

"No, dear; he's suffering very much, but I am not in the least alarmed. He has had just such attacks as this ever since he came out of the army. He is at a hotel in Trenton, New Jersey, and needs some one to wait upon him, who knows just what to do. I am very sorry to go and leave my company, Dotty, but -- "

"O, auntie, you ought to go," cried Dotty.

"I dislike particularly not to be polite."

"O, auntie, you will be 'tic'ly polite," cried little Echo. "Please let me go, too; I won't make no noise."

"How long do you think you'll have to stay, auntie?" said Prudy.

"I cannot tell, dear. These attacks are usually short, and I think quite likely your uncle can come home to-morrow night; but he may not be able till next day."

"How he'll feel if he can't be here to Christmas!" said Dotty; "and so much greens and things in the windows!"

"Yes; and how we shall both feel to know our little friends are keeping house by themselves!"

"Keeping house? O, may we keep house!" exclaimed Prudy, her eyes suddenly brightening.

"Why, yes, my child; you may be the lady of the mansion, if that is what you mean, and Horace the lord."

"But may I cook the dinners, and not ask Mrs. Fixfax? Because I really do know a great deal, Aunt Madge. You'd be surprised! I can cook cake, and pie, and biscuit, and three kinds of pudding. Please, this once, let me manage things just as I want to."

"Just as we want, you mean," said Dotty. "I can make gingerbread as well as you can."

"And I shaked a table-cloth once," put in the youngest. "Only I shan't be here if my auntie tookens me off."

"Yes, auntie," said Horace; "let the girls manage. They'll get up queer messes, but 'twill be good fun."

"Do you believe it?" said auntie, thoughtfully. And there entered her brain, at that moment, a singular scheme, which, to almost any other woman, would have seemed absurd.

"Poor little souls? Their visit has been a failure. I've a great mind to make an arrangement with Mrs. Fixfax to have them keep house in her room." (Mrs. Fixfax was Mrs. Allen's housekeeper.) "The novelty will amuse them. Of course they will waste flour and sugar, but not very much, probably, and Mrs. Fixfax will be on the watch to see that they don't get too hungry. It will tax her severely, but I can pay her for her trouble. Really, the more I think of it, the more I'm inclined to try it. They say I'm foolishly indulgent to children. Perhaps so; but I do want them happy when they come to my house visiting."

"Have you thinked it all up?" asked Fly, peeping into her auntie's face; "I won't 'sturb Uncle 'Gustus."

"Yes, chickie; I've thinked of talking to Mrs. Fixfax about letting you all keep house; that is, if she won't consider it too much trouble."

"Trouble?" said Prudy; "why, I should think it would be a real help, auntie. She has so much care, you know. And if I got the meals for us four, the cook could rest, too."

Aunt Madge only smiled at this.

There were five servants in all: John, the coachman; Nat, the waiting-man; Mrs. Fixfax, the housekeeper; Rachel Fixfax, the chambermaid; and Patty Diggles, the cook. They were all remarkably faithful, except pretty Rachel, the housekeeper's daughter, who was rather gay and flighty, and had been something of a trial to her mistress.

Aunt Maude went into the kitchen dressed for her journey. Mrs. Fixfax had just returned from market, and was talking with the cook about the dinner.

"That is a fine plump turkey," said Mrs. Allen; "I wish I were to help eat it; but I came to tell you, Mrs. Fixfax, that Colonel Allen is sick, and I must go to him at once, and leave you with the care of these children."

The housekeeper, who was a fat, comfortable-looking woman, twice as large as her mistress, said, "Indeed, mum!" hoped Colonel Allen "wasn't sick to speak of," and shook her broad sides with laughter at the idea of taking care of Fly.

"I'll give up going to church to-morrow, mum; for, light as the child is, I can but feel as if you was sitting a ton's weight on my shoulders. And I promise to keep her alive if the Lord's willing."

"You will hardly be obliged to give up your whole time Mrs. Fixfax. I shall absolutely forbid her going out of the house, unless you, or some other grown-up person, has charge of her. And really, with John, Nathaniel, and Patty to keep guard, I don't see what mischief can befall the little creature."

"We'll all do our best, mum," replied Mrs. Fixfax, heroically.

"I have perfect faith that you will. There is one more favor to ask. These children have had a strange visit thus far, and if I go away and leave them, I fear they will feel rather forlorn. Can you consent to let the little girls 'keep house,' as they call it? That is, cook their own meals, and set their own table?"

The cook, who was stuffing the turkey was so surprised that she spilled a handful of sage over her apron. She would not have dared say the words, but her thoughts ran like this: "Pretty doings, indeed! What does Mrs. Allen mean by letting children come into the kitchen to bother me?"

But Aunt Madge had not finished speaking. "Mrs. Fixfax, there is a little old cooking-stove in the attic. Don't you remember you had it in your room when you were nursing Rachel through that fever?"

"O, yes'm, so I had; and it shall be set right up there again, mum, if you say so," said the obliging housekeeper; "and I'll carry up flour and sugar, and what not, and move out my own things, so the children can have the room pretty much to themselves."

"No need of that, Mrs. Fixfax," spoke up the cook, very pleasantly. "Let 'em come right into the kitchen. I should admire to see 'em enjoy themselves."

Patty Diggles was a singular woman. She was always full of polite speeches, just a minute too late.

"Thank you, Patty; but I think the children may feel more at home in Mrs. Fixfax's room, with no one to watch them. And now, good bye. I hope to come back to-morrow."

Mrs. Fixfax left the kitchen to find Nathaniel, and get him to help her move the stove. As soon as the business was over, Nathaniel came into the kitchen, and held up his sooty hands for Patty to see. She was stabbing the turkey with a darning-needle.

"Some folks know how to feather their own nests," said she.

"Why, what have I done now, Patty?"

"Not you, but Mrs. Fixfax; she's going to wait and tend on those children, and of course she'll get a splendid present for it. I should admire to have the little dears round me in the kitchen; but she spoke up, and took the words right out of my mouth."

The young man laughed in his sleeves, as he turned them back to wash his hands. He took care not to express his mind, however. He had a few fixed ideas. One was, that Mrs. Allen could do no wrong; and another was, that he must never bandy words with Patty Diggles, because Mrs. Allen had strictly forbidden it.



Chapter II.

Pride And Oranges.


While Mrs. Fixfax was making her room ready for the little housekeepers, Aunt Madge went to her own chamber, and locked up her best dresses, and most valuable possessions. The children watched her with some curiosity.

"Are you afraid of burgalers, auntie?" asked Dotty. "Because, if you are, we shan't dare stay here."

"No, Dotty. I only thought, if you should play keep house, it might be rather amusing to come in here, and dress up in some of my old finery. You are welcome to whatever you can find, for I have locked up all that is worth much."

"O, you darling auntie, won't that be splendid? Now we shan't feel half so sorry about your going away."

"Sorry!" said Mrs. Allen, with a mischievous smile. "You are so delighted you don't know what to do."

"There, auntie, that isn't fair," laughed Prudy, "when we've been trying our best to cry. But somehow, how can we, when Uncle Augustus isn't very sick, and you're coming right back? But what made me laugh just now, was looking at that ruffled pillow-case, and thinking what a splendid cap it would make for an old lady, tied down with black ribbon!"

"A pretty uproar we shall find when we get back, Miss Prudy; but I am prepared for that. Only promise one thing -- keep that baby in the house. Flyaway, darling, will you remember not to go out of doors?"

"Yes, um, I'll 'member," replied Fly, winking her eyes solemnly. She had expected, till the last minute, to go with her auntie.

"There is one thing I regret. If Mrs. Brooks and Maria come, they will be very much disappointed. Tell them I'll try to attend to them the day but one after Christmas. And now, good by, children. You know you're as dear to me as the apple of my eye. Do take good care of yourselves, and be good."

"The apple of your eye appears to be split in four quarters, auntie," remarked Horace; and on the strength of that joke, Mrs. Allen started on her journey to Trenton.

"Now I suppose I'm to be the head of the family," said Prudy, with a majestic air.

"We are the two heads, if you please, mum," said Horace, striking an attitude.

"What am I, then?" asked Dotty.

"You? The foot. You must run and tend."

"H'm!"

"What am I?" asked Fly.

"Why, the little finger, pet. All you have to do is to curl up in one corner."

"H'm!" responded Fly, looking at Dotty's solemn face, and trying to draw her own down to exactly the same length.

"Pretty well, I should think," said Dotty, as soon as her injured feelings would allow her to speak. "What have I done to be put down to the bottom of the foot?"

"But you know, little sister, one woman has to manage a house; and I am older than you."

"But you can't make a bit better gingerbread, Prudy Parlin! If I've got to be your hired girl, I won't play."

"So I wouldn't," said Horace. "I'd show 'em what I thought of such actions."

Upon this there was a little whirlwind, which spun Dotty out of the room before you could count two.

"They stand very high in their own self-esteem. He's a hero, she a hero-ess! They think I like to be laughed at. She said it only took one woman to manage a house; but she never made any fuss when Horace spoke up, and wanted to help. It's me that can't manage -- just because it's me. Who wants Horace for the head of the family? He don't know more'n the head of a pin! When'd ever he make ginger-bread?"

By this time Dotty had reached her own room in a tumult of rage.

"Prudy wouldn't 'low three heads to it, I s'pose? O, no; for then I could be one! If I was a great boy, with a silver watch, that wasn't her own sister, she'd let me! Yes, if I had five heads, she wouldn't have said a word."

Dotty paced the floor restlessly, with her hands behind her.

"I shan't go back. Let 'em keep their old house. I can keep house my own self up in this room -- wish I'd brought Fly -- she's too good for 'em. Wish I hadn't come to New York to be imposed upon."

As Dotty was crossing and recrossing the room, her eye fell on one of the illuminated cards on the wall, printed in red and gold, and wreathed with delicate lilies of the valley -- "God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble."

The angry child stopped short.

"Who put that there? What did auntie mean? She meant me. Everybody means me. I wouldn't have thought that of auntie."

Dotty turned away; but the words followed her across the room like the eyes of a portrait.

"'God resisteth the proud.' Well, who said I was proud? People are so queer! Always think it's me wants the best things. 'Giveth grace to the humble.' There, I s'pose that means Prudy. She's just as humble! Never wants to take the best parts when we play. O, no; Prudy's humble? Prudy's a hero-ess!'"

But scold as she might, those burning red words were looking right down into Dotty's soul. Though she shut her eyes, there they were still. "'God resisteth the proud.' Am I proud? -- Yes. Does God resisteth me? -- Yes, for the Bible can't lie. What is resisteth? Something that makes you feel bad, prob'ly. That's why I can't be happy. I won't be proud another minute."

Dotty winked fast, set her teeth together, pinched her neck, and swallowed.

"There, it's going down my throat like a pill, -- its gone! Am I proud any more? No -- for I really don't s'pose I can make gingerbread quite so well as Prudy! I never made any but once, and then Norah took it out of the oven and put in the ginger and molasses. No, I'm not proud. I don't want to keep house. I shouldn't know how. It would be very much better to go back and behave, for I can't stay here without being lonesome."

Dotty looked again at the red and gold text. "How different it seems to me now I'm humble! People needn't be proud if they'd swallow it down like a pill."

Dotty's reasoning was rather mixed; still it is worthy of notice, that she was doing a remarkable thing for her, as she slowly walked back to her auntie's room.

But all this while Prudy, too, had been suffering. She could never bear to have her young sister angry, and, if it had not been for Horace, would have gone to her with all sorts of promises -- anything for peace.

"She's an outrageous little tyrant, Prue. She ought to have a sound whipping."

"O, Horace," said Prudy, quite shocked; "she can't help her temper; she has to be humored."

"Poh! that's just what ails her! Been humored to death."

"But, Horace, can't we change our play, somehow? It never will do for me to try to order her about."

"Nonsense, Prue! But if you're going to be so fussy, you might keep boarding-house, and have her for lady boarder."

Prudy's brow cleared.

"Just what'll suit her, Horace! A lady boarder is so fashionable, -- like the one they had at Mrs. Penny's, -- always washing out laces. Now I'll go tell Dotty."

Just then Miss Dimple appeared at the door with an uncertain smile.

"I -- I -- thought -- "

"O, how kind of you to come back to us, my Lady Magnifico!" cried Horace, bowing himself double. "Your landlady was afraid you objected to your boarding-place."

"You see," said Prudy, eagerly, "we are making believe I keep boarders. I've 'seen better days,' or something of that kind, as they say in story-books -- O, seems to me my husband died."

"Yes; I saw his death in the papers," said Dotty, briskly; "so you don't want me for your hired girl -- do you?"

Then she thought, "How glad I am I came back! It's always better to be humble!" and added aloud, with a fine-lady drawl, -- 

"No, mim; it's not the style I've been subject to. I was necessiated to leave you, mim, because I can't eat out of anything but gold teaspoons."

"That sounds so like Mrs. Pitkin Smith!" said Prudy, laughing. "She used to board at Mrs. Penny's, Horace. Come, let's go and dress in our costumes. I'll be Mother Hubbard; and Horace, you go into uncle's dressing-room and see what you can find."

Little Miss Fly.



Chapter III.

Borrowed Jewels.


"Of course I must take the best things," said Dotty; "for I'm to have the best part."

So she chose a blue poplin dress, a pink sash, a scarlet bow, and a green pin. The dress was half a yard too long, and she caught it up in front with some artificial flowers she found in a box. Her head she surmounted with an old chignon, which bobbed back and forth, as she walked, like a pedler's pack.

"O, see, Prudy," said she; "here is auntie's jewel cabinet. What cunning little sliding drawers!"

"Don't open it; don't touch it, Dotty. I saw auntie look it up in her safe once; but I suppose she took it out again to get her watch."

"No, she didn't; here's her watch," said Dotty, swinging open one of the little drawers.

"That's her other watch, Dotty. She says it needs mending."

"Then I'm going to wear it; it is just as good for a lady boarder, as a whole one."

"Don't, Dotty; that's the watch Uncle Augustus gave her when they were married, and she thinks the world of it."

"Well, he gave her the other one too -- didn't he?"

"Yes; last Christmas: don't you know how she found it in an orange?"

"O, I remember. And she ought to think the most of that one, Prudy, because she loves him better now than she did when he gave her this one; ever so much better."

"It's of no consequence to you if she does, or if she doesn't, Dotty Dimple. What right have you with that cabinet, I should like to know? Shut it right up this minute. O please do, Dotty."

Dotty's contrary spirit began to rise. She opened every one of the drawers, and poured out the glittering jewels. Of course Fly was on the spot in a twinkling; but Prudy caught her, and playfully pinned her little arms down to her sides; so her prying fingers had no chance to do mischief.

"Didn't auntie tell us to dress up in her old finery?" said Dotty, thrusting the watch into her girdle.

"Old finery, Dotty Dimple!"

"And isn't this old? 'You're welcome to whatever you can find;' that was just the words she said, Prudy Parlin."

"O, how many ways there are for people to do wrong if they want to!" cried Prudy, in despair. "When you do get started, Dotty -- Will you, or will you not, put up those things? If you don't, it's my duty to call Horace, and -- "

"'Fore I'd be a tell-tale!" said Dotty, slipping off half a dozen rings in haste. "There, I won't wear but just two -- one on each thumb. Who wants the old watch? Tick's all out of it. You don't know, Prudy, how tight those rings fit. I could wear 'em on my forefinger, but I shan't, you make such a fuss."

Prudy answered by a look of unutterable contempt.

"I suppose," said she, speaking with a vehemence quite unusual to her -- "I suppose you know auntie's jewels are worth more money than father has in the world! If you lose one of them, I don't know who's going to pay for it; that's all."

Dotty looked amazed, but answered coolly, -- 

"Of course I always knew that! Auntie has about as nice things as the governor's wife."

She was sure she was very humble, since swallowing her pride like a pill; but somehow she was determined not to take off those rings.

"Prudy needn't speak so sharp to me! I didn't care about wearing 'em in the first place; but now I'll do it to show her what's the use to preach!"

Prudy, having done her duty, said no more, but proceeded to look over her auntie's wardrobe in search of a dress.

"I s'pose she thinks I'm the awfulest girl," mused Dotty, fluttering in and out of the closet. "I s'pose she's thinking about that rag-bag last summer -- how Jennie Vance no business to take those three dollars out of the saddle-bag pockets! Grandma said, 'You're welcome to all you can find.' Well, but that didn't mean for Jennie to steal! Prudy needn't go to thinking this is the same kind of a thing, for it isn't. I guess stealing is pretty different from borrowing."

Dotty viewed herself in the glass with secret satisfaction. She really looked like a Fourth of July fantastic; but we do not see ourselves as others see us.

"She won't be the least help to me about the house," thought Prudy, with a feeling of envy. "I shall have every single thing to do; and I declare I don't know what to get for dinner."

She chose the worst looking wrapper her aunt's wardrobe afforded, and a gingham apron with pockets. Quite good enough for a woman keeping house without a servant. And as she had decided to call herself Mother Hubbard, she made an ample cap, by folding a "pillow-sham," and putting two of its ruffled edges around her face for a double border. Then, with green spectacles at her nose, a bunch of keys at her waist, and a pair of high-heeled slippers on her feet, she went to the door, and called for Fly.

"Fly! Why, isn't she in there?" responded Horace, appearing on the landing, "You didn't think I had her with me -- did you?"

As Prudy wisely remarked, "How many ways there are for people to do wrong if they want to!"

Seeing her betters disagree, little Fly had taken her turn at pouting.

"They don't say nuffin' 'bout fixin' me up. Goin' to let me go to the party in my old clo'es? Wisht auntie'd tookened me with her. Might just's well not! Might a' worn soft slippers, and not 'sturbed Uncle 'Gustus!" Fly wafted herself to the top of the bureau, and gazed down on the girls in stern displeasure. But she might as well have scowled at empty air, for no notice was taken of her. Dotty was giving an extra touch to her chignon, and Prudy trying on her cap. "Hark! What's that?"

It was the street-cry away off in the backyard -- "Fine fresh oranges."

"Guess I'll go see what's the matter with that man," thought Miss Fly. "Guess he's got hurted."

She slid down from the bureau, and stole softly out of the room backward; but her feet made no more sound on the carpet than the fall of a rose-leaf, and neither of the girls looked up.

"For course I shan't go ou'doors, 'cause I solomon promised I wouldn't," said she, pattering down the basement stairs.

The fact was, she had no idea any one would let her go. But it so happened that thoughtless Rachel was the one who unlocked the basement door, and it was an easy thing to slip out behind her.

"'Cause I spect she'll send me ri' back."

But when Rachel looked around, and saw the pretty child with her fair hair blowing wild, she only laughed and went on gossiping with the orange boy. She saw no harm in letting Fly hop about the pavement on one foot sucking oranges, till she herself felt chilled by the keen wind; then she drew the little girl into the house, and shut the door against the snow-storm, saying, -- 

"Why, how happened you out here, little Miss Fly?"

"She sawed me the whole time; she ought to sended me in," thought Fly, dancing up and down to shake off the snow. "Twasn't me was naughty; 'twas the rest the folks. They didn't pay no 'tention where I went to."

But though she pretended to herself that she had done no wrong, she did not wish to be found out, and crept very softly up stairs, even as far as the cupola, and looked out of the windows with all her might.

"Cold room up here, athout no fire," thought she, by and by, with a shiver; and just then she heard the girls calling.

"Here I is," a voice replied, far up the height; and down ran Fly in a trice.

"You haven't been 'up attic' all this time, Topknot?"

"Well, you ought to paid 'tention where I's going to," returned Fly, sharply. "Nobody knows what I'll do next -- auntie said there didn't!"

Horace laughed. "Come, fix her up, girls; she's my baby."

"I thought you were the 'Man in the Moon,'" said Mother Hubbard, "and he isn't married."

"I've been a widower some time," sighed Horace, laying his hand on the left pocket of his blue swallow-tail coat.

His costume was as droll as the girls'; for Uncle Augustus, who had figured the week before in some private tableaux, had a full Brother Jonathan suit.

"The man in the Moon, if you please, Mother Hubbard, come down to inquire the way to Norridge."

"Ah! I'm afraid you've 'come down too soon.' Didn't you forget your whiskers?"

Horace rubbed his upper lip thoughtfully. "Will you inform me, ma'am, where I can get a boarding-place? I'm sort of turned round. Growing place. Last time I was down, there were only a few houses here; now it's pretty thick settled back of the meeting-house."

"I'll take you," said Mother Hubbard, putting her handkerchief to her face. "How would my dog feel if he knew I had come to this!"

"Come to what, ma'am?"

"Why, to New York, to take boarders."

"Are you in indigenous circumstances, madam? And have you seen the first society? If so, I may possibly conclude to come too," said Dotty, sweeping forward, and losing a hair-pin out of her chignon.

"O, what a fascinating creature!" said the Man in the Moon, making an eye-glass of his thumb and forefinger, and gazing at the lady boarder. "Are you a widow, ma'am?"

"Well, they don't say nuffin' 'bout fixin' me up! Guess I shan't go to the party!" exclaimed Fly, opening and closing her eyes in token of outraged dignity.

Prudy took her into auntie's room, and proceeded at once to robe her in her own night-dress, with a lace night-cap, and a cologne-mat for a bib.

"Hollis didn't say for me to be such a long baby," sniffled Fly, trying in vain to clear her feet from the trailing skirt.

"This is your slip, dear. You're only a baby -- musn't try to walk."

"Then my papa must carry me down stairs," said Fly, entering into the spirit of the play. "You tell him so -- I can't tell him, for I can't talk. Argoo-goo. My teeth haven't camed."

"If you please, Master Clifford," said Nathaniel, appearing at the head of the stairs. Then he stopped short with surprise, hardly knowing the children in their strange attire; but being too dignified to laugh aloud, added, with a grim smile, -- 

"The woman that brought Miss Fly home the other day is down in the dining-room, and says,'Can she see one of the family?'"

"A little girl with her, Nat?"

"Yes, sir; the blind girl is with her."

"And the freckled doggie!" asked "the long baby," suddenly raising her head from her father's shoulder. "I meant to told 'em to bringed that doggie."

"Let's all go down and see," said Mother Hubbard.

When they entered the dining-room, Mrs. Brooks started up in dismay. She had left her sick husband, and come a long distance through the storm, only to find Mrs. Allen gone, and a parcel of children decked out like circus-riders. It seemed like a cruel mockery.

"Beg pardon," said she. "Maria, we'll go home now."

Maria was sitting near her mother, trying to force back the tears which would find their way through her closed eyes.

"You poor dear girl," said Mother Hubbard, going up to her, and taking her hand. "My auntie was so sorry to go off to-day, just when you were coming! but she had to, for Uncle Augustus is sick. And it looks funny to you -- I mean to your mother -- to see us dressed up this way; but auntie said we might, just to keep us from being so lonesome. And Mrs. Brooks, she wants you to call again the day after the day after to-morrow. She thinks she'll be home then."

"Yes'm," struck in my Lady Magnifico! "She thinks she'll come then with Uncle 'Gustus. He isn't much sick. If he was going to die, we wouldn't dress up so, certainly."

"No," replied Mrs. Brooks, smiling. "It's just as well; my Maria must have patience; that's all."

"Patience!" thought Maria; "haven't I had it, and had it? -- But I do suppose God will attend to me when He thinks best. Is this what they call waiting on the Lord?"

"When you come nex' time, I hope you'll bring that doggie," said Fly.

Then they went away, and the last thing Maria listened to was Fly's melodious voice; and the last thing Fly looked at was Mrs. Brooks's nose moving up and down.



Chapter IV.

Going To Housekeeping.


It was nearly noon before Mrs. Fixfax had made her room ready for housekeeping. She turned up her bed into a press that stood beside the wall, brought in a high chair, a small rocking chair, two ottomans, some pictures and picture-books, and nearly all the curiosities she could find in the house. A cunning little cooking-stove, highly polished, was set against the chimney, and the drollest shovel and tongs seemed to be making "dumb love" to each other across the fireplace, like a black Punch and Judy. Then there was a pair of brazen-faced bellows, hanging, nose downward, on a brass nail; a large table in one corner, with a cake-board on it, and near it a cupboard made out of an old clothes-press, with dishes in it, and flour, sugar, raisins, spices, rolling-pin, "aerating egg-beater," yellow bowls, wooden spoons, and everything that could be needed in cooking for a very large family. There were five rugs spread on the carpet, and a large oilcloth under the stove. Last, but not least, Mrs. Fixfax brought Mrs. Allen's tortoise-shell cat, and set her in a stuffed chair by the west window.

Then she called the children; and Mother Hubbard and Lady Magnifico rushed in, followed by the Man in the Moon and his baby.

"Good morning, all; I hope I see you well," said Mrs. Fixfax, as sober as Nathaniel himself. "This room is yours as long as you like. Make yourselves perfectly at home."

"Thank you ever so much," replied Mother Hubbard, bobbing her head, while the "pillow-sham" ruffles waved this way and that, like a field of ripe grain.

"Whenever you want anything, just ring this bell, and I will come; or, if you ring the other one, it will bring Rachel. And, Miss Prudy, here is the 'Young Housekeeper's Friend;' perhaps you would like to look it over."

Mother Hubbard blushed to her cap-border, and took the book with another "Thank you ever so much," but did not know what else to say to such a dignified woman.

The truth was, Mrs. Fixfax was trying so hard to keep from laughing, that her manner was rather stiff and cold.

"I have left the ventilator open," thought she. "The children are full of talk, and I don't want to lose a word. Besides, Mrs. Allen would consider it safer for me to know all that's going on."

"There, glad she's gone," said Lady Magnifico, as Mrs. Fixfax's stately form disappeared.

"She isn't as pretty as the new Miss Fixfix. 'Spect she's got the toothache," suggested the talking infant, who was trying to lie and coo on a rug, but was unable to do it.

"Well said, little Toddle; false toothache, hey?"

"Are they false, Mr. Moony? Then that was why she puckered up her lips so funny," said Mother Hubbard; "it was to keep 'em in!"

"Yes; and take her, teeth and all, her face has about as much expression as a platter of cold hash. I'll leave it to you if it hasn't, Prue."

"Why, there, Miss Fixfix never asked me to kiss her one time," said Fly, with sudden astonishment.

"Reckon you'd have wanted a lump of sugar after it, Topknot."

The good-natured housekeeper shook with laughter as she listened to these remarks from the next room.

"What a terrible creature this Miss Fixfix is!" thought she. "Well, if they've got such an idea of me, I won't try to change it. Not for the rest of the day, at any rate. I'll keep my distance, and let 'em work."

Mother Hubbard began to look about her with the mien of a housekeeper.

"Let us see: what are we burning here?" said she, taking off a stove-cover. "Wood, I declare. Mrs. Fixfax is afraid I couldn't manage coal!"

"And here's a 'normous big box full of sticks," said Lady Magnifico. "I didn't s'pose wood grew in New York. What now, Mr. Moon? Don't I know wood is sawed out of trees? Well, what you laughing at, then?"

"Laughing, my lady? Why, who can help it, to see such a jolly room, big enough to hold a mass-meeting? That's a loud-spoken clock up there. Wonder if Mother Hubbard notices it's just going to strike twelve?"

Prudy looked up, but did not take the hint.

"I'm so glad I remembered to bring that clock. I always used to tell my dog I prized it as much as he did his dear little tail. -- Why, what's burning? That child has scorched her slip. Do take care of her, Mr. -- what may I call you? -- while I look over this cupboard."

"Call me Dr. Moonshine, if you want to."

"I'm glad I was so thoughtful as to order sugar," continued the landlady. "It's excellent to drop medicine on. What's this in a bowl? Ice-cream?"

"Why, don't you know what that is?" said Lady Magnifico, sweeping along to the cupboard, and dipping in her dainty finger; "that's condemned milk.'

"Condensed milk, her ladyship means," said the doctor, "boiled down, you know, and thickened. When you make a custard for dinner, you'll have to put in a tea-kettle full of water."

This was the second hint the young man had thrown out concerning dinner; but Prudy was not to be hurried.

"What's this in a little caddy? O, it's rice. No; it's what Dotty used to call coker whacker."

"What does she call it now, may I ask?" said the doctor, with an irritating smile.

"Patti-coker -- what you s'pose?" was the rash reply. Poor Lady Magnifico! Little tingles of shame ran down her fingers as soon as she had spoken, for she saw, by the glances between her landlady and the doctor, that she had made another mistake.

"O, I like to keep house," cried Fly, holding up her trailing robes, and dancing over a carpet seam. "What's this goldy thing?"

"Bellows, Toddlekins, to blow up the fire. See me fill out their leather cheeks."

"What pretty little blozers! Let me blow 'em!"

There was a second dash upon the stove, and another scorch in the slip.

"There ought to be a fence built round that stove," said the anxious father.

"Come, Mother Hubbard, have you seen all there is in the cupboard? Can't you give this poor old dog a bone?"

"Well, here I am with the care of the family on my shoulders," thought Mother Hubbard, winking fast behind the green spectacles, and recalling uneasily the couplet her father often repeated: -- 

"Think well before you pursue it; But when you begin, go through it."

"Now what'll we have for dinner?"

Lady Magnifico was walking languidly about, admiring herself in the mirror, Dr. Moonshine rummaging an old closet, and Baby pulling out the bureau drawers.

"They have the easy part. But never mind; I'll show them what I can do. Mother says I have a great deal more taste for cooking than Susy has. Didn't I make pickles all one vacation?"

Then Prudy sat down with the "Housekeeper's Friend," and began at the first page to read. Half an hour passed, and no signs of her moving.

"I'm hunger-y," whispered Baby, taking a sugar-coated pill out of a box, and touching it with her tongue. It was sweet till her teeth went into it, when out rolled the little ball upon the floor.

"O, my shole! How bitter!" groaned she, wiping her mouth on a lace cuff. "'Spect that's a pill, and they cooked it in sugar; but I shan't eat it."

"Little daughter, what are you doing there? Mustn't meddle with other folks' things." Dr. Moonshine sneezed as he spoke, having breathed some of the "dust of ages" into his nose off a top shelf, where Mrs. Fixfax kept a few herbs. Ten minutes more. The doctor stepped down from the chair-back on which he had been standing, and gazed hard at his landlady. She was turning the sixteenth page.

"My Lady Magnifico!"

"Sir?"

"My lady, do you happen to have such a thing as a peanut in your pocket?"

My lady shook the cat out of the armchair, and seated herself.

"It isn't polite to carry round peanuts."

"I was only thinking," continued the doctor, with a side glance at Mother Hubbard, "how nice a peanut would be to keep anybody from fainting away."

Mother Hubbard started from her chair. "What unfashionable boarders! You don't expect dinner in the middle of the day, I hope! In the city of New York we don't have it till five or six o'clock. I'm afraid you came down too soon, Dr. Moonshine."

"Afraid I did. Wish I was 'the man in the South.' I'd like to 'burn my mouth' on a little 'cold plum porridge.'"

"Haven't any for you; but I'll give you a lunch. What say to omelettes and coffee?"

"Excellent," said Dr. Moonshine, reviving.

"Exquisite," drawled my lady.

"Exquit," quoth Fly.

"Only there isn't any coffee," said Mother Hubbard, going to the cupboard.

"Call it tea," said the doctor, "and hurry up."

"No, chocolate is better. How do you make chocolate?" said the landlady, turning to her cook-book.

"I don't know, and don't care," fumed the doctor. "Baked in a slow oven, most likely, with a top crust. Let the chocolate slide."

"Well, I will. And now I'll make the omelette. Eggs? yes; there are eggs enough; but dear me, where's the milk? This condemned kind my lady tells about won't do to make omelettes. I shouldn't dare try it."

"Well, well, give us a little bread and butter. I've got past being particular."

"O, Dr. Moonshine, such biscuits as I'm going to bake for you at five o'clock! But now I really can't find a speck of bread!"

"I'll warrant it! I always heard that when old Mother Hubbard went to her cupboard she found the shelves were all bare."

"Then you needn't have come here to board. Won't crackers and raisins do?"

They had to do; and the boarders tried to be satisfied in view of the coming dinner.

All the afternoon Mother Hubbard spent between the cake-board and the mouth of the oven.

"Queen of the rolling-pin, can't you hush up this fire?" said Dr. Moonshine, looking at the thermometer; "we're nearly up to 'butter melts,' and I suppose you know that's ninety degrees."

"Dr. Moonshine," replied Mother Hubbard, nervously, "I can't help it if the butter does melt. We've got to have something to eat."

"Papa, pin up my dress," said the baby. "I want to do sumpin. I want some pastry to paste a book with."

"You're a real failure, Toddlekins. Your teeth have come, and you talk and keep talking. I'm afraid Mother Hubbard will charge me full price for your board. You hear what she calls for, ma'am? Can you make her a little paste? Here's an old Patent Office Report; and I'll run the risk of her spoiling it. I'll cut some pictures for her out of these papers."

"Lucky I don't keep a file of my newspapers," thought Mrs. Fixfax, listening from the next room. "If I did, those children would hear from me."

"Yes, I'll make her some paste," said Mother Hubbard, dropping the aerating egg-beater, and setting the spice-box on the stove.

Dr. Moonshine laughed. Mother Hubbard had never dreamed a boarder could be so disagreeable. She snatched off the spice-box, and setting a kettle on the stove, boiled paste enough to paper the walls of a room.

Meanwhile Fly was making free with the nutmegs and soda, and the little cook could not remember how far along she had got with the cake.

"Children don't annoy you, I hope," said the doctor, seating the baby at the side of the table, opposite Mother Hubbard, and giving her a stick with a rag wound around the end of it, in order to paste pictures into a scrap-book.

"Thank you, doctor. I never did like children half as well as dogs," replied Mother Hubbard, forcing a smile. Then she tasted her cake slyly, to make sure whether she had put the butter in or not.

"Madam Hubbard, mim," said Lady Magnifico, "may I trouble you for a glass of water?"

"Mamma Hubbard, may I have a hangfiss to wipe off the pastry?"

Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard, and got a goblet for the lady; to the closet, and found a rag for the baby.

By that time she smelt something burning; it was eggs. She had left the patent egg-beater on the stove by accident, and its contents were as black as a shoe.

"O, what a frightful, alarming odor!" cried Lady Magnifico. "If somebody doesn't throw up a window! Madam, do tell us what's afire now!"

"Mother Hubbard's got a dumb chill," said the doctor; "she won't speak."

But Prudy was saying under breath, "Please, God, let me keep pleasant. They don't mean any harm, and I should be ashamed to get angry just about a play."

"What ails you, Mother Hubbard? 'You look as blue as the skimmiest kind of skim-milk.'"

"Do I? Well, no wonder, with such troublesome boarders. Suppose you and my lady go down to the parlor. I don't believe I'm a bit interesting, you know. I'll call you when dinner is ready."

"Agreed! Sharp five, remember."

"There," said Mother Hubbard, taking off her spectacles; "now I can cook."

Could she?

"Little folks we is to keep house -- isn't we?" buzzed the little torment that was left behind. "Hush! don't you talk, Prudy. When you shake the table, then I make blots with my pastry."

Prudy said nothing, but thoughtfully tasted the cake again. How could she tell whether she had left out the soda?

"Are you blind of your ears, Prudy, Can't you hear nuffin what I say? Rag's come off the stick. Please to tie it on. And I want to eat some o' that dough."

Mother Hubbard did her blundering best; but ill luck seemed to pursue the cooking.

"Needn't call that book the 'Young Housekeeper's Friend.' It's an enemy, a real bitter enemy," cried she, in great excitement. "Wood is hotter than coal, too. Mrs. Fixfax must have given it to me to plague me. How it does burn things up! I hope beefsteak is cheap. I won't ask anybody to eat this, all covered with ashes. I'll never try to broil any again on top of a stick of wood! I won't try that 'steamboat pudding.' Sounds as if 'twould burn, and I know it would. Let 'em go without pudding."

After the most tiresome afternoon she had ever spent in her life, Mother Hubbard went down with Fly, whom she dared not leave by herself, to call her boarders to dinner.



Chapter V.

Mother Hubbard's Dinner.


This was Mrs. Allen's "reception-day," the day on which she always staid at home, that her friends might be sure of finding her in.

"Not at home," Nathaniel had kept saying to visitors that afternoon. But one of them, a queenly-looking lady, would not be satisfied with the answer.

"Are the children here?" demanded she. "Those nieces and nephews?"

Nathaniel did not know exactly what reply to make; so he invited the lady into the parlor, and went to inquire.

Dr. Moonshine and Lady Magnifico were in the drawing-room, looking over engravings.

"Gnat, gnat, you troublesome insect," said the doctor. "I heard auntie tell you we were not to be disturbed."

"But what could I say?" asked the insect, humbly. "I couldn't tell her 'not at home.'"

"You must say, 'Beg to be excused;' those are the proper words," said my lady.

"Yes," added the doctor; "go, there's a good gnat, and sting 'em like sixty, if they don't start quick."

Nathaniel obeyed, looking as dignified as ever, though nothing but a strong sense of propriety kept him from smiling.

He had not crossed the hall before Mother Hubbard entered the parlor, dragging Fly, who was pinned to her skirts.

Mother Hubbard was flushed and excited, her nose dusted with flour, her cap pulled entirely over her forehead; and she was saying, in a loud tone, "I can't take any peace of my life, Fly Clifford, you know I can't, unless I get you fastened somehow."

"I don't 'low folks to fassin me," responded Fly, shaking her lace cap in a blaze of wrath; "the next that fassins me, I'll scwatch who did it!"

It was not at all like either of the children to talk in this way, any more than it was like them to be dressed in such ridiculous costume. The effect upon the lady visitor was quite startling. She started, smiled, rose from her chair, and held out her hand.

"Now tell me if this isn't Miss Prudy Parlin. I have seen your picture, my love."

What eyes, to spy out a likeness under all the flour and furbelows, not to mention the green spectacles! Prudy quivered like a frightened mouse, but could not get away, for a trap was sprung upon her; a steel-gloved hand was holding her fast.

"I am Madam Pragoffyetski, a Polish runaway. You may not have heard of me, but I know all about Prudy and little Thistledown Flyaway."

"Nicely, thank you, m'm," responded Miss Fly, in a voice as faint as the peep of a chicken; at the same time darting forward and tearing a piece out of her slip. "If she runned away I'd be 'shamed to tell of it."

"How awful for her to come here!" thought Mother Hubbard, stealing a timid glance at the lady's ermine muff. "She looks nice, but I don't want anything to do with such people."

"Don't be afraid of me, dears," said the lady, laughing; "I call myself a runaway just in sport. I am a warm admirer of yours, and my dear friend, your auntie, has promised me a visit from you. I came on purpose to ask you, and your sister, and your cousins to my house to dinner to-morrow. Will you come?"

Mother Hubbard gazed doubtfully at the steel-colored glove. What could she say?

"Thank you ever so much, Mrs. -- Mrs. Pradigoff, but Fly is not allowed to go out."

Flyaway was greatly chagrined.

"Well, I -- I solomon promised," said she, casting down her guilty eyes, as she remembered the orange man; "I solomon promised I would't go ou' doors, athout somebody lets me."

"There's a tender conscience for you," laughed the Polish lady. "Why was she not to go out, Miss Prudy?"

"Because she is so quick-motioned, ma'am. Before you know it she's lost. That's the reason I pinned her to my dress. You see, ma'am, we are playing 'keep house.'"

"O, if her quickness is all the trouble, I'll take the responsibility that she shan't get lost. I'll bind her fast with a silken chain. Really, children, my heart is set on your coming. My house is full of things that make a noise -- a canary, a paroquet, a mocking-bird, a harp, a piano, and a guitar. And -- "

Mrs. Pragoff did not add that she had invited a little party to meet them. She was afraid of frightening the timid souls.

"Would you like to come, Miss Prudy? Tell me honestly, now."

There was no need to ask Fly. She was dancing for joy -- the absurd little image.

"O, yes'm; I'd be delighted," replied Mother Hubbard, a smile lighting up her face even to the floury tip of her nose. "And I think Horace and Dotty would, too. Shall I go and ask?"

Yes, Horace and Dotty were both pleased with the idea.

"She's a foreigner," said Prudy, doubtfully; "but she talks our language beautifully. She's a dear friend of auntie's, too."

"What I object to," said Horace, "is taking Toddlekins; but I may possibly hire her to stay at home."

It was finally decided that Mrs. Pragoff should call next day and take the children to church with her, and thence home to a Christmas dinner. She laughed, as she rolled away in her carriage, thinking what droll figures they were, and how Prudy blinked through her glasses.

"So I shan't have to cook but one meal more, and that will be breakfast," thought Mother Hubbard, her tired heart leaping up with something like joy.

They sat down to dinner at last.

"Tea urn been standing on the table all this while?" asked Dr. Moonshine, resuming his critical manners; "'twould take the tea some time to freeze on here, Mrs. Hubbard, if that is what you're trying to do with it!"

Mrs. Hubbard pretended not to hear.

"She's blind of her ears, papa; you have to speak loud."

"What makes your child's face so red, doctor?" asked the landlady, pouring hot water till it overran the cup; "don't the darling feel well?"

"Yes'm, pitty well; only but the white tea gets in my cheeks and makes 'em too hot."

"White tea, I should think," remarked Dr. Moonshine; "why, Mother Hubbard, the tea-leaf in your urn must feel rather lonesome."

Mother Hubbard took off the cover and peeped in.

"None there, as true as you live! I'll jump right up, doctor, and stew two or three handfuls."

"Don't rise for me, ma'am; don't rise for me. We'll swallow the will for the deed, ma'am; the will for the deed."

"It's always so, doctor," said Lady Magnifico, in an undertone; "we've had to swallow these mistakes from time immortal."

Her ladyship meant "immemorial." She was surprised at the ease with which she used large words.

"All the mistakes are owing to the eccentricity of genius," said the doctor, bowing to Mother Hubbard. "Our landlady is what is called 'absent.' Here's a health to our absent friend."

"You'll have to excuse the biscuit," said Mother Hubbard, nervously. "I mixed 'em too tight, and I think the flour's half corn, they look so yellow; it can't be all soda."

"I presume not all soda; some mixture of flour and water. But where are they, ma'am?"

"O, I put them in the cupboard. I thought you'd like crackers better."

"But these are the mizzerble kind, that don't split," said Lady Magnifico, in tragic tones; "I told you so to-day noon."

"Stop a minute, Miss Hubbard; my coffee's too sour," cried the youngest, determined to scowl as hard as Dotty did, if it was a possible thing.

The worried landlady passed the sugar, and the small boarder corrected the sourness of her white tea with three teaspoonfuls, heaping measure.

"My little Toddlekins is eating nothing." said the doctor. "I hope her red cheeks don't indicate fever."

"There's great quantities of sickness just now among children," said Lady Magnifico, crooking her little finger genteelly. "Nervous Exhaustation is going about."

"Nervous what, my lady?"

"Exhaustation. I am well acquainted with a lady in the first society that had it dreadfully. She called in twenty-five doctors, if my memory preserves me right; and then she like to died."

"You know it for a fact, my lady? I hope it won't come here (or the doctors either). Is it catching, Dr. Moonshine?"

"Well, yes, Mother Hubbard; it's apt to catch fine ladies. Goes hard with 'em, too."

"Ah me, then I'll never dare go out," drawled Lady Magnifico, looking at her rings.

Here Mother Hubbard timidly passed the cake. "White Mountain; but I suspect it's a poor rule."

"A poor rule that don't work both ways, hey? If this was ever white, ma'am, 'twasn't a fast color; faded to a rusty black. And as to it's being a mountain, ma'am, it looks to me like a pretty hollow valley."

"I'm so sorry, doctor! But your little girl dusted my soda over the cat, and that was why the cake didn't rise."

"Just so, ma'am; but did the cat rise?"

"O, Dr. Moonshine, I see you're making fun of my cooking. And now I'll tell you something more. I got the butter ready, and forgot to put it in, and that's why the cake's so tough."

"Never mind," said the doctor, very amiable as long as he could make his joke. "It is pretty tough cake, ma'am; but it's always tougher where there's none."

"There's one thing about it," said Mother Hubbard, a little relieved; "it's sweet in the middle, and you needn't eat the bitter part, where it's burnt."

"It's my practice to mix the bitter with the sweet," said the doctor, waving the butter-knife. "In this way, Mother H., your black-valley cake is almost as good as pills."

"I ate a pill," observed Fly, "and 'twas worser'n this!"

"You ate a pill, child? When? Where? I'll warrant that's what ails you."

"No, it don't ail me now. I spitted it out."

After nibbling a few crackers, and the inside of the cake, the happy family moved away from the table, hungrier than when they had sat down.

"What is home without a mother?" sang Horace, in a plaintive voice; and Dotty joined in, with emphasis.

Prudy looked as low-spirited as the "black-valley cake."

"I hope Uncle Augustus will be able to come home to-morrow. I declare, we are real cruel not to feel worse about his being sick away off there in a hotel."

"You'd better believe he gets things to eat," responded Lady Magnifico, aside to the doctor. "I'd rather be some sick than have a landlady that's purblind and purdeaf, and such owdrageous poor cooking! Glad I'm going out to Christmas dinner."



Chapter VI.

Prudy In A New Light.


Mother Hubbard was heated, and tired, and hungry, and cross. It was all very well for a lady boarder to loll on an ottoman, play with her rings, and find fault. It was all very well for a gentleman boarder to fire poor jokes; but they couldn't either of them know how every word cut like a lash. When the doctor said, carelessly, "Some people think themselves great cooks, my lady; but the proof of the pudding's in the eating," why, that speech was "the pin in the end of the lash."

Prudy saw now that she had pretended to know a great deal more than she really did. Pretension is very apt to get laughed at. She had always scorned Dotty's self-conceit; but hadn't she shown quite as much herself? Making her auntie suppose she understood cooking, and putting Mrs. Fixfax to all this trouble for nothing? How horrified auntie would be, and the housekeeper too, if they should dream that this little family was starving, with a cook-book lying open on the floor!

"But I declare, it's real mean in you two to make fun of me," cried the young landlady, tipping the sugar-basin plump into the dish-tub; "you couldn't get any better supper yourselves, nor half so good; so there!"

Surprised at the sharp sound of her own voice, dismayed at sight of the wet sugar, and completely discouraged by the aspect of things in general, Prudy burst out into a sort of frenzy. She was ashamed of herself, but she couldn't stop.

"You think I can bear everything -- you and Dotty both! People are careful what they say to Dotty, for her temper's just like live coals; but they talk to me, and say anything; anything they've a mind to."

"Why, Prue," exclaimed Horace, as astonished as if Mother Hubbard's dog had spoken; "why, Prue!"

"Yes, you think it's awful if I speak; but sometimes it seems as if I should bite my tongue out."

"Don't, Prudy," exclaimed Dotty, looking on with awe and alarm, as if there had been a sudden eclipse of the sun; "I didn't mean to."

"Don't Prudy," said Fly, clutching at the brown dress; "and I'll give you sumpin what I buy."

There is an old saying, "Beware the fury of a patient man." Prudy had tried all day to

"Smile and smile, While secret wounds were eating at her heart;"

but now she could scarcely bear the touch of little Fly's hand. She did not care what she said, if she could only find words bitter enough.

"I always have to bear, and bear, and bear. Nobody else does. I've noticed how different it is with Susy. She frets, and then people let her alone. And Dotty, how she tosses up her head like Aunt Martha's horse Lightning-Dodger! Haven't I always pacified Dotty, and humored her? Had to alter the play to suit her. And what does that child know or care, any more than if I was a common sister, that hadn't been giving up, and giving up, and giving up, ever since she was born?"

Prudy's cap-strings shook violently, her teeth chattered, and the sharp words seemed to rattle out like hail-stones. Horace had never seen her in such a mood, and was half inclined to run away; but when she took her hands down from her face, and he saw how pale she was, his heart was moved.

"Come, Prue, you're sick abed; that's what's the matter. Lie down, and let that lazy Dot take off her diamonds, and go to work."

Prudy dropped upon the sofa and covered her face with her handkerchief, while Dotty, strange to relate, actually slid the rings off her fingers and thumbs, and began to put away the crackers.

"O, dear," thought Prudy, blushing under the cap-border, spectacles, and handkerchief; "what did possess me to talk so? I had been holding in all day; why did I let go? If I ever do let go, I can't stop; and O, how shameful it is!"

It seemed as easy for Prudy to be good as for a bird to sing; but it was not so. She had a great deal of human nature, after all. She liked her own way, but she never had it unless Dotty was willing. Was that a pleasant way to live? If you think so, dears, just try it. The secret of Prudy's sweetness was really this: In all trials she was continually saying, under breath, "Please, God, keep me from doing wrong." She had found that was really the only way -- the only safe way.

"Everybody calls me amiable. They wouldn't if they knew how I have to grit my teeth together to keep from scolding. I like to be called amiable, but nobody'll do it again; and Horace sees now I'm not the girl he thought I was."

All Prudy's hail-stones of wrath had melted into tear-drops, and she was sobbing them into her handkerchief. She did not clearly know whether she was crying because she had done wrong, or because Horace would see she "was not the girl he had thought she was."

"Bless your dear little soul," said Dr. Moonshine, kneeling before her, while his blue swallow-tails swept the floor, "you've told the truth. Everybody knows Dot's a spitfire, and you're an angel; and she does impose upon you most abominably."

Dotty stood staring, with a plate in her hand, too much astonished to defend herself.

"And I'm ashamed of firing so many jokes at you, Prue; I am so. I'm a great joker (he meant a great wit!), but this is the first time I ever mistrusted you cared -- you always take things so like a lamb, -- or you'd better believe I wouldn't have done it. For there isn't a girl in the world I like so well as I do you, nor begin to."

"O, Hollis," moaned the little one, stirred by sudden jealousy.

"Hullelo! I forgot you, Topknot. -- You're my heart's jewel; that's generally understood. When I say I like Prue, I mean next after you."

The jealous Fly was satisfied, and folded her little wings against Horace's breast. Prudy felt greatly soothed, but her cap-strings were still shaking, and she could not trust her voice to speak. Nothing more was said for some time. Dotty clattered away at the dishes, kitty purred by the stove, and Horace rocked his little sister, who clung about his neck like an everlasting pea. Presently he stopped rocking, and exclaimed, -- 

"Why, what's the matter with my Toddlekins? What makes her breathe so short?"

"My froat's short; that's what is it," replied the little philosopher, closing her eyes, as if she did not choose to talk.

"But how does your throat feel, Topknot?"

"Feels bad; why?"

"Girls, this child has a sore throat, and a high fever. Her hands are as hot as pepper."

Dotty wrung the dish-cloth tragically.

"She's going to have the measles; you see'f she don't."

"Hush!" said Prudy, springing up, and tucking back her sleeves. "Let's give her a warm bath. That's what mother does when we are sick, before ever she sends for the doctor."

"I'd ravver have a turkey-wash," said Fly, rousing a little, and then dropping her head again.

"There, she's lost her senses; I knew she would," said Dotty, walking the floor.

"Do stop that, Dot. She has her senses as clear as you have. When she says turkey-wash, she means a Turkish bath; it takes me to interpret. She had a very gentle Turkish bath once. Liked it -- didn't you, Fly? Can't you rub her real hard with a crash towel, girls? That will be almost as good."

"Of course we can," said Prudy, forgetting her gust of indignation entirely; "and what could be nicer than this little bathroom, with the silver faucets and ivory tub. Come, Fly, and have your turkey-wash. 'Twill make you feel a great deal better."

After a nice bath, at which Prudy and Dotty presided, the little one was dressed in her nightie, and set on her brother's knee again.

"Prudy said I'd feel better to be baved," said she, looking thoughtfully at the gas-light; "but now I was baved, and I don't feel any diffunt; I feel just's I did by-fore."

"When can she have taken such a cold?" said Horace; "don't you see, Prue, she can't breathe out of her nose?"

Then Fly remembered the orange-man, and something made her face grow red in a minute; but it was not the white tea.

"Pitiful about my signess," sighed she, and thought she would never, never tell of her own disobedience. But Horace saw the blush and heard the sigh.

"I am glad Fly always minds," said he, looking straight into the little guilty face. "For God sees everything she does," whispered he, solemnly.

Horace never spoke of such subjects to other people; you would not suppose they were much in his mind; but to this precious little sister he gave his best thoughts, so far as he could make her understand them.

"For God sees everything she does."

Fly did not speak for as much as a minute, and then she said, timidly, -- 

"Hollis, I want to ask you sumpin; does God wear spetticles?"

"No, dear; no, indeed."

"O, I thought He did."

"But He sees us in the light and in the dark, Topknot."

The child winced.

"Can He see Hisself athout looking in the glass?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Then, when I go up to God, I'll find He has four eyes, -- two to see Hisself, and two to see other things. O, dear, I'm so sick, I guess I will go up to God."

The housekeeper was listening from the next room.

"That child's voice is growing hoarse. I must go and look into this business," thought she.

She knocked at the children's door.

"I came to ask if I can do anything for you, young ladies."

Mrs. Fixfax had heard a great deal of the play, and had been in a state of amusement all day, without seeing the actors; and when she caught sight of them now, she had to twist her mouth very hard, "to keep her teeth in."

The magnificent Lady Magnifico, the ridiculous Dr. Moonshine, and the becapped Mother Hubbard, all replied in chorus, "O, yes'm, we were going to ring for you. Do you see what ails the baby."

Mrs. Fixfax approached the child in such a tender, motherly way, that Horace was ashamed of having compared her face to "a platter of cold hash." She had a strong, sensible look, as if she were capable of carrying a whole hospital full of children through all sorts of diseases; and Prudy and Horace, who had begun to have an unpleasant feeling of responsibility, were greatly relieved.

"You don't think it's anything but a cold -- do you, Mrs. Fixfax? I don't know much about sickness."

Mrs. Fixfax allowed herself to smile this time, as her eye rested on the Mother Hubbard cap.

"No, I don't see anything alarming yet. If this was my child, I should just gargle her throat with salt and water, wrap a pork rind round her neck, and put her to bed."

Fly objected to nothing, if she could only sleep with her own brother Hollis. When told she might do so, she tried to clap her hands; but her heart was heavy, and her throat was sore; so all she could do was to kiss him and cry.

"And now, my dears, how do you enjoy housekeeping?" asked Mrs. Fixfax, carelessly, as she attended to Fly's throat.

"No -- ot very much," returned Dr. Moonshine, faintly; for no one else seemed ready to speak. "Rather hard on the head of the family. Don't you say so, Prue?"

But Prudy could not answer, on account of a throbbing at the roots of her tongue.

"I see you have been taking an early dinner," contined Mrs. Fixfax, very coolly, as if she had no idea the children before her were half starved.

"Ye -- es'm."

"So, perhaps you wouldn't object to going down and finishing off on roast turkey? I ordered the table set for you."

"You did? O, thank you, ma'am!" cried Lady Magnifico, ready to throw herself on the housekeeper's neck.

"I never object to roast turkey myself," said the doctor, his eyes gleaming with delight.

Mother Hubbard said nothing; but she thought she should relish a good dinner as well as her boarders. They all went down but Fly, who was by this time fast asleep in Mrs. Fixfax's arms.

"I reckon the servants thought we'd been wrecked on a desert island, by the dash we made at that turkey," whispered Horace, as they returned to the housekeeper's room.

"How good you were, Horace Clifford, not to tell Mrs. Fixfax about my awful cooking."

"And I didn't tell, either," said Dotty. "But wasn't it mizzerble?"

As if Mrs. Fixfax didn't know, and wasn't that very minute laughing over the "tight biscuit" and low-spirited cake!



Chapter VII.

A Fly In Trinity Church.


The children went to bed that night cheered by a remark which Mrs. Fixfax dropped as if by accident.

"The cook is to fry buckwheat cakes in the morning. I dare say you would like omelettes, too. Do you drink chocolate?"

"She takes it for granted we are going to eat down stairs," thought Prudy. And now her troubles were over. Life bloomed before her once more like a garden of roses.

Horace did not rest remarkably well. In the first place, the bed was too warm. Mrs. Fixfax had rolled Fly into a big bundle, with nothing out but the end of her nose, and was toasting her with soapstones.

"Buried alive," Horace said, "with gravestones at her head and feet."

"I'm all of a personation," gasped the child. "My mamma never did me so, Hollis. She gave me little tinty tonty pills, -- sugar clear through, -- not the big ones Miss Fixfix eats."

"Well, lie still, Topknot, and don't roll towards me."

For an hour or two Fly lay gasping; then she said, softly, -- 

"Hollis, Hollis, is He looking now?"

"Yes, dear; but don't be afraid of the good God."

"I didn't, Hollis, if I wasn't naughty. When I'm good I'm willin' He should look."

"Naughty, Topknot?"

"Yes, Hollis; I solomon promised I wouldn't go ou' doors; but that new Miss Fixfix, she let me gwout, athout nuffin on my head, 'n' I got a awful cold."

"O, little Fly!"

"I know it, Hollis. I was defful sorry all the time. I ate ollinges, too; so for course I got the sore froat."

"I'm glad you told me, Fly; now I know what ails you. But you mustn't ever disobey again."

"Yes, um," said Fly, rolling towards her brother, and crying till the tears ran down on the flannel which was bound around her neck. A few moments after she whispered, -- 

"Now I don't feel any 'fraid, Hollis; I've telled God. I feel better, 'n' I'm willin' He should look."

"Well, then, dear, that's right -- go to sleep."

"And now, Hollis, do you s'pose He'll send my spirrick back to me?"

"What are you talking about, Topknot? Your spirit's in your body, child. Go to sleep."

"No, it isn't in my body, too! I want my nice good little spirrick to come back," murmured the child. "Auntie said 'twould stay to me if I's good."

Fly was thinking of her unseen guardian angel.

It was a troubled night for Horace. Fly waked him no less than three times, to ask him if she had the measles.

"No, child, no; don't wake me for that again."

"Well, you ought to not go to sleep 'fore I do. You're a fast boy, Hollis!"

Morning came, and Fly was rather languid, as might have been expected after such a night.

"I don't see," mused Mrs. Fixfax, "where she caught this dreadful cold, unless it was your keeping the room so hot yesterday, children."

Fly hid her face in her brother's back hair, for she was riding pickaback down stairs.

"And can we go to see that Poland lady?" said Dotty.

"If you asked me, I answer, No," said Horace, bluntly. "At any rate, Fly mustn't stir a step out of the house to-day."

"I didn't ask you, Horace. I asked Mrs. Fixfax. She is the one that has the care of us."

"I really don't know what to say about it," replied the housekeeper, hesitating. "We will wait and see how she seems after breakfast."

"Rather a cool way of setting my opinion one side," thought Horace, indignantly.

Fly ate only two small buckwheat cakes, but seemed lively enough, as she always did when there was a prospect of going anywhere.

"I don't suppose it is exactly the thing, after steaming her so," said Mrs. Fixfax, as if talking to herself, -- she did not even look at Horace; -- "but really I don't know what else to do. I couldn't keep her at home unless the rest of the children staid; and if I did I presume she'd get killed some other way. She's one of the kind that's never safe, except in bed, with the door locked, and the key in your pocket."

"Let her manage it to suit herself," thought brother Horace, deeply wounded; "she knows my opinion."

When Madam Pragoffyetski came, the housekeeper went down to the parlor to introduce the children -- a step which Horace thought highly unnecessary. He was charmed at once with the foreign lady's affable manners, and would have liked to go with her, if only Fly could have been left behind. Mrs. Fixfax explained that the child had been sick, and must be treated like a hot-house plant.

"We thought last night she was in danger of her life," said Dotty. "You expected she was going to die, Horace; you know you did."

"Well, I wasn't going to," returned Fly, coughing. "I knew I should live -- I always do live."

"What was the matter?" said Mrs. Pragoffyetski, in alarm; for she knew as much about children's ailments as she did about the volcanoes in the sun.

"Only a little sore throat," answered the housekeeper, still looking anxious, and not at all sure she was doing right.

"Yes'm, sore froat. And Dotty wanted me to have the measles, too; but I wouldn't."

"That is right," said Mrs. Pragoffyetski, with a musical laugh. "Indeed, your little cousin was cruel to ask such a thing of you. I'm glad you didn't do it."

They took a street-car, and Dotty pressed her face against a window, expecting to see gay sights all the way. But no; the shops had their eyes shut. Yesterday how quickly everybody had moved! Now, men and women were walking quietly along, and there was no confusion anywhere.

"How strange!" said Prudy. "I should think it was Sunday, only the boys are blowing tin trumpets."

"Yes; and the babies are going to visit their grandmammas," said Mrs. Pragoff; "look at the one in the corner in its nurse's arms, with a point-lace bib under its chin. That pretty blanket, embroidered so heavily, must weigh more than the baby."

Dotty kept her gaze steadily fixed on the streets.

"It seems so funny for a steeple to be preceding from the middle of those stores. 'Tisn't a very pious place for a church!"

"Now I hope Dotty isn't going to be pert," thought Prudy.

"I know what street that is, down there," added Miss Dimple, jumping out of the car with both feet; "that is Wall Street. Did they use to have walls both sides of it? Horace, you scared me so yesterday, I like to screamed. You said there were bulls and bears growling all the way along; but there wasn't a single bear, only a stuffed one sitting on top of a store, and he wasn't alive, and not on this street either."

Here Prudy gave her sister's little finger a squeeze, which was meant for "hush;" but Dotty never could understand why it was not proper at all times to say what she had on her mind, especially when people listened so politely as this Polish lady.

"Mrs. -- Mrs. Pragoff-yetski, I hope you'll excuse me, but I can't remember your name."

"That is it; you have it exactly; but never mind about the last part, my love. Pragoff is enough."

"Yes'm. -- Well, I was going to ask you, Mrs. Yetski, will you please sit between me and Fly when we go into church? O, you don't know how funny she acts, or you never'd dare take her. I wouldn't laugh in church for anything in this world; but Fly always makes me."

"Does she, indeed! Ah me, that is very unfortunate!" said the queenly lady, looking down on little Miss Toddlekins as if she were actually afraid of her. She took care to put Dotty out of harm's way, by placing the untamable Fly between Horace and Prudy.

The interior of Trinity Church was so magnificent, the Christmas decorations so fresh and beautiful, and the service so imposing, that no one thought of such a thing as smiling.

"How could I have been so impatient, yesterday?" thought Prudy, as she listened to the plaintive chant, "He was a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief."

"Why, if you only think of that, how our Saviour had trouble every minute, it doesn't seem as if it makes so much difference whether we people and children have a good time or not."

Here, as they were about to seat themselves at the close of the chant, Fly, who, in spite of her brother's warnings, had been tilting back and forth on a stool, suddenly tipped forward, and hit her nose furiously. Blood flowed from the wound; and the sight of it, together with the pain, made the child frantic. She forgot where she was and screamed. Poor Mrs. Pragoffyetski! Though a good woman in the main, she was rather proud of appearances, and had just been thinking the four children did her credit. But now! The shrill cry of distress called everybody's attention to her pew. The whole audience were looking up from their prayer-books in astonishment.

"Tut, tut! My dear! My love! Hush, my babe, lie still, -- O, can't you stop crying?"

Horace, too, was trying to quiet the child; but Fly sincerely believed she was bleeding to death; so what did she care for proprieties?

"O, my shole!" piped she aloud, plunging both hands into the stream of blood, and afterwards into her hair.

Thus, by the time Mrs. Pragoff and Horace got her into the aisle, she looked as if she had been murdered.

"I wish I was twenty-one," thought Horace, bitterly. "Mrs. Fixfax had no business steaming this child. I believe it has gone to her brain."

The party of five marched out of church, for Mrs. Pragoff did not wish to make a second sensation by coming back after Prudy and Dotty.

"I never go with Fly but I get mortified," thought Miss Dimple; "and now, O dear, I shan't hear those Christmas chimes!"

But Prudy was thinking how sorry she was for Mrs. Pragoff and Horace.

They all went into a druggist's, and, after a few minutes spent in the use of a sponge and water, poor Fly ceased to look like a murdered victim, but very much like a marble image. When they reached Mrs. Pragoff's, she was placed on a sofa, and for once in her life lay still. Horace bent over her with the wildest anxiety, thinking some terrible crisis was coming. As soon as she felt a little better, she began to cry. "O, darling, what is it?" said he, glad to see her in motion once more.

"Cause my Uncle 'Gustus is sick."

"Poh," said Dotty; "crying about that? See! I don't cry."

"Well, you don't love Uncle 'Gustus so hard as I do," said Fly, with another burst.

Mrs. Pragoff looked on with interest, and tried to remember whether she had ever heard that children shed tears when they were "coming down" with scarlet fever. This elegant mansion was a very interesting place to visit. To say nothing of things which "made a noise," there was no end of curiosities from the four quarters of the globe; and Mrs. Pragoff was so truly well-bred that the children soon felt at home. Dotty was deeply engaged in examining a sea-horse, when Prudy suddenly whispered, -- 

"Dotty, what did you do last night with those two rings?"

"Rings? What rings?"

Then a look of absolute terror spread over Dotty's face. She remembered slipping off her auntie's rings when she washed the dishes; but where had she put them?

"Why, Prudy, I persume I left 'em in -- in -- where I ought to leave 'em."

"O, I'm glad you did," returned Prudy, quite satisfied, for she was listening with one ear to the liquid notes of "The Wandering Sprite."

"Why didn't Prudy Parlin ask me before?" thought Dotty, in much agitation; "and then I could have gone all round and looked to see if I'd put them in the right place."



Chapter VIII.

Dotty's Windpipe.


It mattered little to Dotty, after this, what happened. She cared nothing about the elegant masters and misses who dropped in to dinner, though Prudy was too frightened to speak; nothing about the paroquets, and dried butterflies, and Japanese canoes she pretended to look at; nothing about the chatting and laughing, and very little about the Christmas plum-pudding, the oyster-pies, and ice cream. Dotty had no heart for any of these things. She was thinking continually, "Where are those rings?"

Fly did not dine, and Dotty had begged to stay with her.

"No," said Mrs. Pragoff, patting Miss Dimple's cheek with her dainty hand, which did not look as if it had ever been soiled with anything coarser than rose leaves; "I am glad to see you so kind to your dear little cousin; but she is asleep on my bed, and does not need you."

Prudy sat at her hostess's right hand, and in spite of her bashfulness, was as happy a child as ever broke a wish-bone. No one who has not had the care of a family can imagine the relief she felt now the cooking was off her mind. But Dotty was wringing her hands under the table-cloth, and thinking, "I don't want to see anybody. My heart is certainly broken."

"Why, Dot, what's the matter? What are you scowling at so?" said Horace, in a low tone.

Upon that Dotty began to smile. No one must know her heart was broken, for fear the question might arise, "What broke it?" Of course her smile was a make-believe, nothing more nor less than a simper. The large boy across the table looked at her in surprise. "Handsome as a picture," thought he, "but no brains."

"O, my sorrows! What'll I do? I can't remember whether I put those rings in my blue pocket, or carried 'em up stairs. Seems to me I dropped 'em in a salt-cellar. No; I thought I'd lay 'em in a book, but we flew round so when Fly was sick, that I shouldn't wonder if they got into the wood-box."

All the while Dotty went on simpering and saying, "If you please, sir," every time a dish was passed her. Her singular behavior surprised Horace, and when she took three olives, which she very much disliked, and immediately afterwards tucked them under her plate, he said, -- 

"Dot, I believe you are crazy."

It was an unfortunate remark. A little more, and there would have been a scene at the table; but Dotty, with all her self-control, forced back the tears. "Wonder if he wanted to make me cry," thought she; "but I won't cry. And he needn't think he can make me 'mad' either. S'pose I'd show temper right before these people?"

On the whole, Dotty contrived to keep up appearances, and no one but Horace and the youth opposite noticed her much, or suspected her of being an idiot. But the moment dinner was over, she stole away from the party, and found her way up-stairs to Mrs. Pragoff's room. There, on the outside of the bed, lay Fly, half undressed, and still very pale.

"Gas-light makes folks look gas-ly," thought Dotty, "but she isn't much sick, or Horace wouldn't have eaten any dinner. There, when I first got a peek at this bed-quilt, I thought it was so queer; and now I'm going to see what it's made of."

Instead of a common coverlet, the bed was adorned with two enormous crimson satin cushions stuffed with swan's down. The cushion on the lower half of the bed was two feet deep, to cover the lower part of the body, and the one at the upper part not quite so thick, for it was to cover the shoulders. Then a sheet of the finest linen was turned over at the top and sides, and buttoned on to the cushions. The pillows were of crimson silk, the bedstead enormously high, and carved all over with figures of gods and goddesses.

Dotty stood gazing with surprise, and almost forgetting her trouble.

"She must have brought it over from Poland when she ran away, only it's so heavy. But then I don't s'pose she ran on foot. Came in the night, in the cars, prob'ly. Poland's up by the North Pole. I'm going to ask auntie about it."

But the moment auntie came into her thoughts Dotty was wretched again. She went to a window, drew back the damask curtain, and gazed out.

"The night came on alone, The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne."

"Those stars twinkle like auntie's rings. Let's see: one was full of little pieces of glass, about as big as raspberry seeds. I shouldn't think glass would cost much. And the other was red, like a drop of blood, with ice frozen over it. That can't be so expensive, should you think, as a string of beads?"

Dotty tried hard to comfort herself, but could not stay comforted.

"You don't s'pose auntie's jewels cost more than my papa is worth? How he must feel to be so poor! If he has to pay for those rings, we shan't get enough to eat. Have to live on crackers and olives. And when we come to the table, father will look at me, and say, 'This is on the account of your naughty conduct, child!' O, dear! I can't speak one word, for it will be true, what he says. Grandma Read will have enough to eat; Norah will set it on her end of the table. Grandma is rich; I've seen her counting over bills in her desk; but how could I ask her for any, when she'd look right in my eyes, and say, 'What was thee doing with other folks' rings on thy thumbs?'

"Well, I know 'twasn't right; but 'twas Prudy's fault some. If she hadn't told me not to so hard, I persume I shouldn't. What made her speak up, and get me started?

"O, did you ever see such a beautiful string of beads? One, two, three, -- I guess there are a thousand."

Dotty threw the necklace over her head, and the air became as fragrant as a garden of spices.

"I don't mean to meddle with other peoples' things any more; mother has taught me better. But there's one thought keeps coming into my mind: Isn't it wicked to have so much jewelry? The 'postles didn't wear any, nor Job didn't wear any, nor Moses.

"Well, nor auntie don't, either. Nothing but a watch and wedding-ring. Horace says that's so queer.

"Now, what's the use of it, just to lock up away from the morths? I don't believe auntie knows how many rings there were in that casket!"

This was a new idea. Dotty's eyes began to sparkle. They would have made a jeweller's fortune if he could have put them in a gold setting, and sold them for sapphires.

"The rings are somewhere round. I'm sure I can find them; but if I can't, will it be very wrong not to tell, when 'twouldn't make the least difference, and auntie never wears 'em? Ought never to have 'em at all; ought to have the ornaments of meek and quiet spirits, instead of rings.

"Prudy would think 'twas awful not to tell; but Prudy can't say anything to me. Didn't she get mad yesterday, real, shaky mad? 'Twas a great deal wickeder for her than it is for me -- her disposition is real good, and mine was born awful. So Prudy can't say a word to me about anything I do.

"And I declare, who wants to eat olives and fried pork? Prudy wouldn't like it any better'n I do. She would think she'd tell, but p'haps she wouldn't any quicker'n me.

"All just for two old rings, that never did me any good, and didn't have much of a time keeping house, either."

"Dotty Dimple, you here?" said Prudy, appearing at her sister's elbow, like an accusing angel. "Why, I've been hunting you all over the house. You mustn't wear that on your neck; it is a rosary; it doesn't belong to you."

"Prudy little knows how my heart's broken," thought Dotty, "or she wouldn't talk about beads. And me wanting to go home so I could 'most fly, just to find those rings."

"I have been hunting for you," repeated Prudy. "Mrs. Pragoff sent a man over to Uncle Augustus's to find out whether they came to-night in the cars; but they didn't. There was a letter that uncle wasn't able; but they'll come to-morrow afternoon."

"That's splendid," thought Dotty; "now I'll have to-night and all to-morrow forenoon to hunt."

"And then Mrs. Pragoff said we might just as well stay here all night as to go home," continued Prudy.

"O, dear, dear! we're not going to stay here. Prudy Parlin? Why didn't you come and ask if I was willing?"

"I did hunt for you, Dotty, but I couldn't find you. I thought you'd like to stay. They are playing so beautifully down stairs. I'm just proud of Horace; he acts like a little gentleman."

"I don't care how Horace acts, and I don't want to play with people that have their hair frizzed. I want to go back to auntie's.'

"But you can't, Dotty. Mrs. Pragoff has sent to Mrs. Fixfax for our night-dresses."

Dotty rolled herself up in the curtain, and screamed into the folds of it.

"Why, Dotty, what am I going to do with you? Please come down, and behave."

"O, Prudy, I don't want ever to go down again. I don't want ever to see folks, or behave, as long as I live."

"But, Dotty, all these little boys and girls came here just to see us. It is our Christmas party. You'll mortify Mrs. Pragoff. You know how Fly mortified her this morning. Please don't be contrary."

Dotty unrolled herself from the curtain with a triumphant smile.

"You needn't say anything, Prudy Parlin! You got mad your own self, I s'pose you know!"

Prudy's eyes dropped suddenly.

"But, Dotty, why do you want to go back to auntie's to-night?"

"I want to go for something particular. I -- " Prudy's mouth was opening for another question. "Because I -- -I've swallowed something the wrong way."

"O Dotty, not a pin!"

"No; what you s'pose? Guess I've done something to my windpipe. Wish you wouldn't talk."

Prudy, in spite of her vexation, could not help smiling at Dotty's fierce grimaces, of which she got a vanishing view as the child went into the curtain again.

"If we don't go home, Prudy, I'll have to go right to bed. I don't feel like sitting up."

"Then I must ask Mrs. Pragoff where we are to sleep."

And next minute Prudy was half way down stairs, thinking, -- 

"What's gone wrong? I never can find out by asking her. She don't think or care how impolite she is, and how hard she makes it for me."

It was a very brilliant party, composed of some of the most refined and accomplished little people in the city of New York. Such fine dresses and such die-away manners overawed Prudy. She did wish her mamma had sent a thin summer dress in the trunk. It was dreadful to have to wear woollen, high-necked and long-sleeved. It cost her a great effort to cross the room. She felt as awkward as a limping grasshopper in a crowd of butterflies. But reaching her hostess at last, she timidly whispered, -- 

"My sister says she isn't very well, Mrs. Pragoff, and that's why she stays up stairs. If you please, perhaps she'd better go to bed."

Prudy was very much ashamed to say this; but politeness required her to make some excuse for wayward Dotty's behavior.

Of course Mrs. Pragoff went up stairs at once. At the sound of her steps, and the words, "You poor, forlorn little dear," Dotty came out of the curtain, looking as miserable as could be desired.

"I am so sorry, darling! I wished you to become acquainted with these nice little gentlemen and ladies."

"But I -- I -- it hurts me to talk, ma'am."

"Your throat, too? O, my love!" cried Mrs. Pragoff, seeing a dreadful vision, with her mind's eye, of two cases of scarlet fever. She was a childless widow, and children puzzled as well as interested her. She did not know what to make of Dotty's confused statement that she "wasn't sick and wasn't well," but undressed and put her to bed as if she had been six months old, resolving to send for the doctor in the morning.

"What have you on your neck, precious? O, that rosary. It is one of my curiosities. Do you fancy it?"

"Here is the box in which it belongs. I give you the box and the beads, my charming dear, for a Christmas present and a consolation. See the card at the bottom of the box: -- 

"'Life is a rosary, Strung with the beads of little deeds Done humbly, Lord, as unto Thee.'

"I hope your life will be the most beautiful of rosaries, darling, and all your little deeds as lovely as these beads.

"And now, good night, and may the Christ-Child give you your dreams."

As soon as Dotty was alone, she covered her head with the bed-clothes, and made up faces. She wished she could push herself through the footboard, and come out at Portland. She never wished to set eyes on the city of New York again, or anybody that lived in it.



Chapter IX.

Two Live Children.


As Dotty lay tossing on her bed, she heard the laughing, and the lively music of the piano, and began to find she had missed a great deal by not going down stairs.

Horace and Prudy were getting a taste of fashionable society. True, Prudy did tire of the fixed questions, "How do you like New York? Have you been in the Park?" asked by girls in pink, and girls in blue, and boys in wondrous neck-ties, with hair parted very near the middle. She was astonished when Mrs. Pragoff proposed games. How could such exquisite children play without tearing their flounces and deranging their criêped hair? But games were a relief to Prudy. When she was playing she forgot her thick winter dress, and appeared like herself.

"I don't believe Dotty can get to sleep in all this noise. Here's a nice chance to slip out, and I'll run up and see."

She was not quite sure of the room, but the words, "Is that you, Prudy?" in an aggrieved voice, showed her the way.

"How do you feel, darling?"

"Feel? How'd you feel going to bed right after dinner?"

"But you said you were sick."

"Well, yes; my -- windpipe; but that's done aching. I can talk now. You get my clothes, and I'll dress and go down stairs."

"Why, Dotty, I've excused you to Mrs. Pragoff, and it wouldn't be polite to go now."

"Why not? Mother went down once with her head tied up in vinegar. Besides, it shakes me all over to hear such a noise. And it's not polite to stay away when the party's some of it for me."

Prudy resigned herself to this new mortification, and helped the child dress.

Dotty went down stairs with such an appearance of restored health, that Mrs. Pragoff was quite relieved, and gave up her fear of scarlet fever. But Miss Dimple's friends were all sorry, half an hour afterwards, that she had not staid in bed.

Among other games, they played "Key to Unlock Characters;" and here she proved herself anything but polished in her manners. The key coming to her as "the girl with the brightest eyes," she was told, in a whisper, to give it to the person of whom she had such or such an opinion. The little boys were interested to know which one of them would get it, for it was usually considered a compliment. But Dotty did not notice any of the boys; she quickly stepped up to a young girl with frizzes of hair falling into her eyes, and gay streamers of ribbons flying abroad. Little miss took the key with an affected smile and a shake of her shaggy locks, never doubting she was receiving a great honor.

But when, at the close of the game, the players explained themselves, Mallie Lewis was startled by these words from the little Portland girl: -- 

"I was told to give the key to the most horrid-looking person in the room, and I did so!"

Dotty had not stopped to reflect that "the truth should not be spoken at all times," and is often out of place in games of amusement. But to do her justice, she was ashamed of her rudeness the moment the words were spoken. Prudy was blushing from the roots of her hair to the lace in her throat. "Why hadn't Dotty given the key to Horace or herself? Then nobody would have minded."

Ah, Prudy, your little sister, though more brilliant than you are, has not your exquisite tact.

Mrs. Pragoff tried to laugh off this awkward blunder, but did not succeed. The moment Dotty could catch her ear, she said, in a low tone, -- 

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Pragoff-yetski. Will it do any good to go and tell her she made me think of a Shetland pony?"

Mrs. Pragoff laughed, and thought not. But afterwards she took Mallie into a corner to show her some "seven-years" African flowers, and said, -- 

"Mallie, dear, I wish you wouldn't veil those bright eyes under such fuzzy little curls. That was why you got the key. Dotty Dimple isn't used to seeing young ladies look like Shetland ponies."

Mallie's face brightened, or that part of it which was in sight. O, it was only her hair the country child called horrid! After this she actually allowed Dotty to sit beside her on the sofa, and look at the fan which Mrs. Pragoff said Marie Antoinette had once owned. Miss Dimple was remarkably polite and reserved.

"Safe as long as she stays in a corner," thought Horace; and he took care to keep her supplied with books and pictures.

He enjoyed the party, not being overawed, as poor Prudy was. Wasn't he as good as any of them? Better than most, for he didn't have to use an eye-glass. "These fellows are got up cheap. What do hair-oil and perfumery amount to?"

The boys, in their turn, looked at Horace, and decided he was "backwoodsy." Nobody who sported a silver watch could belong to the "first circles." However, when he allowed himself to be "Knight of the Whistle," and hunted for the enchanted thing which everybody was blowing, and found at last it was dangling down his own back from a string, and they were all laughing at him, he was manly enough not to get vexed. That carried him up several degrees in every one's esteem. In his own, too, I confess.

As for Prudy, the girls could not help seeing she had no style; but the boys liked her, for all that. If they had only known what their hostess thought, there would have been some surprise.

"These little misses look to me like bonnet flowers made out of book-muslin. Prudy, now, is a genuine, fresh moss rose bud. There is no comparison, you dear little Prudy, between artificial and natural flowers!"

Mrs. Pragoff was called a "finished lady." She was acquainted with some of the best people in Europe and America. What could she see in Prudy? The child was not to be compared with these exquisite little creatures, who had maids to dress them, and foreign masters come to their houses and teach them French, music, and dancing. Why, Prudy did not know French from Hebrew; she had only learned a few tunes on the piano, and could not sing "operatic" to save her life; her dancing was generally done on one foot. What was the charm in Prudy?

Just one thing -- Naturalness. She was not made after a pattern.

"It was a great risk inviting them here, and that youngest one seems very delicate; but let what will happen, I make a note of this: I have seen four live children."

Live children indeed! And here comes one of them now -- the unaccountable Fly, darting into the room very unexpectedly, rubbing her eyes as she runs.

"Why, Topknot!" cried Horace, making a dash upon her; for her frock was unfastened, and slipping off at the shoulders, and her head looked like a last year's bird's nest.

"Scusa me," whispered the "live child," very much astonished to see such a crowd.

"But you ought not to come down here half undressed, you little midget!"

"What if I wanted to ask you sumpin?" stammered the child, more alarmed by her brother's sternness than by the fire of strange eyes. "'Spec' I mus' have my froat goggled; have some more poke-rime round it, Hollis!" added she, in a tone loud enough to be heard by half the party.

Think of mentioning "poke-rime" in fashionable society!

"Tell her she must dance 'Little Zephyrs,' or you'll send her right back," suggested Prudy, who was famous for thinking of the right thing at the right time, and so making awkward affairs pass off well.

"Yes, Fly, come out in the floor, and dance 'Little Zephyrs' this minute, or you must go back to bed."

Anything for the sake of staying down stairs. Hardly conscious of the strange faces about her, the child flew into the middle of the room, rubbed some more sleep out of her eyes, and began to sing, -- 

"Little zephyrs, light and gay, First to tell us of the spring."

She seemed to float on air. There was not a bit of her body that was not in motion, from the tuft of hair a-top of her head to the soles of her twinkling boots. Now here, now there, head nodding, hands waving, feet flying.

"Encore," cried the delighted hostess. "Please, darling, let us hear that last verse again."

Mrs. Pragoff was curious to know what sort of jargon she made of the lines, -- 

"Where the modest violets grow, And the fair anemone."

Fly repeated it with an exquisite sweetness which charmed the whole house: -- 

"Where the modest vilets grow, And the fairy men no more know me."

"The fairies do all know you, darling." exclaimed Mrs. Pragoff, kissing her rapturously.

"Your feet are more light than a faery's feet, Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet."

"There! Dancing on bubbles!" said Prudy aside to Horace. "That's just what I always wanted to call it, but never knew how."

On the whole it was a pleasant evening, and Mrs. Pragoff had no reason to regret having given the little party. Everybody went to bed happy but Dotty, who could not shut her eyes without seeing the blaze of two rings, which burned into her brain.



Chapter X.

Riding On Jack Frost.


Fly slept in a little cot beside her hostess's bed. Mrs. Pragoff, poor lady, reclined half the night on her elbow, watching the child's breathing; but, to her inexpressible relief, nothing happened that was at all alarming. Fly only waked once in the night, and asked in a drowsy tone, "Have I got a measle?"

But just as Mrs. Pragoff was enjoying a morning nap, a pair of little feet went pricking over the floor, towards the girls' room, but soon returned, and a sweet young voice cried, -- 

"O, Miss Perdigoff, I can't wake up Dotty!"

"Can't wake her, child!"

"No'm, I can't; nor Prudy can't: we can't wake up Dotty."

Mrs. Pragoff roused at once, with a new cause for alarm.

"Why, what does this mean? Did you try hard to wake her?"

"Yes'm; I shaked her."

Mrs. Pragoff now remembered, with terror, that there had been a little trouble with Dotty's windpipe. Could she have choked to death?

Rising instantly, she threw on her wrapper, and was hurrying across the passage, when Fly added, -- 

"'Haps she'll let you wake her; she wouldn't let me 'n' Prudy."

"You little mischief, is that what you mean? She won't let you wake her?"

"No'm, she won't," replied artless Fly; "she said she wouldn't be bovvered."

Mrs. Pragoff went to bed again, laughing at her own folly.

Dotty, it seems, was feeling very much like a bitter-sour apple. It had always been a peculiarity of hers to visit her own sins upon other people. Prudy did not suspect in the least what the matter was, but knew, from experience, it was safest to ask no questions.

"I'm going back to auntie's, this morning."

"Why, Dotty, Uncle Augustus and auntie won't be home till night. Mrs. Pragoff said she would take us to the Park and the Museum, you know."

"I don't care how much you go to parks and museums, Prudy; I want to be at home long enough to get my hair brushed and put away my things."

Prudy looked up in surprise; but the rousing-bell sounded, and both the little girls had as much as they could do to get ready for breakfast. When Mrs. Pragoff met them in the parlor, she saw two lovely dimples playing in Dotty's cheeks; for the child was old enough, and had pride enough, to conceal her disagreeable feelings from strangers. All very well, only she might have carried the concealment a little farther, and spared poor Prudy much discomfort.

Not that Prudy thought of complaining, -- for really her younger sister's temper was greatly improved. For a year or two she had scarcely been known to get seriously angry, and Prudy did not mind a sharp retort now and then, or even an hour's sulks.

While Dotty sipped her chocolate from a cup so delicate that it looked like a gilded bubble, she was wondering how she could get home. She did not know the way, and could not ask any one to go with her without making up an excuse.

"I could say I am sick, but that wouldn't be true, and me eating muffins and honey. I'm afraid 'twasn't quite true last night. I did feel rather funny, though, in my windpipe, now honest."

There seemed to be no other way but to wait and go home with the rest of the children. Dotty tried to think there might be time enough, after all, to find the rings.

They started for the Park.

"May I depend upon you, Master Horace, to take the entire charge of your little sister!" said Mrs. Pragoff, fastening her ermine cloak with fingers which actually trembled; "I confess I haven't the courage; and I see you understand managing her perfectly."

Of course Horace always expected to take care of Topknot. He would gladly have done a much harder thing for a lady who was so polite, and appreciated him so well.

Mrs. Pragoff gave a hand to Prudy and Dotty, saying gayly, as they all five took a car for the Park, -- 

"'Sound the trumpet, beat the drum; Tremble, France; we come! we come!'"

There was just enough snow to whiten the ground, but none to spare. Everybody was determined to make the most of it while it lasted, and the Park was full of people sleigh-riding. It was really a wonderful sight. There were miles and miles of sleighs of all sorts, shaped like sea-shells, cradles, boats, water-lilies, or any other fanciful things. The people in them were so gay with various colors, that they looked like long lines of rainbows. Many of the horses had silver-mounted harnesses, and on their necks stood up little silver trees, branching out into sleigh-bells, and sprinkling the air with merry music.

"See, children, let us ride in this beautiful sleigh; it is shaped like a Spanish gondola, and we ought to have music as we float."

"Fly can sing the 'Shepherd's Pipe coming over the Mountains,'" said Dotty; and forthwith the child began to warble the softest, sweetest music from her wonderful little throat. Dotty queried privately why it should be called the shepherd's pipe: how could a shepherd smoke while he sang?

"O, how beautiful!" said everybody, when the music ceased.

They meant that everything was beautiful. The air was so balmy, and the sky so soft, that you might fancy the sun was walking in his sleep, writing his dreams on the white clouds.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Fly, forgetting, perhaps, that she was not a flying-fish, and trying to dive head first out of the gondola.

"Tell me, children, if you don't think our Park is very fine?"

"Yes'm," was the faint reply in chorus.

"Why don't you say, 'We never saw the like before?'"

"O, we have, you know, ma'am," said Prudy; "it's just like riding round Willow-brook."

"Fie! don't tell me there's anything so beautiful in Maine! I expect you to be enchanted every step of the way. Look at this pond, with, the swans sailing on it."

"O, yes; those are beauties," cried Dotty; "I never saw any but cotton flannel ones before. But do you think the pond is as pretty as Bottomless Pond, Prudy, where Uncle Henry goes for pitcher-plants?"

"You prosy little creature," said Mrs. Pragoff, laughing; "I am afraid you don't admire these picturesque rocks and tree-stumps as you should."

Dotty thought this was certainly a jest.

"Pity there's so many. Why don't they hire men to dig 'em up by the roots?"

Horace smiled on Dotty patronizingly.

"They'll do it some time, Dot. The Park is new. Things can't be finished in a minute, even in New York."

Mrs. Pragoff smiled quietly, but was too polite to tell Horace the rocks had been brought there as an ornament, at great expense.

"I like the Park, if it isn't finished," said Prudy, summoning all her enthusiasm; "I know you'll laugh, Horace, but I like it better for the rocks; they make it look like home."

The ride would have seemed perfect to everybody; only a wee sleigh passed them, drawn by a pair of goats, and Fly thought at once how much better a "goat-hossy" must be than a "growned-up hossy, that didn't have no horns." She thought about it so much, that at last she could contain herself no longer. "There was little girls in that pony-sleigh, Miss Perdigoff, with a boy a-drivin.' 'Haps they'd let me go, too, if you asked 'em, Miss Perdigoff. My mamma don't 'low me to trouble nobody, and I shan't; only I thought I'd let you know I wanted to go, Miss Perdigoff."

Mrs. Pragoff laughed heartily, and thought Fly should certainly have a ride, "ahind the goat-horses;" but it was not possible, as the cunning little sleigh was engaged for hours in advance.

A visit to the Zoological Gardens comforted the little one, however, after she got over her first fear of the animals. There they saw a vulture, like a lady in a cell, looking sadly out of a window, the train of her grey and brown dress trailing on the ground. Horace thought of Lady Jane Grey in prison.

There was a white stork holding his red nose against his bosom, as if to warm it. A red macaw peeling an apple with his bill. Brown ostriches, like camels, walking slowly about, as if they had great care on their minds.

Green monkeys biting sticks and climbing bars. A spotted leopard, licking his feet like a cat. A fierce panther, looking out of a window in the same discontented mood as the vulture.

"See him stoop down," said Dotty; "he makes as much bones of himself as he can."

A horned owl, with eyes like auntie's when she looks "'stonished."

An eagle, with a face, Horace said, like a very cute lawyer.

A "speckled bear," without any spectacles. A "nelephant" like a great hill of stone, and a baby "nelephant," with ears like ruffled aprons.

An anaconda that "kept making a dandelion of himself."

A great grizzly bear hugging a young grizzly daughter.

"Who made that grizzle?" asked Fly, disgusted.

"God."

"Why did He? I wouldn't! -- Miss Perdegoff, which does God love best, great ugly grizzles or hunkydory little parrots?"

"O, fie!" said Mrs. Pragoff, really shocked; "where did a well-bred child like you ever hear such a coarse word as that?"

"Hollis says hunkydory," replied Fly, with her finger in her mouth, while Horace pretended to be absorbed in a monkey.

Mrs. Pragoff turned the subject.

"Tell me, children, which do you consider the most wonderful animal you have ever seen?"

"The lion," replied Prudy.

"The whale," said Dotty. "Which do you, Mrs. Pragoff?"

"This sort of animal, that thinks," replied the lady, touching Dotty's shoulder: "this shows the most amazing power of all."

"You don't mean to call me an animal," said Dotty, with a slight shade of resentment in her voice.

"Why, little sister, I just hope you're not a vegetable! Don't you know we are all animals that breathe?"

"O, are we? Then I don't care," said Dotty, and serenely followed the others up stairs, "where the dried things were."

Next they went to Wood's Museum, and saw greater wonders still.

The "Sleeping Beauty," dreaming of the Prince, with lips just parted and breath very gently coming and going. Dotty would not believe at first that her waxen bosom palpitated by clockwork.

There were distorted mirrors, which Horace held Flyaway up to peep into, that he might enjoy her bewilderment when she saw her face twisted into strange shapes.

The Cardiff Giant, which Horace said "you might depend upon was a hoax."

An Egyptian dromedary, which Fly "just knew" had a sore throat; and a stuffed gorilla in "buffalo coat and leather gloves."

Then they had a lunch at Delmonico's, quite as good, Prudy admitted, "as what you found in Boston."

After this, to Dotty's dismay, they went to the Academy of Design, and criticised pictures.

The statue of Eve Horace regarded with some contempt. "No wonder she didn't know any better than to eat the apple! What do you expect of a woman with such a small head as that? Look here who do you suppose was Eve's shoemaker? Cain?"

"Shoemaker? Why, Horace, she's barefoot."

"So she is, now, Dot; but she's worn shoes long enough to cramp her toes."

"Strange I never noticed that before," said Mrs. Pragoff. "I think the sculptor ought to know your criticism, Master Horace."

"She's a woman that understands what a boy is worth," thought Horace, very much flattered. "Tell you what, I never saw a more sensible person than Mrs. Pragoff."

"Now, dears, shall we go to Stewart's?"

"O, no'm; please don't," cried Dotty. "Because," added she, checking herself, "their curtains are all down; and don't you s'spose Mr. Stewart and the clerks have gone off somewhere?"

Mrs. Pragoff laughed, but, concluding the child was very tired, proposed going home; and, to Dotty's great joy, they started at once.

"I shall so grieve to part with you!" said Mrs. Pragoff, as they went along. "I wish you were mine to keep, every soul of you."

But Dotty noticed that while she spoke she was looking at Prudy.



Chapter XI.

The Jewel Cabinet.


Alas for the diamond and the ruby rings! New York is "a city of magnificent distances," and by the time the children were safely at home, there was a great stir through the house. Colonel Allen and wife had come. Too late now to think of hunting for anything.

"Where are my little folks?" rang Uncle Augustus's cheery voice through the hall; and in he came, not looking ill in the least. His eyes were as black as ever, and he carried just as much flesh on his tall, large frame. Somehow, he cheered one's heart like an open fire. So did Aunt Madge. There wasn't so much of her in size, but there was what you might call a "warm tone" over her whole face, which made you think of sunshine and fair weather. So in walked "an open fire" and a "ray of sunshine," and "took off their things." Of course there were laughing and kissing; and Fly, without being requested, hugged Uncle 'Gustus like a little "grizzle."

"Sorry I cried so 'bout you bein' sick. Didn't 'spect you'd get well."

"Beg pardon for disappointing you. How many tears, did you waste, little Crocodile? Why, children, you're as welcome, all of you, as crocuses in spring. But no; it's you who should bid us welcome. I understand you are keeping house, and auntie and I have come visiting?"

"O, no, no, no," cried Prudy; "we've got all over that; and I tell you, auntie, now you've come home, I feel as if an elephant had rolled right off my heart."

"Why, I hope nothing serious has happened," said Mrs. Allen, looking at the pile of nutshells Fly had just dropped on the carpet, and at Dotty's cloak, which lay beside Horace's cap on the piano-stool.

"Yes'm, there is sumpin happened," spoke up Fly from the floor, where she sat with "chestnuts in her lap, and munched, and munched, and munched." "I've had the fever, but I didn't die in it."

"She wasn't much sick, auntie; but it frightened us. Mrs. Fixfax rolled her up six yards deep in blankets, and we thought 'what is home without a mother?' And then, you see, I didn't know the least thing about cooking, for all I pretended. I tell you, auntie, it's very different not to have anybody to ask how to do things."

"Such messes, you ought to seen 'em, auntie," struck in Dotty, without the least pity.

"Pshaw! we didn't starve, nor anywhere near it," cried Horace. "I wouldn't say anything, Dot, for Prue worked like a Trojan, and you dawdled round with rings on your thumbs."

At the mention of rings, Dotty blushed, and stole a glance at Mrs. Allen.

"See, auntie," said she, taking off her rosary, "this is my Christmas present; but it doesn't make me a Catholic -- does it?"

"How beautiful, my child! A full rosary of one hundred and fifty beads. It is called 'a chaplet of spiritual roses.' Red, white, and damask. Pray, who could have given it to you?"

"A lady that ran away from Poland. Now don't you know? Sleeps with a feather bed over her, covered with satin."

"Mrs. Pragoff? You haven't been to her house?"

"Yes'm, we did, and to her church in Trinity; and she made a party for us, and we staid all night."

"That's a remarkable joke," said Colonel Allen, rubbing his hands. "She must have had a bee in her bonnet with all these rollicking children round her."

"No'm, she never; but I had the nosy-bleed on the pew-quishon awful. Had to be tookened home. Didn't eat no supper."

"You don't tell me there was a scene in church," cried Aunt Madge, looking at Uncle Augustus, who rubbed his hands again, and laughed heartily. "How happened you to go, Horace?"

"It wasn't my doings, auntie. Topknot had been lying in a steam all night, and I told Mrs. Fixfax she wasn't fit to go out of the house; but no attention was paid to what I said. Notice was served on me to take the little thing off visiting, and I had to obey. But I tell you I was thankful she didn't do anything worse than to bump her nose, though she did scream murder, and we followed her out in a straight line."

"And this transpired at Trinity Church," said Colonel Allen, intensely amused. "Rather severe for a woman who worships Saint Grundy."

"Saint who? I thought she was queer, or she wouldn't run away," said Dotty, much shocked.

"Fie, Augustus!" said Aunt Madge, who was laughing herself. "I wouldn't have had this happen on any account. Mrs. Pragoff asked me, before the children came, if I would let them visit her; but I gave her no decided answer; thought, perhaps I might go with them just to drink tea. But the idea of her taking them while I was gone! And her house so full of elegant little trifles! How much did Fly break?"

"Nothing, auntie," replied Horace. "I didn't let her stir but I was after her. I flatter myself I saved considerable property."

"There, Margery, don't mind it," said Uncle Augustus. "Mrs. Pragoff needed all this mortification to humble her pride. Come here, Fly; here's a bonbon for you. They say you are going about doing good without any more intention of it than the goose that saved Rome."

"That reminds me to inquire," said Aunt Madge, "if Fly's blind girl came that day?"

"Yes, auntie, and she was so sorry you were gone; but they will be here again to-morrow."

"It was too bad to disappoint her," said Aunt Madge, with such lovely pity in her face that Prudy seized one of her hands and kissed it.

"I tell you what it is," broke in Dotty; "I always thought Mrs. Pragoff must be queer as soon as I heard she came from Poland, where grandma's cropple-crown hen came from; don't you remember, Prudy? the one that hatched the duck's eggs. But I didn't know she worshipped things. Only I noticed that she didn't buy any black pins when those pitiful little boys ran after us, and said, 'O, lady! please, lady!' I thought that was mean."

"Miss Dotty Dimple, come sit on my knee, and let me explain. Mrs. Pragoff is no heathen. She only loves to dress elegantly, and your auntie and I sometimes think she cares too much about it, and about what other people say. That was what I meant by her 'worshipping Saint Grundy;' but it was ill-natured of me to criticise her. As for the black pins, she is a remarkably benevolent woman, Puss; but she can't buy black pins all the time; you may set that down as a fact. Why, Fly, what now?"

The child had snapped her bonbon, and, instead of candy, had found a red paper riding cap trimmed with gold fringe; with this on her head, she was climbing the drop-light, à la monkey. Fortunately the gas had been lighted only in the chandelier; but three inches more, and Fly's gold tassels would have been on fire. Uncle Augustus rose in alarm; but Horace laughed, believing the little witch could be trusted to keep out of fire and water.

After dinner, as they were returning to the parlor, Uncle Augustus said to his wife, -- 

"Between us, Margery, I don't believe you'd dare invite that little will-o'-the-wisp here again without her mother."

"Never," returned auntie, laughing, -- 

"'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun.'"

They all sat chatting around the parlor fire, -- Uncle Augustus always would have an open fire, -- when Dotty slipped out unobserved, and went round the house hunting for the lost rings. She went first to auntie's chamber, and looked in the blue pocket; but it was empty. The wardrobe and closet had been restored to perfect order, and the jewel cabinet was not to be seen. Then she went slowly along to the housekeeper's room, and knocked, with her heart in her mouth.

"How do you do, Mrs. Fixfax? Isn't it nice to get that old stove out? I thought you'd let me come in and look to see if I've -- I've left anything."

"Certainly, dear. What have you lost?" Mrs. Fixfax went on with her reading, and did not seem to hear Dotty's muttered answer about "running round so when Fly was sick. Didn't know but she'd put -- wasn't sure. -- Guessed not."

"Why, you see," said Dotty, to herself, as she left the room with downcast eyes, "it's no use to hunt there. Cupboard's gone, stove's gone. Nothing in the bathroom but soap and towels. I believe auntie's cat has swallowed those rings."

She went back to Mrs. Allen's room, turned the gas higher, and looked mournfully at herself in the glass.

"Shall I tell her the truth, that they're gone, and I lost them? Would my dear Aunt Madge go and take all father's money away? Mother says we must do what is right, and God will take care of the rest."

Just then Fly entered, followed by Mrs. Allen.

"You here, Dotty? I see my chamber is in excellent order. Let me look at the drawers. What? My jewel cabinet? Didn't I lock that in the safe? All right, no doubt, but I'll examine it."

She wheeled up a little easy-chair, sat down, and poured the jewels into her lap. What were Dotty's feelings as she stood there looking on? The gas-light seemed to turn the glittering diamonds into points of flame; but Dotty could not help gazing.

Why, what was that? Did her eyes deceive her? That ring with glass raspberry seeds! And, O, was it possible? The one like a drop of blood with ice frozen over it! Both there.

She learned afterwards that Mrs. Fixfax had found the rings in the bottom of the ivory bathing-tub, where Fly had had her "turkey wash."

Hark! Auntie was counting: "One, two, three, four. All safe. Not that I supposed any one would meddle with my cabinet, of course."

"Auntie," burst forth Dotty, her face tingling with shame, "I did. I wore two of those rings, and lost 'em off my thumbs. I don't see how they ever came back in that cabinet, for the only thing I know certain true is, I never put 'em there. O, auntie, if I had't found 'em, I was 'most afraid to tell you about it, because my father's so poor."

"Child, child, you wouldn't have deceived me? I could bear anything better than that. And, Dotty, I don't believe it of you. You would have told the truth."

"Yes, auntie, I do guess I should. It's better to eat fried pork than to act out a lie." What the truth had to do with eating fried pork, Aunt Madge could not imagine; but she assured Dotty she fully believed her when she promised not to meddle in future; and the child bounded down stairs with a heart like a bubble.

Fly had come up to go to bed.

"I've found sumpin," cried she, peeping into a basket behind the door. "It's got eyes, and I know it's a doggie."

"You little rogue! I didn't mean you should see that dog to-night."

"O, it's no matter 'bout me. If Dotty'd seen it, she'd been 'spectin' it!"

The quick-witted child knew just as well then as she did next morning, that the dog -- a King Charles spaniel -- was intended for her. Mrs. Allen was so amused that she could scarcely sing Fly's by-low hymn: -- -

"Sleep, little one, like a lamb in the fold. Shut from the tempest, safe from the cold; Sleep, little one, like a star in the sky, Wrapped in a cloud, while the storm-wind sweeps by."

It was quite as hard to keep a grave face when Fly added to her evening prayer the petition, -- 

"God f'give me speakin' a naughty word 'fore Miss Perdigoff."

"What naughty word, darling?"

"Hunkydory," replied Fly, with a deep sense of guilt. Not that she thought it wrong to use a coarse word, only wrong to use it "'fore Miss Perdigoff."

Aunt Madge entered into a short explanation of the true nature of right and wrong; but her words were thrown away, for that "curly dog" filled every nook and corner of Fly's little mind.



Chapter XII.

"Folded Eyes."


"Folded eyes see brighter colors Than the open ever do."

It stormed next day; but as "brooks don't mind the weather," Maria and her mother appeared again. When Aunt Madge went down to see them, Maria was sitting near the dining-room door, the scarlet spots of excitement coming and going in her cheeks. She could think of nothing but the wonderful, unknown doctor, who would know in one moment whether she could ever see or not.

"We hadn't ought to have come in this snow-storm, ma'am," said Mrs. Brooks; "but poor Maria, she couldn't be denied. She said she must come, whether or no. But of course we don't hold you to your promise, ma'am, and I hope you don't think we're that sort of folks."

While Mrs. Brooks was talking, with her nose moving up and down, Maria's face was turned towards Mrs. Allen, her quick ears eager to catch the first sound of her voice. What if the word should be No? But Aunt Madge was never known to break a child's heart.

"Who minds a snow-storm?" said she, gayly. "I love it as well as any snow-bird. I am very sorry you were disappointed the other day. I'll have my wraps on in two minutes."

The children watched from the bay-window as John came round with the carriage, and the three ladies got in.

"She's a rare one," remarked Horace, with a sweep of his thumb.

"Who? Maria?"

"No, Dot; the one in front; the handsomest woman in the city of New York. Tell you what, 'tisn't everybody would go round and look up the poor the way she does; and she rich as mud, too."

"Why, Horace, that's the very reason she ought to do it. What would be the use of her being rich if she didn't?"

"Poh!" said Horace, with a look of unspeakable wisdom. "Much as you know, Prue. Rich people are the stingiest in the world. The fact is, the more you have, the more you don't give away."

"O, what a story!" said Dotty. "The more I have, the more I do -- I mean I shall, if I ever get my meeting-house full."

Horace laughed heartily.

"What'd I say now, Horace Clifford?"

"I was only thinking, Dot, that's what's the matter with everybody; they're waiting to get their meeting-houses full."

Dotty did not understand the remark, but thought it safe to pout.

"I can't help thinking about that poor Maria," said Prudy. "Do you suppose, Horace, the doctor can help her?"

"Yes, I presume he can. It will probably take him about five minutes," replied Master Horace, as decidedly as if he had studied medicine all his days. "But do you suppose he'll do it for nothing? Not if he knows it. He'll see the carriage, and find out auntie has money; and then won't he make her pay over? Just the way with 'em, Prue. He's one of these doctors that's rolling in gold."

"Rollin' in gold," repeated Fly, thinking how hard that must be for him, and how it would hurt.

But Horace was quite mistaken. The doctor did not say one word about money. He asked Mrs. Brooks to tell him just how and when Maria had begun to grow blind. And though she made a tedious story of it, he listened patiently till she said, -- 

"Now, doctor, I am poor, and we've been unfortunate, and I don't know as I shall be able to pay you, and I -- "

"No matter for that, my good woman. I shan't charge you one penny. Don't take up my time talking about money. It's my business to talk about eyes. Lead the child to the window."

The scarlet spots in Maria's cheeks faded, leaving her very pale. She held her breath. Would the doctor ever stop pulling open her eyelids? It was not half a minute, though. Then he spoke: -- 

"Madam, are you willing to do exactly as I say? Can you both be patient? If so, I have hope of this child."

Maria swayed forward at these words, and Mrs. Allen caught her in her arms. Mrs. Brooks ran around in a maze, crying, "We've killed her! we've killed her!" and wildly took up a case of instruments, to do, she knew not what; but the doctor stopped her, and dashed a little water in Maria's face.

When the dear little girl came out of her swoon, she was murmuring to herself, -- 

"I thought God would be willing! I thought God would be willing!"

She did not know any one heard her. Mrs. Brooks rushed up to her.

"You are the best man alive, Maria," said she.

Then she turned to the doctor, calling him "my dear little girl," and might have kissed him if he had not laughed.

"Why, I beg your pardon, sir," cried she, blushing. "I don't believe I know what I am about."

"I don't believe you do, either, so I'll give my message to this other lady. I want the little girl to come again to-morrow without fail. It is well I saw her so soon. A few weeks longer, and she could not have been helped."

"You don't say so, doctor! And I never thought of coming. I shouldn't have stirred a step if it hadn't been for this good, kind Mrs. Allen. O, what an amazing world this is!"

"And you know, Mrs. Brooks," returned Aunt Madge, "I should never have heard of you if my baby niece hadn't run away. As you say, it is an amazing world!"

"And there's One above who rules it," said the doctor, as he bowed them out.

"Yes, there's One above who rules it," thought happy Maria, riding home in the carriage. "If I've asked Him once, I've asked Him five thousand times, and somehow I knew He'd attend to it after a while."

"O, what did the doctor say to her? What did he do?" cried the children, the moment their aunt appeared in the parlor.

"He says he can cure her if she will only be patient."

Prudy screamed for joy.

"O, dear! why didn't he cure her right off?" cried Dotty. "We s'posed she was seeing like everything."

"Why, child, do you expect things are going to be done by steam?" said Horace, forgetting he had calculated it would take about five minutes.

"Well, if he didn't had no steam, he could 'a' tookened the sidders, and picked 'em open," sniffed Fly, who had great contempt for slow people.

"Ah, little Hopelover," laughed auntie, "you're like us grown folks all the world over, scolding about what you don't understand."

*    *    *    *    *

A few more days were spent in uninterrupted happiness. Fly declared "Santa Claus is a darlin'," when she received the King Charles spaniel, which, by the way, had not been purchased without the full consent of Horace, who was even willing, for his little sister's sake, to take him home in the cars.

The youth, in his turn, was made happy by the gift of a silver-mounted rifle; while Prudy rejoiced in a rosewood writing desk, and Dotty in a gold pen.

"All's well that ends well." Uncle Augustus was at home, and that in itself was as good as most fairy stories. Fly had the kindness to "stay found" for the rest of the visit, and did not even take another cold. Dotty was unmixed sweetness. Maria came every day with such a beaming face that it was delightful to see her.

Mrs. Pragoff asked for all their photographs, and gave the Parlins some Polish mittens to carry home to their mother.

"I s'pose you know," said Dotty, privately to Prudy, "there's not another girl at my school been to New York, and treated with such attention; but O, I tell you, I shan't be proud. I shall always love Tate Penny just the same."

When the day came to separate, it went hard with them all.

"Just as we got to having a good time," said Dotty, her face in a hard knot.

"But we shall all meet next summer," said Prudy, hopefully.

"I don't want to wait," moaned Fly, going into her pocket-hangfiss -- all but her back hair and the rest of her body.

<eob>

Fifty Years A Hunter And Trapper

By

E. N. Woodcock, A. R. Harding



Chapter I.

Autobiography of E. N. Woodcock.

I was born on the 30th day of August, A. D. 1844, in a little village by the name of Lymansville, Potter County, Pennsylvania. Lymansville was named after my grandparent, Isaac Lyman, or better known as Major Lyman, having held office of that rank in the Revolutionary War. It is from this limb of the family that I inherited that uncontrollable desire for the trap, gun and the wild.

At a very early age it was my greatest delight to have all the mice, squirrels and groundhogs and in later years young raccoons, young fox and every other varmint or wild animal that I could catch or could get from other sources, and at times I had quite a menagerie.

I began trapping at a very early age, the same as many boys do who live out in the country where they have an opportunity. My father owned a grist mill and a sawmill. These mills were about one-half mile apart and it was about these mills and along the mill races and ponds of these mills that I set my first traps for muskrats, mink and coon. Before I was stout enough to set a trap which was strong enough to hold the varmint, it was necessary for me to get some older person to set the trap. I would take the trap to the intended place and set for the particular animals I was in quest of, whether mink, coon or rat.

In those days clearings were small, woods large and full of game. Deer could be seen in bunches every morning in the fields and it was not uncommon to see a bear's track near the house that had been made during the night. Wolves were not plenty though it was a common thing to see their tracks and sometimes hear them howl on the hills.

Like other boys who lead an outdoor life, I grew stronger each year and as I grew older and stronger my trap lines grew longer and my hunts took me farther into the woods. Finally as game became scarcer my hunts grew from a few hours in length to weeks and months camping in a cabin built in the woods in a section where game was plenty.

At the age of thirteen while out with a party of men on a hunting and fishing trip, I killed my first bear. While I had now been out each fall with my traps and gun, it was not until I was about eighteen years old that I took my first lesson from an old and experienced trapper, a man nearly eighty years old and a trapper and hunter from boyhood. The man's name was Aleck Harris. We made our camp in the extreme southeastern part of this (Potter) County in a section known as "The Black Forest" and it was here that I learned many things from an experienced trapper and hunter that served me well on the trap line and the trail, in the years that followed.

It was here that I made my first bed in a foot or more of snow with a fire against a fallen tree and a few boughs thrown on the ground for a bed. At other times perhaps a bear skin just removed from the bear for covering, or I might have no covering other than to remove my coat and spread it over me. This I have often done when belated on the trail so that I was unable to reach the cabin and was happy and contented.

It was here I first learned to do up the saddles or the carcass of a deer in the more convenient way to carry. It was here that I took my first practical lessons in skinning, stretching, curing and handling of skins and furs. I also learned many things of traps and trapping and to do away with sheath knives and other unnecessary burdens on the trap line. In my younger days I preferred to "go it alone" when in a country that I was familiar with and many a week I have spent in my cabin alone save for my faithful dog, but as I grew older and became afflicted with rheumatism I have found a partner more acceptable.

I have met with many queer circumstances while on the trap line and trail, yet I have never met with any of those bloodcurdling and hair-breadth escapes from wild animals which are mostly "pipe dreams". Perhaps the nearest I ever came to being seriously hurt by a wild animal was from a large buck deer. It was in November and on a stormy day. I had killed a doe and was in the act of dressing the doe and was leaning over the deer at work. I was within a few feet of a fallen tree. Hearing a slight noise, I raised up to see what caused it, when with the speed of a cannon ball a buck flew past me, barely missing and landed six or eight feet beyond me.

The deer had come up to this fallen tree on the track of the doe and seeing me at work over the doe, became angered and sprung at me and only my straightening up at the very instant that I did saved me from being seriously hurt or perhaps killed. I sprang over the log. The deer stood and gazed at me for a moment. His eyes were of a green hue and the hair on his back all stuck up towards his head. After gazing at me for a moment the deer walked slowly away. The suddenness of the occurrence so unnerved me that I was unable to shoot for some minutes though my gun was standing against the tree within reach.

At another time I was somewhat frightened by what I supposed was a dead bear suddenly coming to life. I had caught the bear in a trap and it had got fastened in some saplings growing on the steep bank of a small brook. I shot the bear in the head, as I thought, and it fell over the bank in such a manner that his whole weight was held by the leg that was fast in the trap. I was unable to release it from the trap where it was hanging as I had no clamp to put the trap springs down with, to release the bear's foot. I had set my gun, a single barrel rifle, against a tree without reloading it.

I cut the bear's paw off close to the trap which allowed the animal to roll down the bank to level ground. I had begun to rip down the leg that had been caught in the trap. A lad of about ten years was with me having accompanied me to attend the traps that day. The lad stood looking on when all of a sudden he said, "See him wink." I stopped my work and glanced at the bear's eyes and sure enough he was winking and winking fast, too, and almost before I knew it the bear was trying to get onto his feet. My gun was unloaded and the lad was screaming at the top of his voice, "Kill him! Kill him!" But what was I to kill him with? Nothing came to my mind at first except to use my gun as a club but I did not like to break it.

In a moment I thought of my hatchet which I had taken from the holster and laid on the bank where I had cut the bear's foot off to release him from the trap. I grabbed the hatchet and one good blow on the head put a stop to the rumpus and nobody harmed, although the boy was badly frightened.

At another time I might have got into trouble with a bear also caught in a trap. I was quite young at this time. I had gone some ten or twelve miles from home and set a trap for a bear. The trap was rather a poor one with a very light chain for a bear trap. I had only set the trap a few days before yet I thought I must go and look after it, but it was more the desire to be in the woods than it was of expecting to have a bear in the trap at that time. I did not take a gun with me, only a revolver loaded as I had no more balls and this was before the days of fixed ammunition.

When I came to the trap there was an ugly bear in it and he had the clog fast in some roots and among some fallen trees. After firing one shot at the Bear's head, which I missed, I then shot the two remaining balls into the bear's body with the only effect of making him more determined to get at me. I now cut a good club determined to put a quietus on Bruin in that manner but after landing several blows my knees began to feel weak. I gave up the job and returned home leaving Bruin in the trap feeling as well as he did when I first found him, so far as I was able to see. But when I returned the next morning with help and now with a regular gun we found Bruin nearly dead and helpless from the shots that I had given him the day before from the revolver.

I have met with other circumstances not quite so fascinating as those just related. At one time a young companion and I were camping and trapping several miles from home and several miles from a road. One day while we were some ways out from camp setting traps my friend became suddenly very ill. It required no skilled doctor to see that it was a case that must have help at once. I started with my friend to get to camp. While my companion was not as old as I, he was larger and heavier. I worked along with him, half carrying him, while he would support himself as best he could. I got him within about a mile of the cabin when he completely gave out and could go no farther and with all my pleadings I could not get him to try to go any farther, but he promised that if I went after help that after resting he would work his way to camp.

Seeing that there was no other way to do, I left him and started for help. It was now dark. My way was over a road of about twelve miles and nearly all the way through a thick woods and part of the way without a road other than a path. When I reached the cabin I stopped long enough to build a fire so that the cabin would be warm when my companion got there if he did get there at all, which I doubted.

I took a lunch in my hand and started for help. I would take a trot whenever the woods were sufficiently open to let in light enough so that I could see my way. I got to my companion's home about midnight and we were soon on the way back with a team and wagon while my companion's father went after a doctor to have him there when we got back with the patient. We drove with the wagon as far as the road would allow, then we left the wagon and rode the horses to the camp.

When we reached the cabin, contrary to expectations, we found my companion there but very sick. We lost no time in getting him onto a horse and starting for the wagon where we had a bed for the patient to lie down on. We got home about eight o'clock in the morning. The doctor was waiting for us and he said as soon as he looked at the man that it was a bad case of typhoid fever. He was right, for it took many weeks before my friend was able to be out again.

When game began to get scarce, that is when game was no longer found plenty right at the door, I began to look for parts where game was plentiful and accordingly, with three companions, I arranged to hunt and trap on Thunder Bay River in Michigan, where deer and all kinds of game, we had been told, were plenty and also lots of fur bearers. This we found to be quite true but the state had passed a law forbidding the shipment of deer. We did not know this when we left home and two of the boys soon got discouraged and returned.

It was while hunting here that I had another trip of twenty miles through the woods over rough corduroy tote road in the night after a team to take my companion (Vanater by name) out to Alpena to have a broken leg set. He was carrying a deer on his shoulder and when near camp it was necessary to cross a small stream to get to the cabin. We had felled a small tree across the creek for the purpose of crossing. There was three or four inches of snow on the log and after my companion was across the creek and just as he was about to step from the log he slipped and fell, striking his leg across the log in some manner so that it broke between the knee and ankle.

After getting my companion to camp and making him as comfortable as possible, I took a lunch in my knapsack and with an old tin lantern with a tallow candle in it, which gave about as much light as a lightning bug, I started over the longest and roughest twenty miles of road that I ever traveled in the night. Sometimes I would trip on some stick or log and fall and put out my light but I would get up, light the candle in the lantern again and hurry on all the faster to make up for lost time. I made the journey all right and was back to camp the next day before noon where we found my companion doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

We got my companion out to Alpena where the doctor set the leg and in the course of two or three weeks he was so far recovered that he was able to return to camp and keep me company until he was able to again take up the trap line and trail.

Some years later I again went back to Michigan and hunted deer and trapped on the Manistee, Boardman and Rapid Rivers, but I found game and furs had become somewhat scarce in that part so I next went with a partner to upper Michigan. At that time there was no railroad in Upper Michigan and but few settlers, after leaving the Straits, until near Lake Superior and near the copper and iron mines.

I have tried my luck in three of the states west of the Rocky Mountains. In the Clear Water regions of Idaho there was a fair showing of big game, with a good sprinkling of the fur bearers, including a bunch of beaver here and there. (Beaver protected.) I heard men tell of there being plenty of grizzly and silver tip bear but I saw no signs of them. In California a trapper told, me of a large grizzly coming to his shack in the night. He said that he was cooking venison and that he had the fresh meat of a deer in the shack and he thought that the bear smelled the meat was what brought him there. The man said the bear smelled around the shack awhile and then began to dig at one corner of the shack and soon pulled out the bottom log. The man kept quiet until the bear pulled out the next log and put his head in through the hole when he put a ball between the bear's eyes that fixed Bruin too quick. (A bad case of nightmare.) I think it doubtful if there is a grizzly bear or at least very few now to be found south of the British Columbia line.

My best catch of bear in one season with a partner was eleven. Years ago I caught from three to six bear each season but late years I have not caught more than one to three. I think that of late the heavy lumbering going on through Northern Pennsylvania had something to do with the catch of bear.

The timber in Pennsylvania is largely cut away now leaving bark slashings which make fine shelter for bear and wildcats and both animals were apparently quite plenty I would judge from the number caught in this section, fall of 1907. Deer are very scarce in this state, perhaps the most to be found are in Pike County.

I can lay claim to one thing that but few hunters and trappers can do, that is for forty years I lost only two seasons from the trap line and the trail and each time I was detained by rheumatism. Once being taken down with sciatica while in the camp trapping and hunting, and it held me to my bed for several months hard and tight. I still have the greater part of my trapping and hunting outfit, and am still in hopes to be able to get out on the line and pinch a few more toes.



Chapter II.

Early Experiences.

As I promised to write something of my early experience at trapping and hunting, I will begin by saying that I am now living within one mile of where I was born sixty years ago (this was written in 1904), and that I began my trapping career by first trapping rats in my father's grist mill with the old figure four squat trap. I well remember the many war dances that I had when I could not make the trap stay set; but I did not trap long inside the mill for father also ran a blacksmith shop and always kept a good man to do the work in the shop. I was soon coaxing the smith to make me a steel trap, which he did. I now began catching muskrats along the tail race and about the mill dam, but the spring on my trap was so stiff that when I found the trap sprung or found game in it, I was obliged to bring the trap to the house and have some one older than I to set it. Then I would carry it back to the creek and set it. Well this was slow work and I was continually begging the blacksmith to make me more traps with weaker springs so I could set them myself. After much coaxing he made me three more which I was able to set and then the muskrats began to suffer. Let me say at that time a muskrat skin was worth more than a mink skin.

Boys, I was like a man in public office, the more of it they have, the more they want. So it was with me in regard to the traps, but I could not coax the blacksmith to make any more. An older brother came to my aid in this way: he told me to go to town and see the blacksmith there and see if I could not sell some charcoal to him for traps, and he, (my brother) would help me burn the coal. Now this burning the coal was done by gathering hemlock knots from old rotten logs and piling them up and covering them like potato holes, leaving a hole open at the bottom to start the fire. After the fire was well started the hole was closed and the knots smoldered for several days. Well, the plan worked and by the operation I became the possessor of five more traps. By this time the vicinity of the mill dam and race was no longer large enough to furnish trapping grounds, and I ventured farther up and down the stream and took in the coon and mink along with the muskrat.

We had a neighbor, Washburn by name, who was considered a great trapper, for he could now and then catch a fox. As time passed by, I began to have a great desire to get on an equal with Mr. Washburn and catch a fox. I began to urge him to allow me to go with him to see how he set his trap, and after a long time coaxing, he granted my request. I found what everyone of today knows of the chaff bed set. You may now know that it was not long before I had a bed made near a barn that stood well back in the field, and after much worry and many wakeful nights I caught a fox and I thought myself Lord Jonathan. As time went by, and by chance I learned that by mixing a goodly part of hen manure with plenty of feathers in it, and mixing it with the chaff, it was a great improvement on chaff alone. Next I learned of the well known water set. However, I perhaps set different from the most of trappers in making this set. Well as all trappers learn from long years of experience, so have I, and those old-fashioned sets are like the squat traps, not up-to-date. I will now drop the trapping question for a time and tell you how I killed my first deer.

Just outside of the clearing on father's farm and not more than fifty rods from the house was a wet place, such as are known to these parts as a "bear wallow." This wet place had been salted and was what is called a "salt lick." In those days it was not an uncommon thing to see six or eight deer in the field any morning during the summer season -- the same as you will see them in parts of California today. It was not an uncommon thing for my older brother to kill a deer at this lick any morning or evening, but that was not making a nimrod of me. I would beg father to let me take the gun (which was an old double barreled flintlock shot gun) and watch the lick. As I was only nine years old, they would not allow me to have the gun, so I was obliged to steal it out when no one was in sight, carry it to the barn and then watch my opportunity and "skipper" from the barn to the lick. All worked smoothly and I got to the lick all right. It was toward sundown and I had scarcely poked the gun through the hole in the blind and looked out when I saw two or three deer coming toward the lick. I cocked the old gun and made ready but about this time I was taken with the worst chill that any boy ever had and I shook so that I could scarcely hold the gun to the peep hole. It was only a moment when two of the deer stepped into the lick, and I took the best aim I could under the condition, and pulled the trigger. Well of all the bawling a deer ever made, I think this one did the worst, but I did not stop to see what I had done but took across the field to the house at a lively gait, leaving the gun in the blind.

The folks heard the shot and saw me running for the house at break-neck speed (this of course was the first that they knew I was out with the gun). My older brother came to meet me and see what the trouble was. When I told him what I had done, he went with me to the lick and there we found a fair-sized buck wallowing in the lick with his back broken, one buck shot (or rather one slug, for the gun was loaded with pieces cut from a bar of lead); one slug had struck and broken the spine and this was the cause of the deer bawling so loud as this was the only one that hit.

The old shotgun was now taken from its usual corner in the kitchen and hung up over the mantle piece above the big fire place and well out of my reach. This did not stop my hunting. We had a neighbor who had two or three guns and he would lend me one of them. I would hide away hen eggs and take them to the grocery and trade them for powder and shot. Of course the man who owned the gun got the game, when I chanced to kill any, for I did not dare to carry it home. It was not long until father found that I was borrowing Mr. Abbott's gun, and he thought that if hunt I would, it would be better that I use our own and then he would know when I was out with it. He took the old flintlock to the gunsmith and had it fixed over into a cap lock, and now I was rigged out with both gun and traps.

I will now tell you about the first bear that I killed. I was about thirteen years old, and it was not so common a thing for one to kill a bear in those days as it is now (1904), for strange as it may seem, bears are far more plentiful here today than they were at that time.

Two of my brothers and three or four of the neighbors went into the woods about twelve miles and bought fifty acres of land. There was no one living within six or seven miles of the place. They cleared off four or five acres and built a good log fence around it. They also built a small barn and cabin. Each spring they would drive their young cattle out to this place, stay a few days and plant a few potatoes, and some corn. About once a month it was customary to go over to this clearing and hunt up the cattle and bring them to the clearing and salt them, then have a day or two of trout fishing, watch licks and kill a deer or two, jerk the meat and have a general good time.

I was allowed to go on one of these expeditions, and the first night the men watched one or two licks and one of the men killed a deer, but I had to stay in camp that night with a promise that I should watch the second night.

During the first night we heard wolves howl away upon the hills. The next morning the men talked very mysteriously about the wolves and said that it would not be safe to watch the licks that night, that no deer would come to the licks as long as the wolves were around. I took it all in and said nothing, but was determined to watch a lick that night. Finally one of the men, John Duell by name, said that I could watch the lick that he had and he would stay in camp. The one that I was to watch was only a short distance from the clearing. When the sun was about one-half hour high, I took the old shot gun, this time loaded with genuine buck shot and climbed the Indian ladder to the scaffold which was built about twenty feet from the ground in a hemlock tree.

I sat quiet until sundown and no deer came. I thought I would tie the gun in the notches in the limbs, which brought the gun in proper range to kill the deer in the lick, should it come after dark. I got one string tied around the barrel and the limb when a slight noise to my left caused me to look in that direction and I saw a dark object standing in the edge of the little thicket, which I took to be a black creature I had seen down near the clearing when I came to the lick. My thoughts were that I would tie the breech of the gun fast to the limb, and then I would climb down and stone the animal away, so I went on tying the gun fast. On looking up I saw that the supposedly black heifer had turned out to be a black bear, and that it was going to go above the lick and not into it. My knife was out in an instant and the next moment I had the strings that held the gun cut. I raised it carefully to my face and about this time the bear stopped, turned his head around and looked back in the direction he had come. This was my chance, and I fired both barrels at his head and shoulders, and immediately there was a snorting, snarling, rolling and tumbling of the bear, but the maneuvers of the bear was no comparison to the screams and shouts that came from me. I was still making more noise than a band of Indians when Mr. Duell arrived on the scene and took in the situation. The other men who were watching other licks thought I had surely been attacked by the wolves by the unearthly yell I was making and the whole party were soon on the ground. The bear was soon dressed and the men gave me the cognomen of the "The Great Hunter of Kentucky" and so ended the killing of my first bear.

I am still in hopes to take the pelts from one or two this fall and winter and later, I will tell of some of the incidents I have seen and experienced while trapping and hunting among them. Perhaps, how a brother of mine got a tenderfoot to ride the carcass of a deer down a steep and hard frozen mountain when there was about two inches of snow on would be interesting.



Chapter III.

My First Real Trapping Experience.

When I was about eighteen, I received a letter from a man by the name of Harris, who lived in Steuben County, New York, wherein he stated that a Mr. Lathrop had suggested me as a suitable party to go with him to the region known as Black Forest. This section extends through four counties, the southern part of Potter and Tioga counties, and northern part of Clinton and Lycoming counties, Pa. Every reader knows or has heard of the Black Forest region.

This section was and is still (1910) known as a good bear country. I thought it strange that Mr. Lathrop, a man of much note as a hunter, would recommend me, merely a boy, to go with Mr. Harris and into a region like the Black Forest. As Mr. Lathrop lived about four miles from our place I lost no time in going there to learn who this Mr. Harris was. I was informed that he was an old hunter and trapper about eighty years old and that he wanted a partner more for a companion than a hunter or trapper. Mr. Lathrop had met Mr. Harris while on a fishing tour on the Sinnamahoning waters during the summer and said that he knew nothing of Mr. Harris otherwise than what he saw of him at this meeting and to all appearances he was a fine old gentleman. I showed the letter to father and asked what I should do about it and he replied that he thought I could spend my time to a better advantage in school, but he did not say that I could not go with Mr. Harris. I therefore wrote him that I would be ready at the time mentioned which was the twentieth of October.

Mr. Goodsil, the gunsmith in town, had been at work for some time on a new gun for me. Now that I was going into the woods to hunt in earnest, I was at the gun shop nearly every day, urging Mr. Goodsil to finish my gun which he did and in plenty of time. After I got my gun the days seemed like weeks and the weeks like months. I was constantly in fear that Mr. Harris would not come. But promptly at the time set, in the evening just before sundown, a man with a one horse wagon loaded with bear traps and other traps of smaller size and with one of the worst old rack-of-bones of a horse that I had ever seen, drove up to father's place, stopped and inquired if Mr. Woodcock lived there. I immediately asked if he was Mr. Harris, as I had already guessed who the man was. He replied that he was and said that he took it that I was the lad who was going with him.

Mr. Harris said that "often an old horse and a colt" worked well together and that we would make a good team. While we were putting his horses away I asked him what he intended to do with the old horse and he replied that he brought him along so that if we got stuck he could hitch him on and help out. The other horse was a fine horse and I was at a loss to know what Mr. Harris meant.

During the evening I thought father and Mr. Harris talked on every other subject rather than hunting but I managed to put in a few questions now and again as to what we were to do when we arrived at the great Black Forest.

Mr. Harris was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a long beard nearly as white as snow. We were up early the next morning and on our way before daylight. Our route was over the road known as the Jersey Shore turnpike but after the first four miles we went through an unbroken wilderness for twenty miles, save only one house, then known as the Edcomb Place, now called Cherry Springs. The next place, ten miles farther on, was a group of four or five shacks called Carter Camp, but known now as Newbergen. This was in the year 1863 and the conditions over this road are the same today only the large timber has been mostly cut away and there is no one living at Cherry Springs. Five miles farther on we came to Oleana, where there was a hotel and store, owned by Henry Anderson, a Norwegian, who came to this country as the private secretary of Ole Bull, the great violinist, and it was here where the much talked of Ole Bull Castle was built.

Beg pardon, I guess I am getting off the trap line. We stopped at the hotel for the night and the next morning purchased supplies sufficient to last during the entire campaign, consisting of lard, pork, flour, corn meal, tea, coffee, rice, beans, sugar and the necessary salt, pepper, etc. I remember well when Mr. Harris ordered fifty pounds of beans and asked me if I thought that would do? I replied that I thought it would. In my mind I wondered what we would do with all those beans. But now I wish to say to the man going into camp on a long hunting and trapping campaign, don't forget the beans as they are bread and meat.

We are now within about ten or twelve miles of where we intended to camp, which was at the junction of the Bailey and Nebo Branches of Young Woman's Creek. It was about the middle of the afternoon of the second day we were out and Mr. Harris said that here would be a good place to build the camp. We got the horses out as soon as we could and Mr. Harris picked out a large rock; one side had a straight, smooth side and was high and broad enough for one end of the shanty and there was a fine spring close by. Mr. Harris pointed to the rock and said that there we had one end of our camp already as well as a good start towards the fire place.

He told me to begin the cutting of logs for the other two sides and the other end. We cut the logs a suitable size to handle well and about twelve and fourteen feet long. Mr. Harris did the planning while I did the heavy part of the work.

That night we slept under a hemlock tree and were up the next morning and had breakfast before daylight and ready for the day's work. We could see scuds of clouds away off in the southwest which Mr. Harris said did not show well for us. He had brought a good crosscut saw and it was not long until we had logs enough cut to put up the sides, about four feet high and logs for one end. We hauled the logs all up with the horse so they would be handy. Then we began the work of notching and putting up the logs.

About noon a drizzling rain started and kept it up all the afternoon. We covered our provisions and blankets the best we could to keep them dry and continued to work on the camp. We got the body up, the rafters and a part of the roof on. We put up a ridge roof as Mr. Harris said it would not be necessary to have the sides quite so high with a steep ridge roof. We got our supplies under shelter and had a dry place to sleep that night. It was still raining in the morning but we continued to work on the camp like beavers all day and we got shakes split from a pine stub to finish the roof and chinking blocks to chink between the logs.

The next morning Mr. Harris said that he would go and take the horse out to a farm house that was about six miles out the turnpike, known as the Widow Herod Place, or better known as Aunt Bettie. Mr. Harris said he would go while there was food enough to last the old horse a day or two until we were ready to use him. Then I knew that the old horse was doomed to be used for bear bait.

When Mr. Harris started away with the horse he cautioned me not to go off hunting, but to stick to work on the shanty which I did like a "nailer." When Mr. Harris returned I had the roof on, the chinking all in and the gable end boarded up with shakes and all ready to begin calking and mudding. It was some time in the afternoon when he got back and after looking over the shack to see what I had done he said that he thought I had done so well that I was entitled to a play spell and suggested that we take our guns and go down along the side of the hill and see if we could kill a deer, remarking that we could use a little venison if we had it. He told me to go up onto the bench near the top of the hill while he would take the lower bench and he would hunt the side hill along down the stream until dark.

Mr. Harris had a single barrel gun with a barrel three or four feet long which he called Sudden Death, and it weighed twelve or fourteen pounds. As for me I had my new double barrel gun which I have mentioned before. We had not gone far until I heard the report of a gun below me and soon I heard Mr. Harris "ho-ho-hoa," and I hurried to where the howling came from and found him already taking the entrails out of a small doe. I suggested to Mr. Harris that we take the deer down to the creek before we dressed it and that by so doing we probably could catch a mink or coon with the entrails. He consented to do so and after we had taken out the entrails Mr. Harris noticed a fine place to catch a fox or some other animal and pointed to a large tree that had fallen across the stream.

The tree had broken in two at the bank, on the side of the stream where we were. The water had swung the trunk of the tree down the stream until there was a space of three or four feet between the end of the tree and the bank. Mr. Harris took a part of the offal from the deer and carried it across to the opposite bank and placed the remainder on the side where we were. He then placed an old limb for a drag to the trap at the place where he wanted to set the trap. As we had no traps with us we went to camp and early the next morning we took two traps and went to this place and set them.

We put in that day finishing the camp, putting in the door and fixing the chimney to the fireplace and calking all the cracks between the logs and mudded tight between the logs and all the joints. Now the camp being completed we began setting the bear traps. The old horse was taken onto a chestnut ridge and shot, cut up into small pieces suitable for bear bait, and hung up in small saplings such as we could bend down. After the bait was fastened to the tree we let it spring up so as to keep it out of the reach of any animal until we had a trap set.

The way Mr. Harris set a bear trap was to build a V shaped pen about three feet long and about the same in height, place the bait in the back end of the pen and set the trap in the entrance. We had eleven bear traps and after they were all set on different ridges where bears were most likely to travel, we began the work of setting the small traps which was not a long job, as we had only about forty.

The next morning Mr. Harris said that I had better go down and see if the traps we had set had been disturbed and he said that he would rest while I was gone.

When I came in sight of the traps I could see a fox bounding around in one of the traps. I could see on looking at the trap we had placed across the creek that the drag had been moved closer to the log but I could see nothing moving. I cut a stick and killed the fox when I crossed over to see what was in the other trap and to my disgust there was a skunk. I was not particularly in love with skunks in those days, for while they scented just as loud at that time as now they were vastly lacking in the money value. I took hold of the clog and carefully dragged the skunk to the creek and sank him in the water. I now went back to the other side of the creek and set the fox trap and when I had the trap set the skunk was good and dead. I reset the trap and took the fox and skunk to camp without skinning. When I got to camp I found Mr. Harris busy making stretching boards of different sizes for different animals from shakes that we had left when covering the roof. Mr. Harris laughed and said that he knew that we would need them when I got back. The fox and skunk were skinned, stretched and hung up on the outside of the gable of the shack, and that was the starting point of our catch of the season.

We set the most of our small traps along the streams for foxes and mink, taking a few to the ridges to set in likely places to catch a fox, and at thick laurel patches where we were likely to catch a wild cat as there was a bounty of $2 on them.

After the small steel traps were set we began building a line of deadfalls for marten and fisher. After the deadfalls were built we divided our time between hunting deer and tending the traps.

We caught three bears, two fisher, which were very scarce, as I do not think that fishers were ever very plentiful in this state, a good bunch of marten, foxes, four or five wildcats and killed twenty-two deer. The last days of December Mr. Harris said that we would prepare to go home as the deer season closed the first of January. Although the law gave until the fifteenth to get your deer we had dragged the most of ours up to the Bailey Mill at various times. We got all those around the mill and sent them to Jersey Shore by freight teams to the railroad, then shipped them to New York. We got 15 cents for saddles and 10 cents for the whole deer.

Mr. Harris had brought an auger with him so that he could make a sleigh to go home with and from birch saplings we made one and on the thirteenth of January I went and got the horse. He was as fat as a pig and felt like a colt. We hitched him up to the sleigh and got our stuff up to the Bailey Mill where we loaded the wagon onto the sleigh and piled on the furs and the rest of our outfit and early on the morning of the fourteenth we started for home. This ended my first real experience as a hunter and trapper.

I received two or three letters from Mr. Harris, the last one in which he stated that he was not feeling very well and I never heard from him again.



Chapter IV.

Some Early Experiences.

In 1871 or 1872 I had several bear traps made by our local blacksmith and I started in as a bear trapper and went it alone. After being out with Mr. Harris I had taken some valuable lessons on trapping bear and other animals. I built a good log camp on the West Branch of Pine Creek and went to trapping and hunting without either partner or companion, but after being in camp the first season I bought a shepherd dog that was a year old and broke him for still hunting and trapping. I found that a good intelligent dog was not only a companion but also a valuable one. I have noticed that some trappers do not want a dog on the trap line with them, claiming that the dog is a nuisance. This is because the dog was not properly trained.

To get back to the bear trapping: In the locality where I was trapping, bear were not very plentiful except in season, when there was a crop of beechnuts, although there was but little other shack, such as chestnuts and acorns. However, some seasons there would be an abundance of black cherries which the bears are very fond of. I set three traps at the head of a broad basin where there were three or four springs and the next day I set the balance of my bear traps; then I built a few deadfalls for coons and set a few steel traps for fox.

As I had seen several fresh bear tracks crossing the stream, where I had been setting the coon traps, on the morning of the third day after I had set the first three bear traps, I thought that I would go and look after them. They were about a mile and a half from camp and when I came in sight of the first trap I saw that I had a bear. You may be sure that I again felt like a mighty hunter. I was more pleased over this one bear than I was over the eight bear we had caught when I was with Mr. Harris, because now I was the trapper and not Mr. Harris. The bear was a good sized female. She had become fast only a short distance from where the trap was set. I shot and skinned the bear then cut the carcass into quarters, bent down a sapling and hung a quarter of the bear on this. With a forked pole I raised the sapling up until the meat was out of the way of small animals that might happen along.

After hanging up three of the quarters in this manner, leaving one to take to camp, I took the lungs and liver and put them in the bait pen. The bait had all been eaten and I was quite sure it had been done after the bear was caught, as a bear immediately loses its appetite after placing its foot in a good, strong trap. I really expected to find another bear in one of the other traps as they were not far away, but the other traps were undisturbed.

The next morning I thought I would take some bait from camp and bait the trap where I had put the offals from the bear, fearing that should a bear come along it might not eat the bait that was in the pen. You may imagine my surprise when I came in sight of the trap to see another bear fast in the trap.

After killing the bear I removed the entrails and started to carry the bear to camp. It was a cub and I could carry it without cutting it in parts. I was just about to start for camp when I decided I would go to the other traps. If I was surprised at seeing the first cub, I was doubly so, for there was another cub tangled up in the trap. Do you think I felt gay? Well, that was no name for it.

I shot this cub and without waiting to dress it I took a lively gait to the other trap to see if there were any more bears but there was nothing there. The last two bears, I think were the cubs of the old bear that I had caught the night before. I spent the entire day getting the bears to camp. I did not get any more bear for some time although I had an opportunity to learn a whole lot about them.

Some days after I got the old bear and the cubs, I found the bait pen in one of the traps torn down by a bear, which had taken the bait and had not sprung the trap. Right here I will say that I learned a great deal more about the habits of Bruin. After finding the bait gone I thought that all I would have to do was to make the bait pen a little stronger so Bruin could not tear it down so readily to get at the bait. I did not think that a bear knew anything about "trapology," for the experience I had so far in bear trapping was that bears knew but little more about a trap than a hog, though later I found I was very much mistaken.

The trap was set in a small brook where there were plenty of rocks of all sizes. I rolled several of these rocks, as large as I could handle, up about the bait pen to strengthen it to such an extent that Bruin would not think of tearing it down. I figured the bear by going over the trap would take the bait from the entrance of the pen as a good bear should; though in this I was greatly mistaken. The second day I went to the trap with full expectation of finding Bruin fast in the trap, but again I was disappointed -- Bruin had again gone to the back of the pen and torn the top of the pen off, rolling away some of the stones, taking the bait.

Now I saw that if I was to get my friend Bruin, I would have to work a little strategy. I removed the trap from the clog, leaving the clog undisturbed and making all appear just the same as it did when the trap was set. I was very careful to have the covering of the trap left just the same as when the trap was set. Then I got another clog and set the trap at the back of the pen at the place where the bear had torn off the top of the bait pen. Here I concealed the trap and clog as completely as I knew how and being very careful to make all appear just as before the trap was set, flattering myself that Bruin would surely put his foot in it this time.

I went early the next morning, being sure that I would find Bruin, but no bear had been there. I went again early the next morning with high expectations of finding Bruin waiting for me, but again nothing had been disturbed. Thinking that Bruin had left that locality altogether, or that he would not be back again for several days, I thought I would go and have a team come and take out the furs and game I had, and give Bruin time to get back after more bait. As I had caught no bear at the other traps, I felt quite certain that Bruin was still somewhere in the neighborhood and would be around again after more bait.

When I reached home an old gentleman by the name of Nelson who was a noted hunter and trapper and who lived near us, came to see me. Let me explain who this Mr. Nelson was, as I shall have more to say of him.

Mr. Nelson was one of the early settlers in this county, moving here at an early date from Washington County, New York State. He was known here as Uncle Horatio and by many as Squire Nelson, as he was a Justice of the Peace here for thirty years.

Mr. Nelson would always come to our house as soon as he found that I was at home, to see what luck I had in the way of trapping and hunting. On this occasion, Mr. Nelson, or Uncle Horatio, as we always called him, was soon over to learn what luck I had and when I told him what sort of a time I had trying to outwit the bear, he said I had better build a deadfall and let the bear kill himself. Uncle said that Bruin would give me much trouble and was likely to leave and I would not get him at all. This idea I did not like, for I had, before this, been put to my wit's end to outwit a cunning old fox, but finally succeeded in catching him and I thought I could outwit such a dumb thing as a bear. I thought if I could not get the bear in a steel trap, there would be but little use trying to get him in such a clumsy thing as a deadfall -- however, Uncle had trapped bear long before I was born and knew what he was talking about.

As soon as I got back to camp I went to the bear trap to relieve Bruin of his troubles, but it was not the bear that was in trouble, but myself, for Bruin had been there and torn out a stone at one side of the pen and had taken the bait. Well, the case was getting desperate, so I got another trap and set it at the side where the bear took the bait the last time, taking all the pains possible in setting the trap, but the result was no better than before.

I had made it a habit to hang on a small bait near the bear traps, believing that the bear would be attracted by the scent of the bait hanging up from the ground more than it would from the bait in the pen. At this trap I had hung up the bait in a bush that extended out from the bank over the brook and each time the bear had taken this bait. I now took one of the traps at the pen, leaving the clog and all appearances as though the trap still remained there. Getting another clog I concealed it under the edge of the bank and set the trap under the bait that I had hung in the bush. I was certain this time that I would outwit Bruin, but instead, the bear went onto the bank, pulled the bush around, took the bait and went about his business. Now I was getting pretty excited and began to think of the advice of Uncle Horatio but I was not willing to give up yet.

Up the brook, fifty or sixty feet from the bait pen, there had fallen a small, bushy hemlock tree which stood on the right hand bank of the spring, and the top of the tree reached nearly over to the opposite bank. I had noticed that when the bear had come to the trap he had come down the brook and went back the same way. The water was shallow in the brook, barely covering the stones and fallen leaves all over the bed of the brook. Going to the top of the hemlock tree, I saw that the bear had passed between the top of this tree and the bank of the brook. Here was a fine place to conceal the trap and I said, "Old fellow, here I will surely outwit you." I took the trap from the bait pen and set it in the open space between the top of the tree and concealing all the very best I could, I again put more bait in the bait pen and hung up more on the bush.

I waited two days and then went to the traps again, wondering all the way what the result would be. Well, it was the same as before. The bear had gone to the bush on the bank, taken the bait, and had also taken the bait from the bait pen as usual. Now I thought it quite time to try Uncle's plan, though I had but little faith in it.

It was several miles to Mr. Haskins', the nearest house, but I lost no time in getting there for I was now feeling desperate. Mr. Haskins readily consented to help me build a deadfall. We cut a beech tree that was about fourteen inches through, that stood back in thick undergrowth some rods from the bait pen. We cut a portion about four feet long from the large end of the tree for the bed-piece and placing it against the small tree for one of the stakes. With levers we placed the tree on top of the bed-piece and with three other good stakes driven at each side of the logs fastened the tops of the stakes together with withes to strengthen them, we soon had a good, strong deadfall made, as every boy who is a reader of the H-T-T, knows how to build. We baited the trap and set it, getting done in time for Mr. Haskins to get home before dark.

I again put bait back in the bait pen and on the bush as before and patiently awaited results. The second day I looked after the traps but there were no signs of bear being about either the deadfall or the steel traps and I feared that I had frightened Bruin out of the country in building the deadfall. I put in three or four days looking after other traps, thinking but little about the bear that had, so far, been beyond my skill.

After three or four days, I again went to the deadfall, wondering and imagining all kinds of things. When I came to the steel traps the bait was still undisturbed and I was now sure that that particular bear was not for me, but when I stepped into the thicket so that I could see the deadfall, there was Bruin, good and dead. When I looked at the bear I found that he had three toes gone from one foot and this I thought to be the cause of his being so over-shy of the steel traps.

I learned a lesson that has since served me more than one good turn.

* * *

In later years it was customary for many of my friends to come to my camp and spend a few days with me. It was of one of these occasions that I will relate. Two young men, named Benson and Hill, had sent me word that they were coming out to my camp and hunt a few days; also to go with me to my bear traps but added that they did not suppose that I would get a bear while they were in camp, even if they would stay all winter.

It had been drizzling sort of a rain for several days and every old bear hunter knows that dark, lowery weather is the sort bears like to do their traveling in. I had set the time to go out on a stream known as the Sunken Branch, to look after some fox traps and also two bear traps that I had in that section the day I got word from Benson and Hill that they would be over to camp the next day. I thought I would put off going to look after the traps in that locality until the boys came over and should I have the luck to find a bear in one of the traps it would come very acceptable to have the help to get the bear to camp for it was some four or five miles to the farthest trap.

The boys came as they said but the next morning after they got there it was raining very hard and they did not want to go out and did not want me to go until it slacked up. Well, the next morning it was raining hard and the boys were in no better mood to go out than the day before. It had been several days since I had been to the traps, in that direction, and there were some chestnuts in that locality where the bear traps were set. The storm had knocked the chestnuts out and it was probable that bears would be in that locality. I told the boys I did not like to let the traps go any longer without looking after them and they could stay in camp and I would go to the traps. When I was about ready to start, Hill said that he would go with me, notwithstanding the rain, though Benson tried to persuade us not to go, stating that no bear was fool enough to travel in such a rain and that all we would get would be a good thorough soaking.

I was determined to delay no longer looking at the traps and started off when Hill said, "Well, I'm with you." So we took the nearest cut possible to reach the traps. Hill was continually wishing we would find a bear in one of the traps and that he could shoot it so that he could joke with Benson.

Our route took us along the top of a ridge for about three miles when we dropped off to the first trap. When we were still half way up the side of the ridge I saw that Hill had got his wish for I could see a bear rolling and tumbling about down in the hollow and knew that it was fast in the trap. I tried to point it out to Hill but he could not get his eye on it, so we went farther down the hill when Jim (that was Hill's given name) could see the bear. He said there was no need of going closer, that he could shoot it from where we were, but I said we must go closer as I did not like to make holes in the body of the skin unnecessarily. We had only taken a few steps farther when Jim said we were plenty close, that he could, shoot it from where we were and that if we should go closer the bear might break out of the trap and escape.

With all my urging I could not get Hill closer so I told him to be sure that he shot the bear in the head and not in the body. I discovered that Hill was very nervous and told him to take all the time necessary to make a sure shot. When the gun cracked I saw a twig fall that the gun had cut off fully three feet above the bear's head. I urged Hill a few yards closer when he tried again with no better results than the first shot. After making the third shot Hill said he guessed that I had better shoot the bear as he thought something had gone wrong with the sights on his gun. It was raining hard so I killed the bear and took the entrails out, set the trap again and left the bear lying on the ground. As it was a small bear we concluded to take the bear to camp whole.

We hurried on to the next trap which was about a mile farther down the stream. When we got to where the trap was set it was gone, but the way things were torn up we could see that we had a bear this time that was no small one.

The bear had worked down the stream, first climbing the hill on one side of the stream until it became entangled in a jam of brush or old logs, then back down the hill and up on the other side until it became discouraged, when it would try the other side again. The bear was continuously getting the clog fast under the roots of trees or against old logs when it would gnaw the brush and tear them out by the roots. It was also noticed where he would rake the bark on the trees in trying to climb them, in hopes of escaping the drag that was following him. The bear would gnaw and tear old logs to pieces whenever the clog became fast against them.

This was all very interesting and exciting to Hill and he said he would give Benson the laugh when we got to camp. Hill had made me promise not to tell Benson how he had shot three times at the bear's head and missed it.

The bear had worked his way down the stream nearly a mile from where the trap was set, when we came upon him and shot him at once. Hill declaring that it was getting too near night and raining too hard for him to practice on shooting bear any more that day.

We skinned the bear, hung up the meat, took the trap and skin and went back up the creek and set the trap in the same place again. Taking the bear skin we started back to where we left the other bear. After carrying the whole bear and bear skin until it was dark, we hung the bear skin up in the crotch of a tree, taking the bear and hurrying to camp at as lively a gait as we were able to make.

Hill said that while we had had a pretty rough day of it he would make it all up in getting the joke on Benson if I would not give him away on shooting the bears, as Hill was to tell Benson all about how he did it.

Before we came to camp I said to Hill that if he cared to we would play a joke on Benson. He wished to know what the plan was. I said that we would fix the bear up in the path that led from the shack to the spring and get Benson to go after a pail of water and run onto the bear. So we planned to have Benson think that we got no bear and after supper was over I was to take the pail and start to the spring after a pail of fresh water when Hill was to interfere and insist that Benson should go for the water as he had been in camp all day and needed exercise.

It was about a hundred feet from the shack to the spring and down quite a steep bank and about half way from the shack to the spring was a beech log across the path. When we got near camp we made no noise and when we came to the spring we washed our hands carefully to remove any blood that might be on them. Then we took the bear to the log that was across the path and placed the forepaws and shoulders up over the log leaving the hind parts on the ground, then with a small crotched stick placed under the bear's throat to hold up its head we had it fixed up to look as natural as we were able to in the dark.

We went into the shack looking as downcast as a motherless colt. It was unnecessary to deny getting any bear for Benson told us almost before we were inside that we should have known that we would get no bear in any such weather as we were having and none but simpletons would have gone out in such rain.

We ate our supper which Benson had waiting for us. We had little to say farther than to talk of what a fearful rain we were having. After supper was over I took the water pail, though it was nearly full of water, and threw the water out the door before Benson had time to object, saying that I would get a pail of fresh water. Hill said that we should let Benson go after the water as he had not been out of the shanty all day and needed some fresh air. Benson consented to go after another pail of water although he said that he had brought the water that we had thrown out just before we came. I told Benson that I would hold the light at the door so he could see but Benson replied that I need not bother, all that was necessary was to leave the door of the shack open so that he could see his way back.

About the time that Benson reached the log he gave a terrible howl and we heard the water pail go rattling through the brush and when we got to the door Benson was coming on all fours, scrambling as fast as he could and yelling "Bah -- bah -- bear -- bear!"

Hill nor I could not keep from roaring with laughter, and finally Hill managed to say, "Oh, you didn't see any bear."

Benson made no reply but was as white as a sheet and shook as though he had the ague. We could not conceal our feelings and when Benson found his speech he said, "You think you are mighty cunning; if you got a bear why didn't you say so and not act like two dumb idiots."

We had laughed so hard that Benson caught on and the game was up.

Well, after Benson was onto our joke, nothing would do but we must get the bear in and skin out the fore parts so we could have some bear meat cooked before we went to bed. Every time Hill awoke during the night he would burst out laughing while Benson would hurl a few cuss words at him.

The next day we brought in the skin and saddles of the other bear, leaving the fore quarters for fox and marten bait.

The rain now being about over with and the ground and leaves thoroughly soaked, it was a good time for still hunting deer, so we were all out early the next morning. We started out together and soon became separated and it so happened that I was the only one to get a deer during the day. When I got to camp I found Benson was not in yet, so I did not tell that I had killed a deer, but thought I would wait until Benson came in and see what luck he had. If he had not killed anything I would give him the hint and let him have the credit of killing the deer that I got as a sort of off-set on Hill on the bear hunt. I stayed outside gathering dry limbs for wood until I saw Benson coming and I planned to meet him before Hill got to talk to him. I learned that Benson had not killed anything, so I told him where I had killed the deer and that if he cared to he could claim the deer as his game. Benson was much pleased with the idea and as I had told him just where I had killed the deer it was easy for Benson to explain to Hill where the deer was shot. Hill did not believe that Benson had killed a deer and said he would not believe he (Benson) had killed one if he did not know that he had been alone and anyway he must see the deer before he would believe it. I took the first opportunity when Hill was out to tell Benson which way to go so that he would be sure to find the deer and the next morning the boys went out and brought in the deer while I went to look after some traps. The boys stayed a day or two longer and then went home declaring that they had had the best hunt of their lives.

I will now tell of some of my hunting and trapping with Mr. Nelson and my first experience with a big cat. About 1860, when I was a mere chunk of a boy, a man by the name of Perry Holman was camping on the extreme headwaters of Pine Creek, hunting and trapping. Early one morning Mr. Holman came out of the woods after groceries and other necessaries. On his way out he saw where a small bear had crossed the road just at the top of the hill on the old Jersey Shore turnpike and about five miles from Mr. Nelson's place. Mr. Nelson at that time always kept one or two good bear dogs. Mr. Holman told Mr. Nelson of the bear's track and said that the bear had gone into a laurel patch on the west side of the road and that the track was very fresh. He thought if Mr. Nelson would take his dogs and go out that he could get the bear without much trouble as he believed the bear would still be in the laurels close to the road.

Mr. Nelson told Mr. Holman to get his groceries while he would come to see if I would go along to look after the team while Mr. Nelson and Mr. Holman went into the laurels after the bear. Of course, I was ready for anything that had hunt in it. The sleighing was good and Mr. Nelson was soon ready, taking his dogs into the sleigh so that they would not break off on the track of a deer or some other animal.

When we came to where Mr. Holman saw the bear or cub, Mr. Nelson, or Uncle as we always called him, said to Mr. Holman before he got out of the sleigh:

"Perry, that is no cub's track; that is a big cat and I think we will find him in the laurel patch."

Uncle told me to stay with the team and that they would not be gone long; that if the track led off he would come back to the sleigh and I could go back with the team and he would go to Mr. Holman's camp and stay over night and come home the next day.

The dogs were anxious to take the trail, but Uncle held them in to the laurels. They had not been gone more than ten minutes when the dogs began to give tongue like mischief. I could see that the dogs were coming towards the road and in about a minute saw the biggest cat that I had ever seen at that time, shinning up a large tree that was not further than fifty yards from the sleigh. The dogs were soon at the tree barking their best and in a few minutes I heard the crack of a gun and the big cat seemed to fly out into the air. I could hear the cat go threshing down through the limbs on the trees and the dogs doubled their howling and I could hear the men laugh. I called to the men to see if they got the cat. Uncle told me to watch the horses and they would soon be there, and they were soon in sight dragging a large panther instead of either a cub or cat. Uncle drove down to where Holman's path left the road to go down to his camp and we then drove back home. Uncle was greatly pleased over Perry's cat hunt as Mr. Nelson called it.

* * *

In or about the year '67 or '68, Uncle Horatio Nelson, whom I have spoken of before, had for years been accustomed to going to Edgecomb Place, later known as Cherry Springs, to hunt and trap. Wolves were then more plentiful than foxes are at the present time.

I will explain that Cherry Springs was simply a farm house built of logs. This house was located about half way through, or in the center of a dense forest of about twenty miles square. The Jersey Shore turnpike ran through this vast forest and the stage or any traveler going through this region were obliged to stop at this house to feed at noon, or to stop over night, this being the only house on the road.

From where this house was located there was easy access to the waters of Pine Creek, which flowed east, to the waters of the Cross Fork of Kettle Creek, which flowed south and to the waters of the East Fork of the Sinnamahoning which flowed west. There was no one living on any of these streams for many miles. This was the point where Mr. Nelson, or Uncle, as I shall call him, hunted for many years.

At the time I am writing of, it had been a noted place for many hunters to stop from all parts of the country. There were almost too many hunters stopping at Cherry Spring to suit Uncle as he was getting pretty well along in years and did not like so much company. I had been camping a greater part of the time for several seasons about five miles north of Cherry Springs and one day Uncle said, if I cared to, he would go on to Crossfork and build a cabin and we would hunt and trap, more particularly trap. This was satisfactory to me although I had a good camp where I was trapping and in a fairly good locality for game, but the Crossfork country was a little farther in the tall timber so I thought that the change might be a good thing.

About the first of October we took a team, went into the woods and cut out a sort of a turkey trail from the wagon road down to Boon Road Hollow to the Hog's Back branch of the Crossfork, where we selected a sight for the camp. We felled a large hemlock tree and cut off four logs of suitable length to make the body of the camp about ten by twelve feet inside. We worked them around in shape fitting the two shorter logs in between the ends of the two longer logs; then placing rafters at about half pitch, put on the covering, chinked and calked all the cracks and built a chimney of stones, sticks and clay and put in a door.

We were now ready for the trap line. We set the bear traps on different ridges where we thought would be the most likely places for bears to travel. Then we put out two lines of deadfalls for marten. We then took the different branches and spring runs, building more deadfalls for mink and coons, setting the greater part of our steel traps for foxes. After all the steel traps but three or four were set, Uncle said that if I would go down the creek and set the balance of the steel traps, he would go and look after the first of the bear traps that we had set. I set the steel traps for foxes and built one or two more deadfalls farther down the creek. I think that I found a mink and one coon in the deadfalls that we had set in that section.

I got to camp about dark but Uncle had not come yet. I hustled supper to have it ready when he came, but when supper was ready I could neither see nor hear anything of him. After waiting some time I concluded to eat and then if he did not come I would go in the direction he had taken as I now suspected that he had gotten a bear and was bringing in what he could carry and that I would meet him and help him in with his load. Before I started out to see if I could find him I gave several long and loud "coohoopes," but got no answer. I concluded I would fire a couple of gunshots and see if I could get an answer, but got no reply save the hoot of an owl.

I now began to feel alarmed, fearing that some misfortune had happened Uncle as he knew every rod of the ground in that section. I had no lantern so I made two good torches from fat pine, having a good supply in camp, and followed the stream until I came to a little draw where we had a bear trap set. This trap had not been disturbed, so I climbed the hill to the top of the ridge when I fired two more gunshots but still got no response. I was now thoroughly alarmed as I knew that a gunshot on the still night air could be heard a long ways from the high ridge I was on.

With the aid of another torch I hurried on to the next bear trap and upon arriving at the second trap I saw that the clog was gone and that there was a trail leading off through the leaves and undergrowth. I now knew that it was something in connection with the bear that was detaining Uncle, but what it was I could not tell.

I followed the trail with the aid of the torch for fifty yards when I came to a fallen tree that lay up about a foot from the ground. Here I found the clog that had been fastened to the trap. I could see that the trap ring had been moved from the clog by the aid of a hatchet. I searched about but could find no signs of the trap nor of the bear and I could no longer follow the trail by the aid of the torch, the last one being now pretty well burned out. There was nothing for me to do but go back to camp and wait until morning.

When I was within a mile or less of camp, I heard the report of a gun in the direction of camp and knew that Uncle had arrived and was firing his gun to let me know that he was in camp. I answered the call by firing my gun and hurried on to camp to see what had detained him.

The bear had gone over the fallen tree while the end of the clog had caught under the log and a weak link in the trap chain had given away, Bruin going off with the trap. Uncle had followed the bear several miles when dark came on. He followed down the stream to where it came in to the branch that the camp was on, and being over a ridge and so far from the camp was the cause of him not hearing the gunshots that I had fired. Uncle followed the bear until dark so as to know about where he was in case a snow should fall to fill up the trail.

It was after midnight when we turned in but we were up in good season the next morning and taking a lunch in our knapsacks and each a blanket, we started for the wind jam to see if we could find the bear. Uncle took me to the bear's trail at the edge of the wind jam where I waited, giving him time to get around on the opposite side of the jam, at a point, where the bear was likely to come out, provided I should start him. I had not followed the trail far into the jam before I came to where the bear had made a bed by breaking down briers and gnawing down saplings, but he did not stay long at this place when he again went on.

I soon came to another such bed and after finding several more, came to one that was fresher than the others. I could see that the bed had been made during the night. I now began to work my way along the trail very cautiously with my gun in hand ready for action and my heart in my mouth for I knew that Bruin would soon be on the move. I worked my way through the jam at a snail's pace and soon heard the rattle of the trap and could see the brush move not more than a hundred feet away.

The undergrowth was so thick that I could get no distinct sight of the bear but fired a shot more to let Uncle know that Bruin was on the move than of any expectation of hitting him. When the gun cracked the bear gave a snort like that of a frightened hog and I could hear him tearing through the brush at a great rate. It was not long until I heard Uncle shoot and in the course of two or three minutes I heard him shoot again and knew that Bruin had given up the trap.

After I had gone along the trail quite a ways, I saw a few drops of blood now and then and when I reached Uncle he was already skinning the bear. We found three holes in the bear. Uncle's second shot which was the finishing shot, hit the bear in the head. The shot that I fired caught Bruin just forward of the hips and undoubtedly would have killed him in time.

We skinned the bear and took the hind quarters, the skin and trap and started for camp. I must say that I think this was the hardest stunt of packing that I remember and every old trapper knows what sort of a job of toting he often runs up against. We went down the run about two miles before coming to the stream that our camp was on, and then we had to go up this stream about four miles to camp. When we reached the stream it was dark; there was no path and there was a great deal of fallen timber and undergrowth along the creek, the creek winding around from one side of the valley to the other. It was a continual fording of the creek, climbing over fallen timber, through undergrowth and what not. You know no one but a trapper would be silly enough to do such a stunt in the dark. We arrived at camp about 9 o'clock, wet, tired and hungry. The next morning Uncle was still a little sore but I was as good as new and ready for another job of the same kind.

Some days later we had a fall of snow of several inches and the second or third day after the snow came we heard a number of gunshots south of the camp on the ridge in the direction that we had a bear trap set. It was near sundown and as we were not aware that there was anyone camping or living in the direction of the gunshots, we concluded it was hunters shooting at deer. The shots were at such long intervals that Uncle said he did not think it was anyone shooting at deer and that the shots sounded like they were right where we had a bear trap set and that he thought hunters had run onto a bear in our trap and were shooting at it. It was then too late to go to the trap. Uncle said we would get up early in the morning for he was sure the gunshots were close in the neighborhood in which our trap was set, and he thought it likely that we had a bear in the trap.

We were on the way before it was fairly daylight but when we came to the place where the trap had been set we found it gone. We followed the trail a short distance when the tracks of three men came onto the trail. The men had stamped and tracked about where they came onto the trail as though they were holding a council and then all started off on the trail of the bear. They did not go far before they came up with the bear where the trap clog had become fast between two saplings. The trap was nowhere to be seen. The men had made many tracks where they killed the bear.

Uncle said it looked as though the men intended to steal the bear trap and all. We saw where the track of a man led off towards a large log and returned. Uncle told me to follow that man's tracks and see what he went out there for, as probably he hid the trap behind the log. I found the trap clog behind the log but there was no trap. It was snowing some at the time the men killed the bear.

When we found that the men had taken the trap and hid the trap clog Uncle exclaimed, "The varmints intend to steal our bear." We followed the trail of the men as fast as we could for we were quite sure they must have stopped over night not far from there for it was nearly dark when they killed the bear. Their trail led down the hillside to the main stream, then down the creek and we hustled after them as fast as we could go. After going down the creek a mile or more we saw a smoke and Uncle said, "There the varmints are," and he was right. We were none too soon as the men were already hitching the horses to the sleigh ready to start off. We could see that the bear was already on the sleigh, although it was covered over with a blanket. The men started at us but did not say a word.

Uncle walked up to the end of the sleigh, caught a corner of the blanket, threw it back and uncovered the bear. Then taking the bear by the foreleg he gave it a flop onto the ground saying, "You have a bear, haven't you," and the bear rolled to the ground and uncovered the trap; Uncle said, "You have a trap, too, haven't you." Not a word did any of the men say and when Uncle asked them who they were and where they lived, one of them said that they did not intend to steal the bear but were going to take it to the first house and leave it for us.

Uncle told them that we did not care to have the bear go in that direction and told the men they must take the bear to our camp and their intentions were to steal the bear and trap and that they had better settle the matter at once. The men were ready to settle and asked what it would cost and Uncle told them if they would take the bear to our camp and then leave the woods and not be caught in that section again, that he would let them go. This they readily consented to do and insisted that we take a part of a cheese they had brought in with them. Uncle told them that we did not care for their cheese or anything else they had -- all that we wanted was that they take the bear to our camp and get out of the woods. This they did and one of them also took the cheese along and left it at the camp. Then they left, begging that we would not say anything farther about the matter.

We learned that the men did not live down the creek but instead lived in New York State. They had come for a few days' deer hunting and had only made a shelter of hemlock boughs. The first day out they ran across the bear and as it was snowing they thought it would snow enough to cover up their tracks and they would take the bear and get back to New York State. Well, they did get back but it happened they left the bear behind.

I would like to ask the old liners who have grown too old on the trail and trap line to follow it longer with profit and pleasure, if they keep bees? I find it a great pleasure to watch these little, industrious and intelligent fellows work.



Chapter V.

Some Early Experiences (Concluded.)

I will state that I began my career as a trapper and hunter at a very early age. The woods extended to the very door of my father's house and deer were more numerous than sheep in the fields at the present day. Bear were also quite plentiful and wolves were to be found in considerable numbers in certain localities. Panthers were much talked of and occasionally one would be killed by some hunter or trapper of which I will speak later.

It was not long before I found my way further up the stream into the woods where mink and coon tracks were in real paths, and here was where father taught me how to make the deadfall, which was the trap principally used in those days.

The guns that father had were one double barrel shotgun and a single barrel rifle, both flintlocks, and with much anxiety I watched those guns and begged of the older members of the family to let me shoot the gun but mother was ever on the watch to see that I was not allowed to handle the guns.

About this time a man moved into the place by the name of Abbott from Schuylkill County, Pa., who brought two guns with him, a double barrel shotgun and a double barrel rifle. After doing some hard begging Mr. Abbott said that I could take the shotgun but that he could not furnish the ammunition. I later thought that Mr. Abbott thought that the problem of getting ammunition would put me up the tree. But again the will was good and I soon found a way. I began to watch the hen's nests pretty close and hide away the eggs and mother began to complain that the hens were not laying as many eggs as usual. Well, three dozen of eggs would get a pound of shot, a fourth of a pound of powder and a box of G. D. gun caps.

I had some fine times out with the gun and I always gave Mr. Abbott whatever game I killed. I did not dare to take it home fearing that I would be compelled to explain how I came by the game. One day I had been out after wild pigeons and had got quite a number or more than I liked to give away and go without ourselves. I thought I would resort to one of those white lies that we have all heard tell of. I told my parents that Mr. Abbott gave me the pigeons but the plan did not work, although it was the making of me so far as a gun is concerned.

When father inquired of Mr. Abbott as to how I got the pigeons it brought out the whole thing as to the gun business and also why the egg basket had not filled up as usual. The result was that father and mother held a council of war and decided that if I was to have a gun the better way was to let me have one of my own. Father told me that I must not borrow a gun any more but take one of our own guns and that he (father) would take the gun to the gunsmith and have the locks changed from a flint lock to a cap lock.

You may be sure that this was the best news that this kid ever heard. I picked up double the usual stone piles that day and went and got the cows without being told a half dozen times.

Well, as every hunter and trapper who is born and not made is always looking for taller timber and trying to get farther and farther from the ting-tong of the cow bells, so it was in my case. I had seen some whelp wolves that friends of ours (Harris and Leroy Lyman, who were noted hunters) had got. They had gone onto the waters of the Sinnemahoning and taken five pup wolves not much larger than kittens, from their den. The puppies were brought out alive but they killed the old mother wolf. On their way home they stopped at our house so that we could see the young wolves.

I heard these hunters tell how they discovered the wolf den; how they had howled in imitation of a wolf to call the old wolves up; how they had shot the old female and had then taken the young wolves from the den; heard them tell of the money that the bounty on wolves would bring them (there was $25 bounty on all wolves then, the same as now). All of this made me long for the day when I would be old enough to do as these noted hunters had done.

I had already found a den of young foxes and had kept five of them alive, which father finally killed all but one because he said they were a nuisance. I had seen some Indians bring a live elk in with ropes, dogs and horses, which they had roped in, after the dogs had brought it to bay, on a large rock on Tombs Run (Waters of Pine Creek).

All this made me hungry for the day that I too could hit the trail and trap line that I might get some of those wolves and with the bounty money buy traps and guns to my satisfaction.

A number of persons at our place (Lymansville) had gone several miles into the woods to the headwaters of the Sinnamahoning and taken up fifty acres of land. An acre or two was cleared off and the timber from this clearing was drawn and put in an immense pile to be used for the camp fire. The camp was simply a shed or leanto, open on one side, and in front of this shed the fire was built of beech and maple logs. Brook trout and game of all kinds were in abundance. Two or three times during the summer a party of six or eight persons would go out to this clearing and camp a week, killing as many deer as they could make use of, jerking a good portion to take home with them and having a general good time feasting on trout, venison and other game, and amusing themselves shooting at marks, pitching quoits, etc. I will add that the main reason they went to this camp was for a good time rather than the game, as game was plentiful right at their homes in those days.

Well, it was at one of these outings that I killed my first bear. I was about thirteen years old, and, of course, in my own mind, it made a mighty hunter of me, not to be compared with Esau of old. It was in June and shortly after we got to camp there was a heavy thunder storm, but it all passed over before sundown, the sun coming out nice and bright. I was determined to go with some of the men to watch a lick (there were three or four licks not far away), but none of the men cared to have my company, and they said it was likely to rain again and made many excuses why I should not go to watch a lick with them. Just before they were ready to start out to the lick we heard a wolf howl away off on the hills and they (the men) put up the wolf scare on me and said that there would be no deer come to the lick so long as wolves were in the neighborhood. I took their stories all in but insisted that I would watch a lick all the same. There was a lick only a few hundred yards from camp, but for some cause deer rarely ever worked it. When they saw that I was going to watch a lick in spite of thunder storms, wolves or all the rest of the excuses that they could make, they finally said that I could watch the lick which I have mentioned and get eaten up by wolves.

There was a blazed line from camp to the lick and when the men started for the licks that each one had decided on watching, I started to the lick that was given me to watch.

There was one man left in camp to watch the horses and to keep camp. This man said that when he heard me shoot he would come up and help me bring in the deer.

The blind at the lick was a scaffold built up in a tree twenty or thirty feet from the ground. I climbed to the scaffold and placed the old gun in the loops that were fastened to limbs on the tree to give the gun the proper range to kill the deer, should one come to the lick after it was too dark to see to shoot.

Nothing came round the lick before dark, but as soon as it got dark I could hear animals walking and jumping on all sides of me and one old inquisitive porcupine came up the tree to see what I was doing. He perched himself on a limb not more than two feet from my face and sat there and chattered his teeth until I could stand it no longer. I took the large powder horn that I had strung over my shoulder with a cord and gave the porcupine a rap on the nose that sent him tumbling down the tree. I remember well how other animals scampered from under the tree when the porcupine tumbled down. At that time I wondered what it all was, but later I learned that all these animals were only flying squirrels, rabbits and porcupines, but I imagined that the noises were made by anything but squirrels and rabbits.

Well, about eleven o'clock I heard something coming towards the lick with a steady tread like that of a man and again I was taken with a chill that caused the scaffold to shake, but the chill only lasted for a moment. Soon I heard the animal step in the soft mud and directly it began to suck the salt from the dirt and I was sure that it was a deer and that it was the right time to pull the trigger, which I did. When the report of the gun died away all that I could hear were the same noises that were made when I knocked the old porcupine from the tree. I now feared that I had pulled the gun on some other animal rather than a deer. I thought the report of the gun would frighten all the deer in the woods, so that no deer would go to the licks the men were watching. I was afraid I would get a terrible scolding by the men who were watching the other licks when they came to camp in the morning.

After waiting some time and hearing no noise of any kind, I concluded to get down and go to camp. Upon getting down from the tree I decided that I would go and look in the lick and see if I could tell what it was that I had heard there and had shot at. As it was so dark that I could not see from the blind, you can imagine my surprise when I got to the lick to see a large buck deer lying broadside as dead as could be.

I immediately lost all fear of being scolded by the other men, so I claimed first blood. I began calling for the man who remained in camp but could get no answer from him so I went down to camp and found him fast asleep. I awakened him and we immediately made a torch and went to the lick and dragged the deer to camp. Then we took out the entrails and bunked down for the rest of the night.

The next thing that I knew, one of the men who had watched a lick not far away was kicking me and saying, "Get out of this, you old deer slayer, you, and get some venison frying for breakfast." We were soon up for the sun was shining brightly and more than an hour high. Soon the other watchers came in and reported that not a sound of a deer had they heard about their licks. Two or three of us (I say "us" because I was now counted as one of them) went to catch trout for breakfast, while the others were at work taking care of the venison and preparing breakfast, boiling coffee, frying venison and trout. And so the day was spent, sleeping, cocking and eating until it was again time to go to the licks, as the men wished to get another deer so as to have plenty of venison to take home with them. When the men were about ready to start to their watching places, one of them inquired of me what I would do as there was no further use of watching the lick where I had killed the deer, as it was blooded from the deer I had killed.

The man who had watched the lick nearest the camp, and quite an old man, said that I could watch the lick that he had watched and he would stay in camp. (The men now acknowledged me as a thoroughbred hunter, you see.) Well, I was getting there pretty lively, I thought, when an old hunter would give up his lick to me, when only the evening before none of the men thought that I was up to watching a lick at any price.

I was pleased to again have a place to watch. Taking some punk wood to make a little smoke to keep off the gnats and mosquitoes, I started for the lick and climbed the Indian ladder to the scaffold, built in a hemlock tree.

I had barely got fixed in shape to begin to watch when I chanced to look towards a small ravine that came down from the hill a few yards to my left and saw what I took to be a black yearling steer. I will add that the woods in that locality were covered with a rank growth of nettles, cow cabbage and other wood's feed, and people would drive their young cattle off into that locality to run during the summer. I thought I would get down from the scaffold and throw stones at it and drive it off lest it might come into the lick after dark and I might take it for a deer and shoot it.

As I started to climb down I again looked in the direction of the steer, and this time I saw what I thought was the largest bear that ever traveled the woods. He had left the ravine and was walking with his head down, going up the hill and past the lick. I cocked both barrels of the gun and raised it carefully to my shoulder, and, breaking a little dry twig I had in my hand caused the bear to stop and turn his head around so as to look down the hill. This was my time so I leveled on his head and shoulders and let go both barrels of the gun at once.

The bear went into the air and then began tumbling and rolling down the hill towards the tree that I was in, bawling and snorting like mad. But if the bear made a howl from pain he was in, it was no comparison to the howl that I made for help and it did not cease until the men in camp came on the run thinking that I had accidentally shot myself. Well, this was my first bear and it was the greatest day of my life.

We took the bear to camp, skinned and dressed it and then went to bunk for the night, but it was very little I slept for I could only think what a mighty hunter I was (in my mind).

The men came in in the morning with no better luck than they had the night before, and they all declared that if I had not been with them they would have had to go without venison.

The men said that we had meat in plenty now and that we would not watch the licks any more that time, so they put in their time jerking the venison and also some of the bear meat. They built a large fire of hemlock bark, and when it was burned down to a bed of coals so that there was no longer any smoke, they made a rack or grate of small poles, laid in crotches driven in the ground, so as to have the grate over the coals, and then laid the slices of venison on this grate and stood green bark about the grate to form a sort of an oven. The strips of meat were first sprinkled with salt and wrapped up in the skin from the deer and allowed to remain wrapped in the skin for a few hours until the salt would strike through the meat so as to make it about right as to salt.

The men remained in camp about a week. They would shoot at a mark, pitch quoits and have jumping contests and other amusements, including fishing, eating trout, venison and bear meat along with toasted bread and coffee and potatoes roasted in the ashes.

* * *

The time had arrived when I thought that I must take to the taller timber to trap and hunt. I searched among the boys of my age, in the neighborhood, for a partner who would go with me to the Big Woods, as the section where I wished to go, was called. I finally found a pard who said he would go with me and stay as long as I cared to.

The middle of October came. We packed our knapsacks with a grub stake, a blanket or two, and taking our guns started for the Big Woods, with a feeling that is not known to those who are not lovers of the wild.

As we only had a limited number of steel traps it was our intention to spend the first week in camp, building deadfalls for coon and mink and use the steel traps for fox. Our intention was to build as many deadfalls as we would be able to attend to before we baited and set any of them. We had built our traps on many of the small brooks and streams to the south and east of the camp, and had built traps on the stream on which the camp was located nearly a mile below camp.

About a mile and a half below camp there was another branch coming in from the north. Pard and I started early one morning to finish the line of traps on the camp stream and then go up the stream that came from the north and build as many traps as we could during the balance of the day. We had finished the line of traps on the camp stream, and had built a trap or two on the other branch, when pard complained of having a bad headache, but refused to go to camp. We built another trap or two, when pard consented to go to camp, if I would build another trap on a little spring run where coon signs were plentiful, which I readily consented to do. When I got the trap done it was nearly sundown.

It was about three miles to camp so I hurried to see how pard was feeling. I had not gone more than a half mile on my way from where pard turned back to go to camp, when I found him lying on the ground. He said that he was feeling so sick that he was unable to go any further and complained that every bone in his body ached.

After explaining to pard the conditions under which we were placed, it was with difficulty that I managed to get him up, and by supporting and half carrying him I managed to get him along a few rods at a time. I could see that he was continually growing worse. After I had helped until we were within about three-quarters of a mile of camp, he begged me to let him lie down and rest. I tried to urge him along by explaining that I must go for a team to get him out of the woods, and that I could not leave him lying there on the damp ground. It was of no use; I could not get him to go any further. While I was somewhat older than pard, he was much the heavier, and I was unable to carry him.

Taking in the situation, there was only one thing for me to do and that was to leave him and go for help. After making him promise that as soon as he rested he would work his way to camp I took off my coat, and put it under him, again making him promise to get to camp, I started for help.

The night was dark and it was miles through the woods to the first house. When I came to camp I stopped long enough to get a bite to eat which I took in my hand. After lighting a fire so if pard did manage to get to camp he would have a good fire, I started for help. Wherever the light would get through the trees enough so that I could see the path, I would take a trot. After the first mile and a half I came to the turnpike road where I could make better time although it was dense woods. After about six or seven miles I reached the first clearing and from there the rest of the way was more or less clearings and I could see the road better and was able to make better time.

I reached pard's home about a mile before I came to my home, rattled at the door and called for pard's father. I told him the condition of his son. He requested me to go to my home and get some of my family to take a team and start back at once after his son; he would go after a doctor and have the doctor there when we got back with the boy. I lost no time in getting started back. We could not get nearer than a mile and a half to the camp, as we were obliged to leave the wagon road at that point, and go down a very steep hill and only a trail cut through the woods. When we reached the camp, contrary to expectations, we found Orlando (that was pard's name) lying in the bunk in camp but he said that he was feeling no better. It was after midnight and we lost no time in getting him on one of the horses and started back to the wagon which we reached with some difficulty. On reaching the wagon we laid him on a straw bed which we had brought for the purpose and got back to his home sometime after daybreak.

The doctor was there and after examining pard said he feared it was a bad case of fever. I waited a few days to see if he would be able to go back to camp and then the doctor told me that he would not be out of bed in two months and advised me to keep out of the woods or I would be brought out on a stretcher. I had my mind on all those deadfalls that we had built and all the coon, mink and fox that we could catch, and was determined to go back to camp notwithstanding our friend's advice to the contrary. After looking around for another partner which I was unable to find as no one wished to go and stay longer than a day or two (what we call summer trappers), I again packed my knapsack and went back to camp. The next morning, after catching a good lot of trout for coon and mink bait, I began the work of setting the hundred or more deadfalls that pard and I had built. As soon as I had all the deadfalls set I hunted up good places to set the traps that we had. I was so busy all the time that there was no chance to get lonesome. Every day there were coon and mink to skin and stretch. Now and then a big, old coon was so strong that he would tear the deadfall to pieces and I would be compelled to build it all over and make it stronger.

What a difference there is now with the many styles of traps and the H-T-T to guide the young hunter and trapper. If I could have had a couple dozen of the No. 1 1/2 Victor traps made as at the present time, I would have been as proud as a small boy with a new pair of boots, although I think what was lacking in modern traps was fully made up by the number of furbearing animals.

I had been so busy during the two weeks I was in camp that I had forgotten the day of the week; neither did I take time to kill a deer or to go up to the road to see if anyone had written, to see if I was dead or alive. There was a stage passed over the road twice a week. I had nailed a box with a good tight lid on a tree by the road so that I could send a line out home for anything I wanted or my family could write to me.

I had two or three traps set for foxes up towards the road along the edge of a laurel patch where there were plenty of rabbits and the foxes worked around to catch rabbits. I thought I would go to the road and be there about the time the stage passed along and see if I could hear anything from pard and the folks at home and then I could tend the traps on my way back to camp.

I was at the road shortly before the stage came along and was surprised as well as delighted to see a neighbor boy by the name of Frank Curtis aboard the stage as he had said he would come over and stay a day or two with me in camp. Frank had not been allowed to spend much time with a gun or traps, but like most boys, he liked a gun. My mother died before I was eleven years old and father allowed me to trap and hunt about as I liked.

When we got down near the traps we set our packs down -- I say we, for my folks had sent me a new supply of provisions -- and went to look after the traps. The first one had a rabbit leg in it and it was plain to be seen that some animal had eaten the rabbit. We reset the trap and went on to the next trap which was set in a little gorge or hollow. A few yards below the trap two large trees had blown down across the little hollow. The tree on the side farthest down the hill from the trap had broken in two where it fell over the hollow and dropped down so that it laid close to the ground while the tree on the upper side, the side nearest the trap, lay a foot from the ground in the hollow.

The trees were two or three feet apart right at the hollow but were close together on one side. When we came to where the trap had been set we found trap and drag gone and nothing in sight. We soon discovered the animal which we supposed was a coon, had gone down the ravine toward the two large trees that had fallen across the hollow. We went to the logs and looked between them. There we could see the clog but the animal was crowded back under the logs so we could see but little of it.

Frank said that he would get between the logs and poke the coon out. I told him that he had better let me go, as I was afraid that he would take a hold of the clog and pull the trap loose from the coon's foot, but Frank grabbed a stick and jumped between the logs. He had hardly struck the ground when he gave a fearful yell and there was a spitting, snarling animal close at his heels. He scrambled out from between the logs, as white as a sheet. I then saw that it was a wildcat and a mad one. I cut a good stout stick and while Frank stood on the bank with his gun, I poked the cat from under the log by punching it, until Frank could see it enough to shoot it. We pulled the cat out from between the logs, took the trap from its foot, reset it and took the cat with our traps and went to camp, declaring in our minds that there was no other such mighty trappers as we.

Frank declared that he was nearly famished with hunger so we had supper and then skinned the cat. We did not sleep much that night as Frank had to tell me all about things at home. He also told me that pard was no better. Every time an owl would hoot, or a rabbit or porcupine or a mouse would make a noise in the leaves, Frank would give me a punch and ask what it was. Frank remained three days in camp and then he took the stage back home, that being as long as his parents would allow him to stay. I went to the road to see him off. When leaving he made many declarations that he would come back to camp, although he never did.

The snow now began to lie on the ground as it fell and it began to get cold at night. Coon did but little traveling and some way, after Frank had been over to camp and stayed those three days, I seemed to get homesick. I had not become expert enough to make a business of deer hunting and marten and bear trapping, so I sprung the deadfalls and took up the few steel traps that I had and began to take my furs and other plunder to the road to take the stage home. After going home I went to school for a few weeks.

I no longer remember how many coon, mink and other furs I caught, but it was quite a bunch for furs were very plentiful in those days.



Chapter VI.

A Hunt on the Kinzua.

Comrades, as I have not been able to trap any for the past two years -- 1905 and 1906 -- and as I have previously served for more than 50 years almost without cessation, along the trap line, I beg to be admitted to your ranks as one of the "Hasbeens."

I will therefore tell of one of my trips on a hunting and trapping expedition in the fall and winter of 1865-6, a party of two besides myself. My two companions' names were Charles Manly and William Howard. We started about the 15th of October for Coudersport with a team of horses and wagon loaded with the greater part of our outfit and went to Emporium, Cameron County, where we hit the Philadelphia and Erie Railroad. The only railroad that touched Northwestern Pennsylvania at that time. Here we took the railroad to Kane, a town in Southwestern McKean County, where we stopped one day and made purchases for three months' camping. We hired a good team here to take our outfit about seven or eight miles on to Kinzua Creek.

Almost the entire distance was through the woods and over the rock. There was no sign of a road only as we went ahead of the team and cut a tree or log here and there. The outfit was lashed onto a bobsled, and as we had bargained with the man to make the trip for a stated price, he did not seem to care whether there was any road or not, so that he got through as quickly as possible.

We reached the stream about noon. The man fed his team some oats, swallowed a few mouthsful himself and was soon on his way back to town, while we began laying plans for our camp. We selected a spot on a little rise of ground near a good spring of water, and where there was plenty of small yellow birch trees handy to cut logs out of for camp. We placed a good sized log down first at the end of the shanty that we intended to build the fire place in. Another was placed at the end that was to be the highest, so to give the right slope to the roof, which was a shed roof. We always kept the large ends of the logs one way, so that when we had the logs rolled up it made the lower or eaves end of the camp about five feet high.

There was a slope of about two feet for the roof. We felled bass wood trees which we split in half, and then dug or scooped them out so as to make a trough. We notched the two end logs down and then placed the scoops or troughs in these notches so that they would lay firm with the hollow side up.

After placing these scoops across the entire width of the shack we then placed another layer of the scoops (reverse) on the first set. That is to say, the rounding side up. This made a very good roof but required a good deal of chinking at the ends to keep the cold out, but as moss was plenty, it was not a long job. The second day after we got into the woods we had the camp in pretty good shape, well chinked and calked.

The third day we worked on the fire place, laying it up to the jam of stone, then we finished the chimney with logs and mud. We had a fairly comfortable camp with but two exceptions. These were, no windows, and for a door we had what I called a "hoghole," that was a door so small that one had to get down on all fours to get in or out. On the fourth day we intended to cut wood all day, and were at it before it was fairly light, but before 10 o'clock it began to snow. In a couple of hours there was a good tracking snow and the boys were bound to go out and see if they could not kill a deer. I tried hard to get them to stick to the wood job, but it was no use, they must go hunting.

There was no partnership business in this hunt. It was every man for himself, and the dogs, take the hindermost. I told the boys I would stay in camp and do something at the wood job.

I had been along the creek a little the day before, poking my nose under the banks and old drifts to see what manner of signs I could see, and I had noticed several mink tracks. The boys had no more than gone when I had a fishing tackle rigged out. It consisted of a line braided from horsehair, out of a horse's tail, and a hook baited with some bits of fat pork. It did the business, for the stream fairly swarmed with trout. Taking three or four trout for bait, I was soon at work building deadfalls. It was not long before I had three or four built close up under the banks and behind logs where I thought the boys would not see them.

I then scampered back to camp and went to cutting wood like a good boy. I had only just got to camp when I heard a gun shot away up the creek, and in about an hour Charley came dragging a yearling deer. Will did not show up for some time after dark, but had nothing, though he said that he had a fair standing shot at a large buck, but his gun snapped on him and he lost.

The next morning we were out at the peep of day, each one going his own way. I went down the creek so that I could take a peep at my traps. None had been disturbed until I came to the last one. There, to my satisfaction, I found a mink. As I had passed a small run that emptied into the main creek I noticed that some animal had gone over a pole that lay across a little run and partly in the water. The animal had brushed the snow off the pole in going over it. I gave it no particular attention, thinking that it was a coon, but when I got the mink I thought I would go back to camp, make a stretching board and stretch the mink skin and get a trap and set at the run for the coon, as I supposed.

I will mention that furs were bringing about the same prices then as at the present time, 1907, a good No. 1 mink being worth about $10.

Near the camp was a large elm tree that was hollow, and the fire had burned a hole out on one side up the tree, nearly as high as a man's head. After I had stretched the mink skin I hung it up in this hollow tree, and it was a very good place to dry the pelts that I caught. The boys never mistrusted that I was doing any trapping for small game.

To get back to my job, I took one out of three steel traps No. 3, and all the traps that we had brought with us. In fact, the other boys did not care to trap. When I got back at the run I gave more attention to the trail of the supposed coon, and discovered that it was an otter. With greater caution I waded up the run until I found a suitable place to set the trap, knowing that he would be back that way again sooner or later.

After setting the trap I climbed the ridge to look for deer and got two shots during the afternoon but missed both. All came to camp that night without killing any deer. I had seen a number of marten tracks during the afternoon. The next morning it was thawing and the boys feared they would lose the tracking snow, so Charley and Will hurried to localities where they expected to find deer. I sliced some strips of venison from the fore-quarters, or rather what was left of the fore-quarters, of the deer Charley had killed the first day out. I made tracks to the ridge where I had seen the marten tracks, and I lost no time in putting up deadfalls at the best pace I was capable of getting into.

In the afternoon on my way to camp I came to the creek some ways below where I had set the mink traps, so I put up two or three more deadfalls for mink. I also found a big flood drift which otter were using for their feeding grounds. I selected places to set the other two steel traps which were in camp, and then went to camp, looking at the mink traps on the way, but found that none had been disturbed.

When I got to camp I found both Charley and Will there, and each had killed a deer. Will had killed a good sized buck close to camp, so he dragged it down to the shanty to dress and hang up. The boys gave me the laugh because I had not killed any deer. I told them to hold their breath and I would get into the harness after a bit. In the morning the snow was all gone and the boys were afraid that it was going to get so warm that their venison would spoil. Cuts were drawn to see which one of them should go to Kane to get a team to take out their venison. It fell on Charley. They tried to have me join in the draw, but I told them that I did not see where I came in as I had no venison to spoil.

The weather kept warm for several days, so I kept building deadfalls on the different ridges for marten and along the creek for mink and coon. Charley and Will continued to still hunt, killing several deer. When the snow came again I had all the traps up I intended to build, but it turned out that later I built two deadfalls for bear. I now put in my time still hunting, shaping my course as much as possible so as to tend to my traps. I killed a deer occasionally as did the other boys. I set the two steel traps on the drift where I had seen the otter signs, and the second time I looked at them I found an otter tangled up in one of the traps.

I was also getting mink, marten and coon now and then, and occasionally I would get two mink or marten in one day. I would cut a long slender withe to stretch the skins over, bending them in the form of a stretching board the best I could and hang the pelts in the old elm tree and kept mum. I remembered the old adage, "he that laughs last, laughs best," and was bound to have the last laugh.

One night Will came in and said that a bear had eaten up the offal where he had dressed a deer. I asked him if he was going to set a trap for him, and he said that he had no trap to set. I told him to build a deadfall. Will said that I could have that job if I wanted it. I told him all right if he would tell me where to find the place. He said that he would go with me in the morning and show me. In the morning I took the best axe, some bait and went with Will to the place where the bear had eaten the offal. We saw that the bear had been back there during the night and cleaned up the remains left the previous night.

I selected a good sized beech tree, where I could fell it so that I could cut a piece from the butt for the bottom piece and have the remainder of the tree come so that I could use a small tree for one of the stakes or posts. When I pulled off my coat and began chopping on the tree Will gave me the laugh again, and said that I had more days' work in me than brains, or something to that effect.

It was my intention to get the trap all ready and then get one of the boys to help me set it. I got the trap done and saw that by using a long lever or pry I could set the trap without the aid of another. With the pry I raised the dead piece up as high as I wanted it. Then tied the lever to a sapling to hold the dead log in place, using the figure four trigger. I placed a bit of log in the bait pen to rest the bait spindle on. I then placed the trigger in place and pressed them between the logs to steady them until I could release the lever and let the weight onto the trigger. I then put some poles onto the dead log to make doubly sure that I had weight enough to kill any bear that traveled those woods. I now went to camp giving myself credit of doing a good job.

When the boys came in the night of the day I built the first deadfall for bear, they both reported seeing bear tracks and they said the tracks all seemed to be going south. I told the boys that the bear were looking up winter quarters, and that if we would all go at it and put up several deadfalls we would stand a fair chance to get a bear or two, but it was no go.

They said they would give me a clean title to all the bear I could catch, but they did not care to invest. So I took the axe and some bait and went to the head of a small draft where the boys had seen the bear tracks. I found at the head of this hollow what seemed to be a bear runway or crossing, for three or four bears had passed around the head of this basin in the past few days.

With some hard work and heavy lifting I got another good deadfall built that day. The next day I went the rounds of the marten and mink traps, and I think I killed a deer and got two marten. I remember that at this time we had a good snow to hunt on, and that it was not an uncommon thing for us to cut wood for the camp long after dark, and sometimes it was pretty scant at that. I think it was the third day after I had set the first bear trap when Will came in, shortly after Charley and I had got to camp, and as he stuck his head through the hoghole (as I called the substitute for a door) he says, a fool for luck.

I suspicioned what was coming and said, "Well, what kind of luck have you had?"

Will said, "It is not me that has had the luck, but you have got one of the Jed-blasted bears up there in that rigging you built, you ever see."

I remember that I had some kind of a hipo that night, so that I would laugh every now and then "kindy" all by myself. I do not think that I slept much that night, though it was not the first bear I had ever caught. I thought it was beginning to look as though the laugh was coming my way all right.

In the morning the boys went to the trap with me and helped get the bear out of the trap and helped set the trap again, and then went on with their deer hunting. I went to skinning the bear, and it was all I did that day to skin that bear and stretch the skin on the shanty. I told the boys when they came in that night that I thought we were going to have a hard winter, and so I concluded to weatherboard the camp with bear skins. The carcass of the bear was, of course, a complete loss, and that is a serious objection to the deadfall as a bear trap.

I think that it was about this time that Will met with an accident in his foot gear, so he went out to Kane after a pair of gum shoes. At this time we had several deer so thought it best to have the team come in and take them out and ship them.

When Will came back that evening he said that some kind of an animal had crossed the path about one-half mile from camp, dragging something. He said that he could not make up his mind what it was, but thought it was some kind of an animal in a trap, but we knew of no one trapping in that locality.

I did not know but it might be possible that some animal had gotten in one of my otter traps and had broken the chain and gone off with the trap. Early in the morning I went down the creek to look at the traps and see if they were all right. When I came to the Spring Run I saw that my otter (or at least I called it my otter), had again gone up the run, on his usual round of travel. When I came to where the trap was it wasn't there at all.

I had fastened the trap to a root that was two or three inches under water and a root that I supposed sound. I was mistaken, for the root was pretty doty and the otter had broken the root and gone with my trap. I lost no time in taking up the chase. The trail led up this run to its source, then over a spur of ridge and down the hill again into a branch of the main stream, then up this branch for a distance of a mile or more, where I came up with him.

He had gone under the roots of a large hemlock tree, and it took me two or three hours to get him out with nothing to work with only my belt axe and a sharpened stake. It was nearly night when I got to camp. I made a stretching board from a spault I split out of a basswood log and stretched the otter skin, and put in the balance of the day in chopping wood. One of the boys killed three deer that day. I do not remember which one it was.

The next day I made the rounds of nearly all the traps and got what I have many a time before -- nothing. I put in three or four days still hunting and had the luck to kill a deer or two, but Charley and Will killed more than I did. I remember, during this time, they were all the time joking me because they were getting more deer than I did. I claimed that they had the best grounds to hunt on, they hunting east of the camp and up nearer the head of the stream, while I hunted west of the camp.

We would see bear tracks nearly every day, and Will and Charley would try to get around in their hunting course so as to look at the two bear traps, the traps being in the direction in which they hunted. They found the traps undisturbed. I had about made up my mind that I would get no more bear that trip. I was getting a marten, mink or coon now and then, so that I kept a stiff upper lip if the boys did kill a few deer more than I did. Finally one night when I came to camp I found the carcass of a bear, skin and all lying at the shanty door. I thought it was one that either Charley or Will had killed. I found that the boys by chance had met near one of the bear traps, and going to the trap found the bear. As it was a small one they took it out, set the trap and brought the bear to camp.

It was now getting along in December and the snow was getting rather deep and the weather was pretty cold and the game did not move about very much. We all seemed to get a little lazy, and did not get out till after noon. In fact, some days, if the weather was pretty sharp, we did not go out at all but would stay in camp and talk of the hunt and tell where we thought we could find a bunch of deer over in this basin or on that ridge.

The most of the deadfalls set I had not covered so to keep the snow off. A good many of them had snowed under, so I did not care how soon we broke camp and went home. Deer were quite plentiful, and we could find them nearly every day, when we would get a move on, so we continued to stay day after day, and putting in about one-half the time hunting and the other half telling what we would have done if there had not been so many "ifs" in the way.

I would usually shape my course in hunting so as to come around where some of the deadfalls were and spring them. One day I came to one that was pretty well snowed under. I saw that a fox had done a good deal of traveling around the trap and had dug in the snow some about where I thought a marten would be, providing one was there. I kicked the snow away, and to my delight and surprise I found as good a marten as I had caught. I thanked the fox for the favor. I examined all the traps then to make sure that there was nothing in them, but I found no more marten.

We now began to get our venison into camp, taking turns to help each other. I do not just remember how many deer we killed, but I think that Charley and Will killed 15 or 16 apiece, and I killed either 11 or 12.

The boys said I had done pretty well considering the two bear and otter, but when I went to the old elm and brought out the marten, mink and another otter and five or six coon, the boys looked greatly amazed and Will said, "I knew the fool was doing something besides hunting," Charley said he thought he could smell something that smelled like mink around the camp three or four times. I think I got 13 marten, 8 mink, 5 coon, 2 otter and 2 bears. As near as I can remember, I got a little over a hundred dollars for the fur. I do not remember what we got for the venison, but it was war prices. We shipped our venison to George Herbermann, New York.

I tried to have the boys help cut a lot of wood for the next season's hunt, but they said they were not counting chickens as far ahead as that. They hit it right, for neither of them hunted in there. I think Charley hunted on Hunt's Run in Cameron County, and I do not know whether Will hunted at all the next season, but I took a partner and went back on the Kinzua.

This time we were in "swacks," and I will try to tell what luck we had some time, but one thing we did was to put a window in the camp and make the door large enough so that one did not have to get down on all fours to get in or out. Will and I stayed in camp while Charley went out to Kane and sent in the team to take out the venison and the furs and the camp outfit. We got home for Christmas and found all well.



Chapter VII.

My Last Hunt on the Kinzua.

As this hunt was about 1868, before there were railroads in this section, we went to Emporium, Cameron County, Pennsylvania, and there took the train to Kane, in McKean County, then by team and bobsled route to camp. This making the journey much farther, we concluded to go by wagon the entire distance, which would shorten the distance nearly one-half.

This time conditions were different than on previous occasion. While there were three in the party before and every one hunted on his own hook, this time I had a partner and we were to share alike in profit and loss. My partner's name was William Earl, and he had recently moved from Vermont, or, as he would jokingly say, from "Varmount." He was somewhat older than myself, and a man who was ever ready to carry his end of the load at all times.

We hired a team and took a full line of grub and the camp outfit, with about sixty small traps and eight bear traps. We went by way of Port Allegheny, Devils Blow and Smithport, taking three days to get to camp, as we had to cut out the road a good part of the distance of the last day's travel. They had just begun to operate in the oil industry in the neighborhood of what is now the city of Bradford, and as they used wood altogether for fuel to drill with, there was a great deal of wood being cut for the purpose. Bill, as my partner was familiarly called, used to say that if we could not get fat on venison and bear meat we would take a wood job, but we found plenty to do without the wood job.

On reaching the camp the first thing noticeable was that the old hollow elm that I had used for a dryhouse to hang up skins in, had met with foul play, for it lay on the ground, having blown down. This made it necessary to build a sort of leanto against one side of the shanty to hang up our furs, as we did not like to have them hung up in the shanty where they would get more or less smoked.

But the first thing we did was to enlarge the door, for it will be remembered that we were obliged to get down on all fours in order to get in or out of the shanty. As we had a good crosscut saw, it did not take long to enlarge the doorway so that one could go in standing up, man fashion. We next cut a window-hole large enough to take a single sash window. Then we replaced the chinkings that the porcupines had gnawed out, calked and mudded all cracks. When this was done, Bill looked it over and said, "By gum, don't it look like living?"

As it was only about the middle of October we went to work at once on a good supply of wood for the camp. We did not quit until we were sure that we had plenty to last the winter, for we intended to stay as long as it was either profitable or a pleasure. After the wood was cut and piled up near the shanty door, we next set the bear traps, as we had brought bait for the purpose.

After the bear traps were set we next looked over the deadfalls that I had built for marten the fall before, putting in a new stake where necessary. We also set crotches and laid poles on them, then covering with hemlock boughs to keep the snow from falling directly on the trap. We fixed up the two deadfalls I had made for bear, as we wished to get all the bear traps out that we could, as we had already seen several signs.

We also built a number more deadfalls for marten on different ridges farther up the stream where I had not set any the fall before. We built a number of deadfalls along the streams for mink and coon. It was now getting well along towards the last days of October, so we put in a couple of days hunting deer, as we had to have bait to set our marten and other traps with.

The first day's hunting we did not get a deer, though we each got a running shot but missed. The second day I did not see any deer but Bill killed a good sized buck before noon. We now began setting the traps that we had built. Bill baiting and setting the deadfalls, while I commenced on the steel traps. We had not baited and set any of the deadfalls that we had built up to this time. The steel traps we set for fox and wildcats, as there was a bounty of two dollars on wildcats at that time.

In setting out the fox traps the knowledge that I had got of the locality was of much benefit to me. I had kept a watch out for warm springs and other good likely places to catch a fox or other animals. After we had all the deadfalls and steel traps out but three or four otter traps, we set one or two at the drift where I caught one the fall before. The others we set where we found otter signs.

While setting the traps we got a marten or two, as well as one or two mink and coon. We had had one or two little flurries of snow, but we did not leave the traps to hunt deer. Now that the traps were all set, we divided up the trap lines as best we could for each one to attend to while hunting deer. In dividing up the lines in this way we saved much time, as we would not both be working the same territory.

Now business began to get quite lively, and we were seldom in camp until after dark, and we were up early and had breakfast over and our lunch packed in our knapsacks. The lunch usually consisted of a good big hunk of boiled venison and a couple of doughnuts and a few crackers, occasionally the breast of a partridge, fried in coon or bear oil. Sometimes the lunch would freeze in the knapsacks and it would be necessary to gather a little paper bark from a yellow birch and a little rosin from a hemlock, black birch or hard maple tree and build a little fire to thaw the lunch. This, however, was quickly done, and was a pleasure rather than a hardship. I have delighted in eating the lunch in this manner for many a winter on the trap line or trail, as have many other hunters and trappers.

Bill and I always had our lunch packed and ready to take up the trail at the first peep of day. Sometimes when we would get in late, tired and wet and our clothes frozen, I would suggest to Bill that we shut up camp and take a wood job, just to see what Bill would have to say. He would say that there would be time to take a wood job in the spring or after he had killed a certain large buck which is usually called "Old Golden." There were but a few days but what we either caught some fur or killed a deer, though sometimes we would have a bad streak of luck by wounding a deer, or having some animal take a foot off and escape, but this would make us all the more eager to follow the trail or trap line.

As we had gotten by this time several deer and had caught three bear (one in one of the deadfalls that I had built the fall before, that Will Howard called that "dashed dinged riggin'," when he found the bear in it) we wanted to get them out to Kane, that being the nearest point to a railroad. We started early one morning, Bill taking an axe and I carrying the saw, so that if we found any large trees across the trail that we had cut out the year before we would have the saw to do it with.

After carrying the saw some distance and not finding any trees of much size across the road, we left it and only took the axe. We found but very little in the trail to cut out.

We got to Kane in time to engage a man with team to come to camp the next day and take out the venison and bear and bring in some necessary commissaries that we were getting short of. It was only a few days after this that I found that a bear got in one of the traps. The trap chain having a swivel that was pretty well worn, broke, and the bear went off with the trap. I followed the trail until the middle of the afternoon, when I became satisfied that Bruin was disgusted with that locality, as he had continued his course nearly due east without a stop. I could see no signs that led me to think that Bruin intended to stop for the next fifty miles.

So I gave up the chase and went to camp, getting there long after all good boys should have been in bed. Bill was up and out at the door listening if he could hear a gun shot or anything to indicate what had become of me. We held a council of war before going to bed, and decided to give Bruin another day's rest or travel, as he saw fit to do, before we started on the trail. We would go to all the traps that had not been tended to in the past three or four days and then take up the trail of Bruin and follow him to the end of his trail, no matter how long the trail might be.

There was but little danger of the trail becoming snowed under or lost, as there was nearly a foot of snow on the ground, and the trap would make a broad trail in the snow, which was quite easily followed. The next day, as intended, we put in a full day attending the traps and got some fur, but I do not remember just what. We started out on the trail of Bruin with a three days' ration of the usual lunch, boiled venison, ham, doughnuts and biscuits.

After following the trail about two hours from the place where I had left it, we came onto a man's track that had taken the trail of our bear. This roiled the temper of the Vermonter somewhat, and if I did not say anything, I had a mighty think on. But we had no cause for alarm at this time. The man after following the trail for a mile or two gave up the chase as a bad job, I guess. He stood and stamped about for some time (we judged by the tracks he had made) and then started back nearly in the same course that he had come.

We followed on until dark when we came to a wagon road. Apparently several persons had seen the bear trail, for there was a beaten path for a few yards on either side of the road. We knew nothing about the road or where it went, but finally concluded to take the road leading south for a little ways. If we saw no signs of habitation then we would camp, as that was what we expected to be compelled to do when starting from camp and each had taken a blanket for the purpose.

We had not gone far when a man with a sleigh overtook us, and we learned that we were about one and a half miles from what was called Bunker Hill. The man gave us a ride. We went to a boarding house and stayed over night, rather than camping on Bruin's trail, though we got plenty of camping on the trail of Bruin before this hunt was at an end.

The next morning we were out early and had breakfast at 6 o'clock and started for the trail which we reached before daylight. We had gone a little way when we heard voices coming along the road. We listened a moment and saw that it was a party of three men who had come to take the bear's trail. We waited until they came up to us and one man said, "What in blazes are you fellows doing on this bear's track?" Bill replied rather sharp, "That's our business, but what are you here for?" Then they said that one of the men had seen the track the evening before and as there was no one after it, they had come out to follow up the track and kill the bear. They insisted on going after the bear but after some talk we convinced them that we did not need any help and they turned back.

We took up the trail and followed it pretty lively for a time, as we did not know but those men would cut around and take the trail ahead of us, though they did not do so. We were now on the waters of Potato Creek and there was a good deal of laurel and here we found the first place that Bruin had stopped and made a bed.

It is usually the case that a bear that has a trap on his foot will not travel any great distance before they stop and make a bed and then move a short distance and make another bed. Bruin now began to act more natural, to his family. We began to think that we would soon come to fresh signs at least, but were disappointed for we did not follow the trail far, after we came onto his bed before two men's tracks fell in and took up the trail.

After following for some time on the trail of the men and bear, we came to where the bear had made another stop and we could see that the bear's track was much fresher showing that it had stopped some time. We expected that the men would divide here, one taking the trail while the other worked on the side, but both men continued on the same trail. After following the trail for three or four hundred yards farther, we came onto another bed and this time the bear went out on the jump and Bill said some cuss words about the men. It is possible that I did too.

The trail here turned north. This took us into a section more thickly settled and hunters more numerous. The greater part of the time there was from one to two men on the trail ahead of us and all that was left for us to do was to follow on as fast as we could. The second night we were on the head of Salt Run and we followed the trail till dark. We now had the bear trail to follow instead of the men as all the men had left to go to their camps or homes. Bill said that we would sleep "dash-dang" close to the trail after this, so we soon found a large log to build a fire against. First we would build the fire out a few feet from the log after scraping the snow away. Then we would throw a few hemlock boughs over a pole laid in crotches and then move the fire down against the log, throw a few boughs on the ground where the fire had been moved from and the camp was complete in a very few minutes.

We now began to fear that some one would get in ahead of us and kill the bear and we would lose bear, trap and all. Bill said that we would follow so "dash-darn" close that we would be up in time to attend the funeral. We were so close up that we were no longer bothered only a little while at a time as we would soon overtook any one who hit the trail ahead of us and followed it.

The bear again turned east which took us across the road which runs from Coudersport to Emporium in Cameron County. We were now back in Potter County and only 15 miles from home. Bruin here turned south and true to his nature, led us through all the windfalls and laurel patches to be found and occasionally would break down a few laurel and act as though he intended to camp for a time but apparently would change his mind and go on again.

We were now on the waters of the Conley and night was fast coming on. The trail led across a little bog and we were looking for water and a suitable place to camp, when Bill called my attention to a man standing on the trail watching us. When we came to him it proved to be a neighbor of ours. Mr. Ephraim Reed, who was hunting in there and said that his camp was only a little way down the hollow and asked us to go down and stay over night. We were glad to do so. Mr. Reed said that there were a good many hunters in that locality so we were up and on the trail before it was fairly light.

We were in a section where there was a great deal of laurel and Bruin continued to make camps but as often would change his mind and move on and Bill thought he had concluded to go to the can brake in Virginia. Often when he would go into a wind jam or laurel thicket, we would separate, one taking a circuit on one side of the thicket, the other on the other side, meeting on the opposite side from where the trail had entered but we would always find that Bruin was still on the go. We were in a locality where there were apparently a good many deer and we saw signs of marten quite often.

We were now on the head waters of Hunts Run in Cameron county and we decided to make that section our next hunting ground. While the trail would wind about some, yet bruin's general course was south. Often when bruin would vary considerably from his general course and go into a thicket or wind jam, we would feel sure that this time we would find him napping, but we were disappointed each time. Once when we were circling one of these thickets, I drove a deer out and it ran to Bill who gave him his finish. We were near a lumber camp and sold it for ten dollars and our night's lodging and some grub. We were now getting pretty well down to the railroad near Sterling Run. We were sure that bruin was going to cross the railroad so we left the trail and went down to the railroad and followed along the road until we came to the trail.

The bear had crossed the road during the night and no one had noticed the trail. Here I suggested to Bill that we take a train to Kane and go to camp and go out and take a wood job, but Bill thought that we had about all the job on our hands that we were able to attend to. He was right, for as near as I can remember, the trail led us nearly a half day's tramp before bruin made a stop. The foot that the trap was on began to bleed considerably. We began to fear that the foot would come off and bruin relieved of the trap would escape after all.

We now had some more help, two men took the trail ahead of us following it until nearly dark when they apparently held a council of war, judging from the way they tracked about where they left the trail. We were now in a pine slashing and concluded to camp on the trail, though we knew that we were not far from a lumber camp as we could hear men chopping and driving oxen. We were lucky in finding a good place to camp and water close at hand. As we had a small tin pail with us and coffee, we made a pail of coffee and ate our lunch and fixed our bunk, then we sat down before the fire for a time and talked over what we thought we might do the next day. Then we rolled up in our blankets and it was time to get the coffee boiling again before we were hardly aware that we had been asleep.

Bruin now began to act more like a sensible bear and would zigzag about from one thicket to another. We now got close enough to him so that we heard him in the brush several times. Bill said that he thought that bruin was about to make up his mind to let us take off that handcuff. He proved to be right, for it was not long before bruin's trail led down onto the side of a steep ravine. The sides were not more than one hundred yards apart and were quite clear (only for the piles of pine tree tops) from fallen trees, that had been taken out for logs.

We were standing a little way down the side of the ravine, laying plans as to our next move, as we had come to the conclusion that bruin had either turned down along the side of the ravine or had gone into camp. We had planned that one would go up around the head of the ravine while the other waited on the trail until the one that went around should get on the opposite side. While still laying plans, we saw bruin come out on the opposite side and began to climb the hill.

We had followed the bear for six days and this was the first time that we had seen his lordship. He would go a few steps and stop and look back. We watched our opportunity and when he made a stop, we both fired. Bruin made a jump or two up the hill then tumbled back down again and the fun had ended. We took the entrails out and left him lying across a log and went down the ravine to where there was a lumber camp and there we found that we were on Dent's Run, a branch of Bennet's Branch and in Elk county.

This was the fourth county we had been in since we had taken the bear's trail. They told us at the lumber camp that there would be three or four teams go down to the railroad station at Driftwood the next morning with spars which they were hauling to the river to raft. We got a man with a yoke of oxen and a bobsled to go with us and get the bear and the next morning about 5 o'clock we got the bear strapped onto one of the spars and started down the stream to the railroad and we shipped it, without removing the skin, to New York, where we got either $26 or $28 for it.

We took the train to Kane where we stayed over night. The next morning we went to camp and found all well with one exception, that being, that the shanty was swarming with "deer mice" and a porcupine had tried hard to gnaw his way through the door. The following day we stayed in camp and rested before starting out to see what would turn up the next day.

We first looked at the bear traps, tending what small traps came in on the way. On going the rounds of the bear traps, we found them all undisturbed except one, which might better have been as it only had a porcupine in it and we did not see any signs of bear. We began to think of taking up the bear traps as we thought that bruin had gone into winter quarters. We did not get around to take them up for several days, being busy tending the smaller traps.

It was now getting along into December and the snow was quite deep. We concluded to put in the time hunting deer as we wished to get all we could, to send out with the team, when we had it come in, as it did not cost any more to take out a full load than half a load. The law closed on deer the first of January, although allowing the hunters 15 days to dispose of his venison after it was unlawful to kill deer. We hustled from early morning until long after dark, when we would get to camp and there was hardly a day that we did not kill at least one deer and some days two or three between us.

I will tell of a little scrape I had one day with a yearling buck that I thought to be dead. I was following the trail of three or four deer along the side of a ridge, expecting every moment to catch them feeding, when I heard a noise behind me and looking back, I saw this little buck coming full tilt right towards me. The deer saw me about as soon as I did him and wheeled to run back when I fired and he went down. I set my gun against a tree and started to cut the deer's throat. I took the deer by the ear and straightened his back. About this time that dead deer began to get pretty lively and was trying to get on his feet and as I could not reach my gun, threw myself onto him, thinking to hold him down.

Well I held him about as long as lightning would stay on a limb. When I got through gazing at the hole in the brush where I last saw him, I found that I was sadly in need of a new pair of trousers and vest, as well as a jack knife. I searched a long time in hopes of finding the knife, but did not. I had another knife at camp and after about a two hour's job with needle and thread, I managed to get the trousers so that they were passable in a pinch and all the time that I was repairing the trousers, Bill sat there laughing at me. Now this was the first time that I had supposed dead deer come to life and give me the go-by, though it was not the last time.

I had given him what is called a fine shot, that is I had shot him just across the back and the ball had struck one of the joints or knuckles of the backbone as it proved. I had the satisfaction of killing the same deer two or three days later or at least we thought it was the same one. We had three or four days of mild weather and as we had not been the rounds of the traps for several days, only tending those that came handy while hunting deer, we thought we would reverse the plan and go over all the traps and pay but little attention to deer hunting unless we struck a hot trail. We thought we would take in those traps first in the direction where the bear traps were and go to the traps farthest from camp and bring in some of the traps. We did not expect to get any more bear as it was too late in the season for bear to travel until they had their winter's sleep.

We were in luck this time for as we had usually tended the bear traps, the one that we went to first would have been the last trap to come to. When we came in sight of where the trap was set we saw that there had been a bear dance going on. As the snow was several inches deep, we saw at a glance which way the bear had gone and we only had to step to the brow of the ridge and look down the hillside a little way to see bruin fast among some small saplings. He was rolling and tumbling about trying to release himself.

He looked like a great black ball as he rolled about. We lost no time in putting him out of his trouble. We skinned the fore parts and hung them up in a sapling to use for bait for fox and marten and took the saddles to camp, skinned them out and stretched the skin on the shanty. Later we shipped the saddles to market.

The next day we looked at the balance of the bear traps but found them undisturbed but we concluded to leave them set a few days longer. On going the rounds of the smaller traps, we got a fox or two also a marten or two, but as I remember it, we got no mink or otter at this time. We now had the traps all looked after, so we put in the time hunting deer as the time for deer hunting was soon to close. The weather had turned and frozen so that it had formed a sharp crust and we were compelled to use the driving method of hunting. One of us would stand on the runways, in the beds of basins and in low places on the ridges while the other would follow the trail and drive the deer through to the hunter. I wish to say right here, that I do not like this way of hunting deer but little better than I do of hounding and running deer with dogs. The dog is all right but I want no dogging of deer for me.

We would get a deer nearly every day. It was now the first of January and time to get our venison to camp or out to the road where we could pick them up on the way out to Kane. After we had gathered up the venison and had gone the rounds of the traps that had not been tended while hunting, we went to Kane. Here we engaged a team to come in after the venison and bear and bring in a grub stake to last us until the middle of March when we would break camp and go home. We both went back to Kane with the team to assist in getting over some of the rough places and see that our venison and bear meat was tagged and shipped all right. Then we came back to camp to put our entire time in tending to the traps which we did to good advantage. We had found other good warm springs while hunting, and some that we thought were lasting springs, had gone dry or had frozen up, so we shifted a good many of the traps to the other springs.

Then we took it a little easier only going the rounds of the traps as we considered it necessary and on such days as the weather was favorable. We waited for February when we knew that the old dog coon would begin his rounds of calling on his friends.

We managed to pass the time away fairly well as we would get a fox, mink, marten or something nearly every day so that we busied ourselves. About the middle of February we had several warm days and the time had now come for us to get busy and we were out as soon as it was light. We would follow up all the spring runs until we found the trail of a coon, then follow it up until it went into a tree. Sometimes it bothered us which tree to cut down for the coon would go from one tree to another so that it was hard to tell which was the tree that was the home of the coon (some call it a den). One day we chopped down a great large oak, three or four feet in diameter and nearly sound all the way through and nary a coon to be found. I asked Bill why he did not say cuss words and he said he thought we had spent enough wind in chopping the tree down, without wasting any unnecessarily.

Well, as I said, the coon had been up and down so many trees that we did not know which one was the most likely one. We went to a large basswood tree that had only one track going to it and one away from it but when we pounded on it with the axe, we saw that it was very hollow. I suggested to Bill that we chop it down. Bill thought there were no coon in it and I had but little faith myself but I told him that as he had been wanting a wood job, here was his opportunity and Bill agreed with me, so we laid off our coats and went to chopping. The tree was only a shell. We soon had it down and to our surprise, coon began to run in all directions. Not having had much hopes of finding any coon in the tree we had not prepared ourselves with clubs to kill the coon. We used the axe handle as best we could but one coon got away and went into a hollow stump which we had to cut down. We got five coon. We then took up the trail of the coon that left the tree and after following it about a mile it went into a large hemlock tree that had a hole in it close to the roots. Pounding on it we discovered that it was hollow.

There had been several coon tracks both out and into the tree. We circled around some distance from the tree and found no tracks leading away from the tree farther than a small spring a few rods away. As it was getting well on towards night we did not fell the tree but went back to the old basswood where we had left the coons and took them and went to camp. Bill said that he had a dash-dang sight rather chop wood than to tote those three coons. I carried two and told Bill not to complain and I would let him skin all of them when we got to camp. He said, "Oh, you are a clever jade, aint you?" We skinned the coon that evening but did not stretch the skin until the next afternoon after we had gone out and cut the hemlock and got three more.

We kept up this coon hunt as long as we could find any tracks. It was now getting along into March and we had written home for a team to come in and take our camp outfit and furs out. As we had not been out over the road through the woods, the way we came in, we made a trip out to the main wagon road so that the man who came after us would have no trouble in following the trail to the camp. We now began to spring all the deadfalls that we had set for marten, mink and coon and take up all of the steel traps as we had written to the man to be there about the fifteenth of the month. I think it was a day or two later when the team came and our hunt on the Kinzua was ended.

We got some thirty odd deer and either five or six bear and I think four otter. I do not remember the number of fox, mink, marten and coon, but we did well for there had been but very little trapping done in that locality at that time and furbearing animals were quite plentiful. I have never been back to that camp since. I gave the camp to a man by the name of Ball.



Chapter VIII.

Fred and the Old Trapper.

Yes, Fred, you can go with me to attend my traps, come down early as I wish to start at 5 o'clock." Fred was on hand next morning at the appointed hour. We leave the road here and go up this stream; this will take us to several traps and also to camp.

"Are these woods very large?"

"Yes, Fred. It is about fourteen miles either way through them."

"Does any one live in them?"

"No one only the lumberman. Well, Fred, here is the first trap."

"I don't see any trap."

"No, but it is there, just in front of that little stone pen; the bait is in the pen."

"Why don't you take that bush away?"

"Oh! that is part of the knack in trapping; see that is just far enough from the pen to let the animal pass through."

"Oh! I see, and it will step in the trap in going through!"

"That is it, exactly."

"Won't the water take the brush away?"

"Yes, if it gets too high, but you will see that I have put some heavy stones on the limbs that are down in the water; you also see that I turn the water above the trap by throwing up a few stones; this is done to keep the water so that it just covers the traps. You see that bunch of leaves that are a little higher than the rest of the leaves -- the pan of the trap is just under those leaves."

"Did that moss grow on the stone pen?"

"No, I put it there to make the pen look old; you see a fox can easily step on that bunch of dry leaves that are on the pan of the trap from the bank. A fox does not like new things. You see this trap is set for mink, coon or fox, whichever may happen along."

"What is the trap fastened to?"

"See that limb that has moss all grown over it. The trap is stapled to it."

"Can't a fox or coon drag it away?"

"Yes, but not far. See the chain is stapled about the middle of the limb, and the animal would not go far before it got fast.

"Fred, you get that rabbit out of the knapsack that we took out of the snare, and we will put some fresh bait in the pen for this is getting too stale; mink and coon do not like rotten meat. Cut it into several pieces so that the animal can not get it all at once. There, that is all right, and let us hurry on to the next trap. Here it is and a mink in it and drowned."

"Where is the pen? I do not see it."

"We do not always have a pen. You see that notch in that log where the water runs over? That is where the trap was set. See this hay wire that is fastened to the trap chain and which is fastened to that stone out in the deep water? The mink could not go toward the bank so it went into the deep water and was drowned."

"Why did you set a double spring trap here?"

"Well, Fred, an otter might happen along and that is just the place to catch it. You see above the log I have fixed to gage the water as at the other trap. I do this so the water will not wash the covering from the trap, or get so deep over the trap that the animal will not spring it when going over it." "I see that you have got those brush on either side of the trap with just enough space for the animal to pass through over the trap." "That is correct, you are catching on, Fred, all right."

"Don't you use bait where you set a trap in this way?"

"Not often; sometimes I fasten a fish with a horse-hair with a hook fast to it so that you can hook it to the lower jaw and fasten it in the water just above the trap; water keeps it moving and attracts the animal. We have got this trap set all right and will now move on to the next. We will take the mink to the next trap before skinning it."

"What is that over yonder on the other side of the creek?"

"That is a coon and it is in a trap. Fred, you take my cane and kill it while I fix up the bait pen, for it has torn things up as bad as a bear would."

"Why did you not use stones to build this pen?"

"Old chunks are just as good and much handier to get, and there was plenty of moss on the old logs near to cover it with."

"Why do you not use old bushy limbs here?"

"You see this trap sets in the mouth of a small spring run; we will cut some little twigs and stick them up in the ground, in place of the brush, to make the runway, as we call it. We will now skin the mink. Rip straight down the hind leg from the heel to the vent. Now lay the knife down and start the skin loose on the legs with the thumb and finger; work the skin down the leg to the root of the tail then take knife and cut the skin loose around the vent working the skin free around the roots of tail until you can get your fingers of the left hand around the tail bone. Now with the right hand near the body of the mink pulling with the right and you will strip the tail clean from the bone. With the knife make a slit on either fore leg about one inch from the heel and around the leg. You are now ready to strip the skin down the body to the fore legs and with the thumb and finger work the leg out. Strip the skin down to the ears and with the knife cut the ears close to the head, continue to strip the skin down to the eyes, cut around the eyes close to the bone and use the knife on down to the end of nose. That was a short job. Now we will put this mink carcass in the back end of the pen and cut the balance of the rabbit up and put it in the pen back about six inches from the trap."

"Don't you use any scent; I have heard people say that you use some kind of scent?"

"I use none, only of the animal itself. It did not take long to take the pelt off that coon; we will strip some of that fat from the carcass and do it up in the skin and put it in the knapsack; hang the carcass up on that sapling. We must be moving now. Our next trap is a bear trap; it sets up in that little sag you see and in a spring that comes out of the side of the hill. I like to set traps in those springs for they never freeze up and the bait keeps much longer. No, there is nothing in it, I can see the clog there all right. Yes, there is something in it; it is a coon and it is dead. Look, there is a fox in a trap."

"Where was the trap set, I do not see any bait pen?"

"Fred, you take this stick and walk up slowly to him; go up close and give him a sharp blow across the back of the neck -- that will fix him. You see that big mossy log laying on the bank over there? That was where he was caught. We will now set the trap again. See this little sink in the log? That is where the trap was set; this limb is what the trap was fastened to, one end on the ground and the other comes just up to the log where the trap is set and we will staple the trap to it. We will now cover it with moss, just like on this log, but we will get it from another log. No one could tell that there was a trap there."

"Will not the fox smell it?"

"He might if it was not for this fox carcass. We will skin the fox, just as we did the mink. Look out there Fred, do not disturb the moss or anything on that log where the trap is. Keep away from that. We will put this carcass in the little hollow and will drive a crotched stake straddle of its neck; drive it well down; now take this stick and rake some leaves over it, cover the neck where the stake is quite well, the rest of the carcass only slightly. You have done it very well and the fox will not notice what scent there is on the trap as long as that carcass is there."

"But you had no carcass there when you caught this one and I have heard that a fox was afraid of the scent of iron?"

"That is all bosh. Keep your traps free from all foreign scent and you need not be afraid of the scent of the iron, but if you catch some animal in the trap, then you should have some of the scent of that animal around near the trap, this will overcome what scent there is on the trap. This, however, is only necessary with shy animals like the fox. Coon and skunk are not afraid of what they smell."

"Do you ever wear gloves when setting your traps?"

"No, that is all nonsense. Get the clamps out of the knapsack and we will set the bear trap. We set the trap this way so that the bear goes in lengthways of the jaws, not crosswise of them. We will now place the trap in this hole that we have dug out, so that the water will be deep enough to cover the trap and be sure that the jaws rest firmly on the ground, so that if the bear should step on the jaws, the trap would not tip up. Some trappers do not do this and then they think that the shy animal turned the trap over. We will now cover the trap with those water soaked leaves after which we will take this piece of moss as large as your hand, and with this forked stick put the moss on it, and place it on the pan of the trap."

"Would the bear smell it, if you put it on with your hands?"

"No, but if the trap should accidentally spring it would be better to catch the stick than your hand. Now we will cut this coon carcass into two or three pieces and put it back in the bait pen about three feet from the trap. There we have it fixed all right. We will now go over the ridge to where there is another bear trap set and will eat our lunch as we go along."

"How did you know that a fox would go on that log where that trap was set?"

"By knowing the nature of the animal. When the fox smelled the bear bait in the pen there, I knew that he would get on the highest point near the pen to investigate and that point was that log."

"Is this the only way you catch foxes?"

"No, that is only one of the many ways. Here we are; the trap is right down in the head of this hollow; that is a dark place down there, yes, that is the kind of a place that bears like to travel through. I can see the pen, but I do not see the clog. Yes, the clog is gone, I guess that Bruin has put his foot in it this time. Now go still and look sharp and see if we can find him anywhere for a bear will try hard and get away when they first see you. He has gone this way, see how he has torn down the brush and has turned up those old logs. He will not do that long and after a little we may be obliged to circle in places to find the trail. Here he has gone up this steep side hill but he will not go far that way. See how he has torn this old tree top up and gnawed those logs and those trees, he has been past here. He has gone straight back down the hill. Now he will keep along this side hill, for he may cross this hollow back and forth three or four times before we find him fast. Here is the trail again, he has gone back up the hill. We will work up the hill so as to keep on the highest ground."

"You have followed these bear trails a good many times, haven't you?"

"Yes, in 1900 I followed one seven days that broke the chain and went up with the trap, and then another party ran across the bear and killed it. I did not even get my trap back. They said they hung the trap up in a tree and some one stole it."

"Hold on Fred, what is that away down there in the hollow?"

"That is the bear, he is trying to climb that tree, I do not think he will make it, for the clog is fast between those two small saplings that stand by the large tree. We will go a little closer, there now! when he turns his head sideways take good aim and put the ball square in the ear. A good job, Fred, he never knew what hurt him. Now make a slit in the skin, right at the point of the breast bone, and then stick him as you would a hog. Do not cut the skin too much. Now Fred get the clamps out of the knapsack and we will see if we can get him out of the trap. Now we will skin him as you would a beef with the exception, we will leave the claws on, for the skins are a much better price where the feet are left. We will be very careful not to cut the hide, for they skin about as mean as a hog does. Well now we will hang the foreparts up in this tree and take the skin and the saddles and pull for camp."

"Are you not going to set the trap?"

"No, it will be dark before we get to camp now and we have got a heavy load to carry, in fact, if it was anything but bear, we would think we could not carry it."

"My, but this is getting heavy."

"Yes, Fred, but this all goes in with trapping and besides it will improve the appetite."

"I guess so, for I am as hungry as a wolf."

"Well, here we are at camp. Fred, you will find the lamp on that shelf close up in the corner. You light it while I start the fire. Now Fred you will find the key to the camp chest behind that ridge post. Open the chest and take the blankets out so that they will be airing. Now in the other part of the chest you will find some tin cups, plates, knives and forks, also some crackers, cheese and ginger snaps. The cheese is done up in waxed paper. You can put those things on the table while I go to the spring and get a pail of water. Now, Fred, you raise that lid and you will find a box sunk down in the ground, where you will find potatoes and bacon. Get some out. You will find the coffee in a sack in the chest and the coffee pot is hanging on that nail. You put the coffee on while I get the potatoes."

"Oh, we cannot wait for potatoes to cook."

"Yes, we can, I will pare three or four and slice them up and put them in the spider with a little water and some bits of pork and by the time the coffee boils, the potatoes will be ready. Fred, just hand me that lid so I can cover these potatoes over. You will find a can of condensed milk and the sugar in the chest. Please set them on the table while I fix the fire."

"You have plenty of good dry wood."

"Yes, I always come over to the camp before the trapping season begins and cut up a good lot of wood. And those old elevated stove ovens make the best kind of a stove for a camp. Fred, you pour the coffee while I take the potatoes up and we will partake of this frugal meal. In the morning for breakfast we will have bear steak, boiled partridge and buck-wheat cakes."

"Well Fred, I feel better, how is it with you?"

"Oh, I feel like a fighting cock now, but I was too hungry for anything. Well Fred, the dish water is hot in that pan on the stove, if you will wash the dishes, I will stretch those skins and dress those partridges. Now if you will spread the blankets on the bunk, I will mix the cakes for breakfast, and then we will be ready for bed."

"How large is this camp?"

"The logs were cut fourteen and sixteen feet long, so that makes it about twelve by fourteen on the inside. The roof is good and steep. Yes, I like a ridge roof and half pitch them, you do not have to make the body so high. Yes, I always chunk well and calk good with moss before I mud it, then you have a good warm camp. Yes, I like to have a 12 x 20, two small sash in each gable."

"Does that roof leak?"

"No, a roof put on with good hemlock bark like that will not leak and will last a long time. Fred we must bunk down for we must be moving early in the morning."

"Come, Fred, turn out, I have breakfast about ready."

"Why it is not morning, is it?"

"Yes, it is six o'clock and we must be moving as soon as we can see, for we have a big day's work before us. Yes, Fred, everything tastes good in the woods. I suppose a keen appetite has something to do with that. Well, it is light, so that we can see to travel, so we will be going. Yes, Fred, you can come over with me again and I will show you how to set traps, many different ways, to catch different animals, and we might have a bear in a pen."

"Do you catch bear in a pen?"

"Yes, and I like a pen for a bear better than a steel trap. No getting away if the pen is properly made."

"Well, here is the bear trap and there has been a wild cat at work at those inwards, so you see I did not bring that trap along for nothing. Fred, you place a few of those bushy limbs around on the upper side of those inwards, while I set the trap. There, that is all right, we will staple to this limb. Yes, he will be quite likely to get into the trap if he comes again, for he can't get at the bait very well from any other way, only over the trap."

"How far is it from where the bear trap was set?"

"About one-half mile. Yes, I suppose he dragged that trap three or four miles to get that distance. Here we are, it will not be a long job to set that trap as he has not torn the bait trap down. Fred, you get the clamps from the knapsack, while I cut that bushy tree for a clog. Yes, we let those limbs stick out about ten inches so that they will catch in the brush and on logs, and that bothers, you see. Yes, those lungs and liver are all right for bait as long as it is fresh. A bear does not like tainted meat. Well, that is all right now, we will go to camp and get a bite to eat, and then pull for home and get the horse and wagon and come out and take the bear meat and the skin in. Yes, we always ship the saddles to New York, they bring a good price.

"Yes, it is more of a knack to stretch a bear skin right than any other skin. Here we are at camp again, we will eat a bite and then pull for home. Good bye, Fred, yes, you shall go again."



Chapter IX.

Bears in 1870, To-Day -- Other Notes.

One not familiar with the conditions of a wild woods life would naturally think that bears would diminish in proportion to deer and wild animals. However, this does not seem to be the case. Forty years ago, trappers of bear were not as numerous as at the present time. People at that time, hunted more for profit than sport and their forte was the slaughter of deer. In those days it was nothing uncommon to see sleigh loads of deer pass every day on the way to market.

After the first tracking snows of the season, the deer killed in this county (Potter) were hauled by team thirty and forty miles to the nearest railroad station and shipped to New York and Philadelphia but this is not what we wish to write of. We only speak of this to show that the man of forty years ago was of the trail, rather than the trap line.

Forty years ago, the writer was acquainted with nearly every hunter and trapper who made a business of hunting or trapping in this and adjoining counties. Men who made a business of trapping bear as well as hunting deer could be counted on the fingers of your hands, and the grounds on which they operated were the counties of Clinton, McKean, Cameron and Potter.

The names of these men who perhaps were the most interested in bear trapping in the section above mentioned were, Leroy Lyman, Horatio Nelson, Lanson Stephan, Isaac Pollard, Ezery Prichard and one or two others, including the writer.

The traps mostly used were bear pens and deadfalls. It was considered a fairly good day's work for two men to build one good bear pen or two good deadfalls. Most bear trappers, however, had a few steel bear traps for it may be said that nearly every country blacksmith knew how to make a bear trap and how to temper a trap spring. This cannot be said of the average blacksmith of the present day.

Bear forty years ago would migrate then as they do now. We used to think that bear would travel from the Virginias and from Northern New York if not from the New England States to Pennsylvania or from Pennsylvania north or south as the case may be. This was proven from the fact that if there was a good crop of mast in one locality, while a scarcity in another, the bear would all seem to be moved north or south as the case may be as though they had some way of informing one another where plenty of food was to be found. At such times when bear are on a migratory tramp it is not an uncommon thing to find a bear track near your house or barn on going out in the morning when there was snow on, so that the track is plain to be seen. This was no uncommon thing forty years ago, neither is it at the present time (1910) when there is a general scarcity of forage crops such as beech nuts, chestnuts and acorns. I have seen it stated by some writers that at certain times bear will move in a drove and at such times it was not safe for a man to meet a bear for they were very dangerous and would attack any one who chanced to be in their way.

In my upwards of fifty years experience of woods life, I do not call to mind of ever seeing more than three bears on one trail at the same time and these were an old bear and cubs. It has been the writer's observation that when bears were on these migratory trips in search of food or from other cause, they travel singly and not in droves or even in pairs.

During the summer when bears are existing on nettles, wild turnips, berries and other green food, it is not out of the ordinary to find a bear in pretty close proximity to the farm house and close around the fields where he can occasionally get a sheep or lamb.

I have seen and heard much written and said of bear raising from their hind feet to attract people's attention who chanced to come in their way when in the woods. I have never seen a bear raise on his hind feet for battle, in any case, when a hunter or trapper approaches them. I have often seen them sit upon their haunches to listen when they heard a noise and were not sure of its origin.

As to the number of bear at the present time and forty or fifty years ago, through Northern and Central Pennsylvania, there seems to be about as many now as there were then. This I attribute to the fact that much of the country in other localities has been cleared up and thus deprived bruin of his natural haunts.

Forty years ago, -- in the early 70's -- it was customary then as now, to keep tab on trappers as to what they were doing along the trap line. Trappers of years ago would average from three to twelve bears, according to how plenty they were and to what the condition of the weather was.

It often happens that when bear are plenty on the trapper's trapping grounds, he does not have the best of luck in taking the game. If shack is very plentiful it is sometimes difficult to get the bear to take ordinary bait. The bear will also den up or go into hibernation much quicker if they get fat, than they will if shack is a little scarce so that they do not get quite so fleshy. If the bears get real fleshy early in the season they will den up at the approach of the first cold and freezing weather and sleep until spring. On the other hand, if the bear continues to be a little lean, as he generally is during the summer, he will continue to search for food during quite severe weather. They will leave winter quarters and come out in search of food when there are a few warm days, or a slight thaw, which they will rarely do if they go into the den in good flesh.

The bear is not like the raccoon. Their rutting season in this latitude is in August and not in February and March as with the raccoon and groundhog. Now all of these conditions has much to do with the number of bears that a trapper may get during a season. The number of bear taken in Pennsylvania by the average trapper at the present time and forty years ago may be slightly less now than then but the difference is not great.

There are more bear trappers today than forty years ago. During the months of October and November, 1909, there were nearly one hundred bears caught in traps and killed with dogs in the above counties mentioned. Bears were more plentiful through this section than usual this season, although they did not work north into the beech timber until about the first of November, owing to a heavy crop of chestnuts and acorns farther south.

Comrades of the trap line, if I was in a section of country where large game was as plentiful as it was here fifty years ago, I would not be able to get very far into tall timber, but as it gets monotonous to write of skunk, muskrat and rabbit hunting of to-day, I will tell of some of my experiences of fifty years ago, when it was my custom to hunt deer and bear for profit and pleasure. In those days I made it a point to be in the woods with my bear traps and rifle by the middle of October each year, if health permitted.

In those days all that a trapper and hunter had to do was to get a few miles out into tall timber, build a good log cabin and hit a permanent job for the season. Deer, bear and fur-bearing animals were so plentiful that it only required a small territory to find game sufficiently plenty to keep the trapper on a lively gait all the time. In those days we made it more a specialty of hunting deer for the profit there was in it. We had built our cabin on the divide between the headwaters of the Cross fork of Kettel Creek and the headwaters of the East Fork of the Sinnamahoning. I had built a few deadfalls and bear pens for bear and also had three or four steel bear traps set, but beech-nuts, chestnuts and other nuts were so plentiful that the bear would not take meat bait and I had no other bait at hand. The bear would pass within a few feet of a trap and pay no attention to the bait.

Now at this time, furs were so low that there was but little to be made from the sale of the pelts of the fox, mink, skunk, etc. But it was my custom to carry one or two steel traps in my pack sack and when I killed a deer, I would make a set or two for the fox, marten or fisher, whichever happened along first. As I have stated I spent the greater part of my time in deer hunting. On this particular day I was following a drove of four or five deer, but the wind was so unsteady and whirling about in puffs so that as near as I could get to a deer was to see his white flag, beckoning me to come on as they jumped a log or some other object. Striking the trail of a bear that had gone back and forth several times, nearly in the same place within the past three or four days, since a light snow had fallen, I was satisfied that it was a bear going back and forth from his lodging quarters to his feeding grounds.

So I left the trail of the deer and took up the trail of the bear, taking the track that I thought had been made last. I did not follow the trail far, which led along the brow of the ridge, when I saw that the several different bear tracks were forming into one trail and making in the direction of several large hemlock trees that had been turned out by the roots and lay in a jumbled up mess. I followed the trail carefully until I was certain that the bear had entered the jungle of timber. Here I worked carefully around the jam of timber until sure that the bear was in the jungle and that it would be impossible for me to get near the bear. The density of brush and undergrowth was such that I would drive the bear out before I could get close enough to Bruin to get a shot at him. And this was a time, when I longed for a pard.

Being convinced that I could do nothing alone, I got out on one side of the trail the bear had made in going back and forth and watched until dark, in hopes that Bruin would come out on his way to his feeding grounds. But in this I was mistaken so was obliged to give up the hunt for the time being and make tracks for the shanty. My camp was about five or six miles from Edgcomb Place, this being the nearest point to where anyone lived, where I might get help to rout Bruin. The Edgcomb Place was a sort of a half way house, it being about fourteen miles either way to a settlement. The stage made one trip a week over this road and stopped at Edgcomb Place for dinner and often some one would come out from town in the stage and stop there for a few days' hunt. It was one of these parties that I was in hopes of getting to help me out in this bear hunt.

I started in the morning before daylight as the stage had gone the Kettel Creek way the day before, which was in my favor of catching help at the hotel. As good luck proved to be on my side, I found a man at the hotel by the name of John Howard, who was stopping there for a few days' hunt. He was more than anxious to join me in the bear hunt. We hastened back to camp so as to get onto the job as quickly as possible. We got to the shanty about noon and got a hasty lunch and started out to wake Bruin up if he was still sleeping where I had left him.

When we got to the jam of timber, we found that he had been to his feeding grounds and had returned to his lodging apartments during the night, so we now thought that we would soon make sure of our game. We located the spot the best we could where we thought Bruin was sleeping and began to cautiously work our way in from opposite sides. It only took a short time to work our way into the jam sufficiently to locate a large root, where Bruin's tracks showed plainly that he was sleeping under this root. We continued to work our way up closer to the root with gun in hand for ready action. But still Bruin did not show up, neither could we hear the least bit of a noise from him.

When we were within a few feet of the root, Mr. Howard on one side and the writer on the other side, suddenly, without any warning whatever, Bruin came out of his hole like a shot out of a gun and nearly landed on Mr. Howard, who sprang backwards to escape him. Mr. Howard's feet became tangled in the thick brush, he fell backwards and before he could regain his feet, Bruin had gone over the brow of the ridge, into the laurel out of sight. Mr. Howard was not able to get in a shot at Bruin, as I was on the other side of the root and on higher ground, I managed to empty both barrels of my rifle at him through the thick brush, but Bruin went on down the hill, through the laurel, apparently unhurt.

After following the trail of Bruin for some distance, we began, now and then, to find a little blood, where the bear had crawled over a log or rubbed against the laurel. We followed him until we found one or two places where he had broken down a few laurel and scratched about in trying to make a bed, so we thought the better plan was to let Bruin go for the night and let him make his bed.

But we did not go to camp empty handed for good luck favored Mr. Howard in killing a good, big deer on our way to the shanty. After leaving the trail of the bear, we followed up a spur of the main ridge that led to camp, Mr. Howard going up one side of the spur while I took the other spur. Just before reaching the top of the spur, I heard Mr. Howard shoot and in a few minutes I heard him shouting for help. When I got across the ridge to where he was, I found him dressing a good sized buck. As it was getting dark we lost no time in taking the entrails out of the deer, cutting a withe with a hook, which we hooked into the lower jaw of the deer. We hooked ourselves to the withe and made lively tracks to the shanty, where we could talk and laugh of the day's hunt.

* * *

We were up early the next morning and had our lunch packed in our knapsack, ready for an early start. It had turned warm during the night and the light snow that was on the ground, was fast disappearing. So we lost no time in getting back to where we had left Bruin's track the night before. We could still manage to follow the trail on the snow and we soon found where Bruin had broken down a few laurel and tried to make a bed. But he would not stop long, apparently, when he would move on for a short distance and again break down a few laurels as before to make a nest. We could see a little more blood at each place where he stopped than the one before.

We were working the trail as cautious as we could, when we heard a noise in the thick laurel to our left and got a glimpse of Bruin going through the laurel. We emptied both barrels of our guns in the direction where we could see the brush wiggle, but all of our shots failed to take effect. Bruin now left this laurel patch, crossed a ravine and began to climb another spur of the main ridge. We did not follow the trail long, when we discovered that it was becoming hard work for Bruin to travel far at a time, as he would stop to rest. The snow was now gone so that it was a little more difficult to follow the trail of the bear. We thought that it would be better for one of us to go up the ravine to the top of the ridge and stand about where he thought that the bear would come out at the top of the ridge. Mr. Howard went to the ridge, while I was to follow the bear's trail.

After waiting long enough to give Mr. Howard time to get to the top of the ridge, I took up the trail of the bear. I had not gone far when I came to a bed, where the bear had stopped for a time. I was now sure Mr. Howard would get to his watching place before the bear reached the top of the hill. I was not mistaken, for it was not long until I heard Mr. Howard fire both barrels of his gun in rapid succession. I thought when I heard the two shots that the bear hunt was surely over, but after listening a few moments and hearing nothing from Mr. Howard I was then unable to give a guess what he had done. I worked along on the trail until near the top of the hill when I saw Mr. Howard standing with head down and bearing the expression of a motherless colt.

When I got up to him he said that the bear had stopped near the brow of the ridge and when he came in sight, the bear started across the ridge and he fired both barrels of his rifle at him but the bear was so far away that he could not reach him. The bear now crossed the ridge in the direction of Windfall Run, a branch of the Cross Fork and toward a large windfall. We followed the bear a short distance in to the windfall. Briers and brush were so thick that it was almost impossible to work our way along in the brush and one could scarcely see ten feet ahead. We had followed the trail but a short distance when we could hear Bruin whining like a little puppy and soon we could see him sitting up on his haunches and keeping up the whine. We soon put an end to his troubles. When we removed the bear's entrails, we found that one of the shots that we fired at him at the beginning of the hunt, had passed through the lungs but had not struck any large artery or any vital point. But the wound had weakened him so that he was no longer able to make his way through the thick briars and brush. We had two days of sport but now the real work began.

We were about three miles from camp and any hunter who has toted a three hundred pound bear or a good big deer, lashed to a pole and where the route was up and down steep hills, knows what sort of a job he has on his hands. But comrades, we were not as old at that time as we now are and we could tote a bear or deer as easy then as we could a rabbit now.

Mr. Howard stayed with me for about two weeks and we had other bear hunts and killed two other bear and we did it almost without knowing that there was a bear within ten miles of us. We also got five or six deer during Mr. Howard's stay with me. Deer were as plentiful in those days as rabbits. Comrades, look over the accompanying picture and note the difference at the camp of a trapper from what you can imagine it was about one's hunting camp at the time we write of.



Chapter X.

Incidents Connected with Bear Trapping.

Several years ago, I was trapping for bears on the East Fork of the Sinnemahoning River. I usually went on horse back as far as I could when tending the traps. But boys, don't be bad, as I was, for this was on Sunday that I went to look at the traps. I found the bait-pen of the first one torn down, bait gone and everything showed plainly that Bruin had been there. As I had no bait at hand, I went to the next trap. I found things quite different, for the old bear had surely "put his foot in it" this time, as the trap was gone. On taking the trail I did not follow it far, before I found bruin fast in an old tree-top. I soon dispatched him and taking off his coat, hung up his carcass. Now the bait was gone at this trap also. Let me tell you that this is something that rarely happens, for when the bear puts his foot in a Newhouse trap, he seldom tarries to monkey with bait. I suspected that another bear had been there after this one had got in the trap. As I had no bait I took the lungs and heart of the one I had caught and baited the traps the best I could, then I took the skin and started for home. Well, when I got near the horse you can bet there was some tall prancing and loud snorting. After a long time I managed to get on his back and home with the skin.

The next morning I began to have some doubt whether bears were cannibals or not. I thought I would take some fresh bait and go back and bait the traps up good.

When I got near the trap in which I had caught the bear the day before, I heard a great deal of wrestling going on and it did not take long to see that I had an old he-bear hung up this time. And now was the time that I began to realize what a boy's trick I had cut up, for I had not taken any gun with me; only a small revolver and three cartridges. I found that the bear was dead fast and a big one too. He seemed to be more inclined to quarrel than bears usually are. I took my trapping hatchet in one hand and revolver in the other, and worked my way up close as I dared and awaited the best chance I could get to shoot for he was rolling and tumbling like a ball. I fired at his head but missed it. I fired the two remaining cartridges just back of the fore-shoulders. He paid about as much attention to it as I imagine he would if it had been a flea that bit him. After waiting some time to see what effect the shots would have and noticing no change in Bruin's countenance, I concluded I would see what I could do with a club. I soon found that I and the club were not "in it," so I gave it up as a bad job and went home after the team and a gun. On my way home I had to pass the house of an old trapper by the name of Stevens. Of course, he was out to see what luck I had, and when I told him my story, he gave a great laugh and said he would go and let the bear out of the trap. When we got back to the trap the next day we found the fight all gone out of Bruin, for the two shots had penetrated the lungs and he was nearly dead.

* * *

Pard, whom I call Co, and I went camping many years ago on a branch of the Susquehanna River in Lycoming County, Pennsylvania. At that time all that part of the country was an unbroken wilderness and we were several miles from the nearest town. Now Co was a good hunter but despised trapping, saying it was no gentleman's sport, yet he was always ready to do his share in camp life.

One evening in December Co did not turn up at dark, the usual hour for his return, still I did not worry much until eight o'clock, but from that time until about nine I kept going to the door and giving an occasional "Kho-Hoop," just to let him know the direction of the camp if he was within ear shot. As Co did not return, about nine o'clock I shouldered my rifle and started out in the direction that he had gone, shooting off my gun, and occasionally letting out a shout that echoed from hill to hill, but no answer came back in reply. The weather was growing extremely cold and I began to feel very much worried about Co for although I knew he was a good woodsman, I imagined all sorts of calamities had befallen him. At every high point I would fire my gun but never an answer could I hear. I kept this up till midnight, and then retraced my steps to camp intending to take an early start in the morning, when I could see to track my wandering partner.

Judge of my delight, when about half a mile from camp the sharp report of a rifle rang out on the clear night air, and I knew Pard had returned alive. I hastened to the shanty where I found Co all right but as mad as a hornet. As he raved around he exclaimed: "No one but a -- fool would catch anything in a -- steel trap. If you must trap things, get them in something that will stay put." When Co cooled off a little, I said: "Come old man, tell us what has happened." "What has happened," said he, "enough has happened, I should think. I went where you set that tarnal old bear trap and some critter has got into it and broken the chain and carried it off, and he makes a track bigger than an elephant. He's making for the big windfall and I followed him more than forty miles, and he was farther ahead of me than when I started, and I hope he will get into the old windfall and stay there till doomsday." Well, Pard felt better when he had eaten the hot supper I had left for him and we turned in for a few hours' sleep.

The next day we went to town and got a number of men and dogs and the following morning started out early on the track of old bruin. We soon struck the trail and located the beast in a big ravine. Stationing the men around where the bear was likely to break cover, I went in with the dogs to drive him out.

Now there was one young chap among the crowd called Dan, who proved to be of rather a timid nature. The battle which soon followed proved very short owing to the number of guns opened on the bear the moment he broke cover and he was soon dispatched and nearly as soon skinned and cut up. But when I looked for Dan he was nowhere to be found. A searching party was organized and after beating the bush for some time, poor, frightened Dan was finally located in the top of a small beech tree and came tumbling down inquiring if the bear was "sure dead."

* * *

I have often thought I would like to relate some of my experiences in the woods while deer hunting. Many a time while following a herd of deer or a wounded one over ridge after ridge, has the sun set and the stars come out and I found myself many miles from my cabin or any habitation. Then I would find a large fallen tree, that laid close to the ground, gather a pile of dry limbs and bark, scrape away the snow from the log, often the snow being a foot deep, build a fire where I scraped the snow away. When the ground became thoroughly warm, I would rake the coals and brands down against the log, put on more wood, and then I would place hemlock boughs on the ground, where I had previously had the fire. Soon they would begin to steam and after frizzling some venison (if I chanced to have it) before the fire I would take off my coat, lie down on my stomach, pull the coat over my head and shoulders and sleep for hours before waking. Sometimes I would have the skin of a bear to put over me, and for doing these things my friends would scold me, but the reader will know, if he has the blood of a hunter in him, that I enjoyed it.

But this is not what I started to write about, it was of a day's hunt after a bear on the 16th day of December, 1903. On the day previous, the afternoon sun sinking to rest in the west, casts its rays for a moment upon a solitary hunter's cabin in the hills of old Potter, then the bright glows faded away, the sun disappeared behind the mountains and it was a soft beautiful twilight, while I stood just outside the cabin door meditating. Mart (that is an old liner who had come to my cabin to have a few days' hunt) came out of the cabin and I said, "old man, what are you thinking about?" The reply was, "just watching the sun set." "Don't you think the coon will be out tonight if it holds warm?" "I don't know what the coon will do, but I know we went around a bear over in that jam in Dead Man's Hollow. (This hollow is so called because a fisherman a few years ago, found the body of a man who had gotten lost and died in the snow the winter before).

Well what do you think you will do about it? I think we had better turn in early so as to get an early start in the morning and see if we can find where the bear is sleeping. "Agreed," said Mart, and we were soon in bed, but it was a long time before I closed my eyes in sleep for I was familiar with the woods in the neighborhood where the bear was supposed to be and I mapped out and laid every plan that was to be carried out the next day before I went to sleep.

At four o'clock in the morning we were astir and soon breakfast was ready and eaten, lunch put up and at the break of day we were on our way to where bruin was supposed to be, a distance of about five miles, which is no small job for an old cripple like myself. After about three hours we were on the ground where we were in hopes of finding bruin. Mart was to circle several points outside of where we thought the bear was snoozing; this was done to make sure that the bear was in there. I took a position where the bear was most likely to come out if he was there and should be started by Mart. My position was in an open piece of timber on the point of a hill and near a very thick jam of trees that had been broken down two years before by a heavy ice storm and near the bear track where he had gone in several days before. Mart was to make another circle somewhat smaller than the one he had previously made for we now knew that the bear was in the jam of timber.

After completing the second circle Mart was to drop below the jam where we were quite sure bruin was napping and work his way through the fallen timber. This worked all right, for soon I heard Mart cry out: "Look out, he is coming." Soon I heard the crashing of the brush and could tell that bruin was coming directly toward me, and in another minute he broke into the open timber. My rifle was already pointed in that direction and bruin had scarcely made two jumps in the open timber when I fired. The bear made a loud noise like that of a hog and I knew that he was hit hard and could already see a crimson streak in the snow. But bruin steadily held his course, in a few yards further he made an attempt to jump a large fallen tree and I fired again. This shot was more fatal than the first, and he fell to the ground and could not rise. I hurried up and fired a shot through his head which soon quieted him. Mart was soon on the scene and after a little rejoicing we soon had his hide off, and cutting the fore parts off and hanging them in a tree to be brought out the next day. Mart took the saddles and I the skin and started for camp, which we reached shortly before dark, and as we had prepared things for supper before leaving in the morning, supper was soon ready which consisted of buckwheat cakes, wild honey, baked potatoes, bacon, bear steak and tea. Dear readers, do not tell Mart, but I think that he took a hot toddy after talking the hunt over and over. Again, we laid down to rest our weary selves and dream of the hunt which may never come.



Chapter XI

Pacific Coast Trip.

As I am always looking for taller timber to plant my traps in and as the drift of the trapper seems to be to the west, the Rockies and the Pacific Coast, and as I have had some experience in the Rockies, and along the Pacific Coast region, I will speak of some of the advantages and disadvantages that the trapper will meet with in that section.

The trapper will find the fur bearers more plentiful and many more kinds of animals to take, than is found in the East, which is a great advantage to the trapper. The hunter will find deer quite plentiful in many places in the Rocky Mountains and on the Pacific Coast. In 1904 I was in Humboldt and Trinity Counties, California and I found deer so plentiful and tame that it was no sport to shoot them. While the law limited the hunter to two deer in a season, the people in the mountains made their own laws, as to the number of deer that they should kill. Black and brown bear are plentiful all through the Rocky Mountains and in the Coast ranges. You see much written of the grizzly bear in this region, but it is doubtful if a hunter or trapper would see one or even the track of one during a whole season's trapping. The trapper will find marten, fisher and lynx in many places in the Rockies and in the Coast Range but nothing to what there was a few years ago.

Now one who is contemplating trapping in the Rockies or on the Pacific Coast, must bear in mind that the conditions that a trapper meets with in this region are far different from what they are in the East. The trapper who is planning a trip in that section before starting out should examine his feet close to see that there are no tender spots on them. The man who makes a success of trapping in this region must be a man who can stand grief and hardships a plenty, for he will run up against it often. He will find the mountain streams hard to get along; he will have but little use for a boat as the streams are rapid and full of boulders. In most cases the trapper will be compelled to take his outfit into the mountains by pack horses, and in many cases it will be necessary for the trapper to be the horse.

The trapper to succeed in a financial way must take in a supply of provisions to last at least until the first of June, for it is during April, May and even June that he must do his bear trapping; for the bear holes up or goes into hibernation down in the lower land and does not show up much in the mountains until spring.

The trapper must provide himself with a good number of traps of different sizes from the No. 1 for marten to the No. 5 for bear; and that means a whole lot of packing and hard work. He must have at least one pair of snow shoes, and should have an extra pair in case of a mishap, in the way of breakage. One good gun is all that is likely to be needed, and don't load yourself down with a lot of revolvers, hunting knives, etc. A good strong pocket knife is all that I have found necessary, though one should have more than one knife no matter what kind he may use.

Here I will say a word as to a gun especially for the trap line. The manufacturers of guns have as yet failed to make it. The Marble Game-Getter comes the nearest to it of any now made, but that is not just to my liking. We would do away with one of the barrels, and have a single barrel, 44 caliber straight cut, with cartridges for both ball and shot with 15 inch barrel, skeleton stock, similar to the Stevens Pocket shot gun. Mind, I am speaking of an arm on purpose for the trap line, and this kind of a gun would do the work and be light to carry.

Now the expense for an outfit to go into the mountains for a season's campaign is necessarily a considerable item. It is quite necessary that the trapper has a number of camps on his line at advantageous points, for the trapper cannot cover sufficient territory from one camp to make it pay; besides, a number of camps on the line will relieve the trapper of much hardship. I mention this matter thinking it might be of some interest to some one whose feet are itching to get into a big game country, and are thinking of only the game, and not of the hardships they are sure to meet with. Another thing that is well for the trapper who is looking for a happy hunting and trapping ground to remember is, that he will no longer find game as plentiful as it once was, in any place that is in any way easily accessible. If the trapper will take into consideration the expense and hardship that one must put up with in going on one of these outings, it might be that he can find quite as much pleasure and profit in looking up a trapping ground nearer home.

I will mention one or two places where one can find some sport where it will not require the hardship nor expense, and at the same time will find deer and some other game quite plentiful, with a fair sprinkling of the fur bearers.

In Humboldt County, in California, on Redwood River, deer and bear can be found quite plentiful, and there are some marten, fisher and a few lynx, coon, mink, skunk and fox. The fox are mostly grey and you may by chance meet occasionally with a mountain lion. To reach this section the best way is from San Francisco by boat to Eureka, then by rail and wagon.

Another section where game and fur bearers are fairly plentiful and of easy access, is in the vicinity of Thompson's Falls, in Northern Montana.

But if only a good outing is wanted, that can be had in Pecos Valley, New Mexico. You will not find much to trap other than muskrats and coon on the river and lakes, but they are quite plentiful, especially the latter. You will find coyotes and some grey wolves, and some antelope, which are protected. Duck shooting is good, the climate is mild, only freezing ice the thickness of window glass in the coldest weather, which is all thawed out and gone by ten o'clock. This section is easily reached by rail.

* * *

In July, 1902, I was spending a few days at Spokane, Wash. Nearly every day I would take an old cane fish pole and go to the river just above the falls and fish for bass. I would shift my post from one point along the bank of the river to another and sometimes I would go out on the boom timbers and fish among the logs. Some days I would get a bass or two, but oftener I got nothing further than the pleasure of drowning a few minnows.

Nearly every morning I noticed a man would come down along the bank of the river and go in the direction of the mill. Sometimes he would stop and watch me for a few minutes, and then pass on without saying anything. But one morning he came along when I happened to be sitting close to his path. I looked up and gave the usual morning nod. The gentleman, for such he proved to be, inquired what luck I was having. I replied that I guessed it must be fisherman's luck, for I got but few fish. He replied that he thought that there were very few bass in the dam, as there was so much fishing done there.

I was quite sure that he was right from the number of fish I caught, and I could see a number of others scattered about the pond, and some on the logs, some on the boom timbers and some in boats. The next morning I was back at my old post, and this man came along as usual. He stopped, laughed and said that I seemed to have plenty of faith. I replied that the occasion demanded great faith. He inquired if I lived in the city. I told him that I lived in Pennsylvania and was only out in that country to see the sights and get a few fish and a little venison and later might try to get a little fur.

He informed me that his name was Nettel (Charles Nettel) that he was a lumber inspector and that he was going to have a vacation the next week. He intended going to the North Fork of the Clearwater on Elk Creek, where he had a camp, and that if I wished to fill up on trout and venison, I had better join him, as he had no one selected to accompany him yet. I said, "Thank you, I would be pleased to do so," as quick as I could, for fear he would change his mind. I now dropped my bass fishing and would drop into the mill where Mr. Nettel was at work and catch a few minutes chat with my new-found friend, as an opportunity would occur, until the time came to go to Mr. Nettel's camp. As I had a complete outfit, including blankets, tin plates, cups, knives, and forks, a takedown or folding stove with the necessary cooking utensils, which I had not yet unpacked, we concluded to take the whole kit along so that if anything had happened at Mr. Nettel's camp we would have a tent as well as the other camp outfit, but we found Mr. Nettel's shack all right. We took a train to near a place called Orofino on the Clearwater River in Idaho where we repacked our outfit, putting it into sacks.

We engaged a man with two pack horses to take our plunder to camp which we found to be all right, and I wish to say that this was the farthest up the gulch in the Rockies that I had been at that time.

I found my friend all right on the trout question, for trout were so plenty it was no sport to catch them. The next morning after we were in camp we climbed to what Mr. Nettel called the bench, but I thought it was the moon. We had hardly got to the level, or bench, when we say plenty of elk tracks so we followed in the direction in which the fresh trails seemed to lead.

We had not gone far when I noticed something moving in the underbrush, which might have been taken for a rocking chair for all that I could tell. We stood still a few moments when three elk came out in sight. We watched them feed for a few minutes, then made a noise like a deer blowing, and the elk stopped feeding, stood and listened and looked about for danger; Mr. Nettel again snorted and the elk trotted off.

We now separated a little and began walking across the bench. We had not gone far when I saw two buck deer feeding and shot one of them. Mr. Nettel soon came to me and we took the entrails out of the deer and drew the carcass down to camp where we sure had venison as well as trout.

The man who packed our outfit up the gulch for us had a little whiffet dog with him, and in some manner he neglected to take the dog back with him. We were a little worried at first because the man had left the dog with us, but later I at least was pleased that the dog was with us.

We had dressed the deer and hung the meat up on trees near the shack. The second night after we had the deer hanging up, along in the night the dog kept growling so that after a time, as the moon was shining, I thought I would get up and see what was worrying the pup. When I opened the shack door the pup lit out like shot from a shovel, and I could see the outline of some animal taking up a tree. I could hear the bark from the tree falling to the ground like hail.

Mr. Nettel was still sound asleep, so I said nothing but took my gun and stepped outside the shack. I could see the outlines of something standing on a limb of the tree. I took the best aim I could owing to the dim light and fired. The tree stood on the side of the gulch, which was very steep, and when the gun cracked the object in the tree apparently flew right up the side of the gulch from the tree.

The pup gave chase and within fifty yards I could again hear the bark from the tree and soon again I could see the outline of the animal on the tree. I was working along out towards the pup, when Mr. Nettel, close to my side said, "It is a lion; be careful and take good aim this time and kill him, if you can." I got up to the tree where I could see the cat fairly fell, and with all the care possible, I fired. The cat lit out from the tree, but this time he went down the hill instead of up, and when he struck the ground it was broadside instead of on all fours. As good luck would have it, I had hit him square through the shoulders.

The cat was a little over seven feet long, and Mr. Nettel said that it was not a large lion, but as it was the first one that I had seen then I thought it was longer than a twelve-foot rail. We pulled the cat up to the shack and turned in again. It was only eleven o'clock and Mr. Nettel was soon sound asleep, but I had too much cat excitement for me to do any more sleeping that night.

In the morning we skinned the cat, gathered dry leaves and stuffed the skin and had a stuffed cat in camp. Later, we sold the skin to a party for three dollars. We stayed in camp two weeks, feasting on venison, trout, grouse, and other game. Some of the time we spent prospecting for gold, but we failed to strike it rich.

At the end of the two weeks allotted Mr. Nettel, he was obliged to return to his work, and I can say that I never spent two weeks' time with more pleasure than I did with the friend I found while fishing for bass.



Chapter XII.

Some Michigan Trips.

Owing to the recent fires (1905) in the northern portion of Michigan, which have undoubtedly killed many of the smaller fur bearing animals in that section, has called to mind experiences I had trapping and hunting in both the Lower and Upper Peninsulas of that state. In the fall of 1868 on the first of October, a party of four of us took a boat at Buffalo, New York, and went to Alpena on Thunder Bay, Michigan, where we purchased provisions for a winter's campaign hunting and trapping.

We engaged a team to take our outfit up the Thunder Bay River, a distance of about twenty miles, where the road ended. The road was an old lumber road and rather rough over those long stretches of corduroy. We camped at the end of the lumber road the first night and the team returned home the next morning. We took our knapsacks with some blankets and grub and went up the river to find a camping ground to suit our notion.

Mr. Jones and myself took the one axe that we carried with us and began clearing a site to build the camp on. Mr. Goodsil and Mr. Vanater went back after more of the supplies, which included another good axe and a crosscut saw. They cut out a road as they returned so that we could drive to camp when it became necessary. At the end of a week we had up a good log cabin, and all was ready to begin to slay the deer and skin the fur bearers. Two of the boys now went down to Alpena to get the mail and send letters home. On the boys' return next day they brought word that we would not be allowed to ship any deer out of the state. This put a wry face on Goodsil and Jones, for deer hunting was their delight. It was not so bad with Vanater and myself, for we could find plenty of sport with the traps and tanning a few deer skins. Vanater was an expert at it, graining the skins in the water and using the brains of the deer and coon oil for tanning and then smoking the skins.

We did not kill many deer though they were plentiful, but venison was so cheap in Detroit and other Michigan cities that it did not pay one for the trouble. By the last of October there was quite a fall of snow and Mr. Goodsil, who was a gunsmith, suddenly came to the conclusion that he was neglecting his business at home and we could not persuade him to stay any longer. It was only a few days later when Mr. Jones also concluded that he was neglecting his business and left us. Now I began to wonder if Mr. Vanater or myself would be the next to get the home fever, but knowing the metal Charley was made of, I expected that I would be attacked first.

Charley and I being now left alone began building deadfalls for mink, marten, fisher and lowdowns for bear. I will explain that a lowdown is one of those affairs, half pen, half deadfall, which are built by first making a bed of small poles, then placing on this bed notched together the same as for a log house. The logs should be about twelve inches in diameter, and two tiers will make the pen high enough. The space inside the pen is usually made about seven feet long, two feet high and twenty inches wide. The roof is made of poles or small logs pinned to cross logs, the one at the back end of the pen forming a roller hinge. The cover is raised up and fastened with the usual lever and hook trigger, which the bait is fastened to. The bear in order to get the bait goes over the logs into the pen. I wish to say that while this sort of a trap is quickly made, I do not like them, as the bear will rub the fur madly in its struggles, and they are an inhuman sort of an affair at best.

To get back to my story, Charley and I did fairly well in catching mink and marten, but the bear had either migrated or gone into winter quarters. The coon had also gone into winter quarters. The snow was getting quite deep as it was now past the middle of November, and it now proved to be my luck to be left alone in camp. One night when we were coming to camp, we had to cross a stream on a small tree which had fallen across the creek. There were several inches of snow on the log and Charley was carrying a small deer on his back. I was behind him carrying the guns. Charley worked his way carefully across the log but just as he was about to step off the log on the opposite bank he slipped and fell striking his left leg across the log, breaking the bone just above the ankle joint. Fortunately we were only a short distance from camp so that Charley hobbled to camp, using his gun for a crutch.

When we got in camp it did not take long to see that the bone was broken. I fixed wood, water and food as convenient as possible for Charley and took a lantern, a lunch in my pocket and started for Alpena, reaching there shortly after daylight the next morning. Engaging a team without any delay we started back to camp. Reaching camp about three o'clock in the afternoon, we found Charley quite comfortable and feeling quite chipper under the circumstances. While the team was eating we fixed both blankets on the straw and a mattress which we had brought for the purpose from town, and fixed things as comfortable as we could. We were soon on our way back to town, which we reached about midnight. The next morning the doctor set the broken limb with but little difficulty.

After staying two or three days and making arrangements with a young man to come to camp every Saturday and bring mail and word from Charley, I returned to camp, where I found things all right. While out to town I bought a pair of snow shoes. I had never used them, and for the first few days it was who and who to know which would be on top, myself or the snow shoes. I finally mastered them and found them a great help in getting about in the deep snow. It kept me pretty busy attending to the traps.

One night after Charley had been gone about three weeks, on nearing camp, I saw a big smoke coming out of the chimney. I first thought the cabin was on fire, but I soon saw that that was not the case, and knew some one had started a fire. When I got there I saw some one had been there with a team. When I rapped on the door Charley called out, "Come in, I am running this camp now." Well, I tell you I was pleased to hear that voice call out, "Come in." It was some time before we thought it best for Charley to go out very much, but he could keep camp and I had company. We stayed in camp until the middle of May, thinking that we would have a big catch of bear in the spring, but were disappointed for we only caught three; but we caught quite a lot of coon. We did not trap any for muskrat.

My next trip to Michigan was to Kalkaska County, and I had two partners, Moshier and Funk by name, and both were residents of the state. Our camp was on the Manistee River near the Crawford and Kalkaska County line. This trip was some ten or twelve years later than the one previously mentioned, probably 1878. We killed some thirty odd deer, and Mr. Moshier having some friends living down close to the Indiana line, he shipped our venison down to his friend and he sold it for us. I do not know where he sold it but the checks came from a man by the name of Suttell, N. Y. We caught 11 bear during the fall and spring. We caught a good number of mink, coon and fox, also a few marten.

I should have said that on my trip on Thunder Bay River we caught several beaver, but on the Manistee we saw no fresh beaver signs but plenty of old beaver dams. We would make an occasional trip on to the Boardman and Rapid Rivers for mink. On Rapid River two or three miles above Rickers Mill was a colony or family of three or four beaver, but we did not try to catch them.

My third trip to Michigan was to the Upper Peninsula, in Schoolcraft County. A pard of mine by the name of Ross and myself had a boat made at Manistique, and started the first of September. We poled and rowed the boat up the Manistique River for a distance of about a hundred miles, according to our estimate. The boat was heavily loaded with our outfit, and we were nearly a month making the trip up the river to where we built our camp on a small lake about one-half mile from the main river. We found mink, marten, beaver and coon quite plentiful, but from what I read bear and wolves are more plentiful there now than they were about 1879. At that time there was not a railroad in that section, nor scarcely a tree cut in the northern part of the Upper Peninsula, with the exception of up about the Iron Works where they were cutting timber and burning coke and charcoal. In fact, I found bear more plentiful in Lower Michigan.

About the fifteenth of October we had the camp in shape and a big pile of wood cut and piled close to the door. We now began to explore the country for the best sites to set our traps, mostly Nos. 2, 3 and 4, besides seven bear traps, all Newhouse. We would build deadfalls along the line, for we would not set a steel trap only where we were quite sure that we would make a catch. We used the water set mostly for wolves and fox, and of course, for mink and coon.

Good springs were not so common where water sets could be made as in Pennsylvania. We could find occasionally a good log crossing where we could get in a set for wolf, but suitable places of this kind were not plentiful. We worked for beaver all we could. We would break a notch in their dams and then set a trap just on the edge of break in water just deep enough so the beaver would spring the trap. It was while trapping here that I learned to make the bait set for beaver. This is to use the kind of wood beaver were feeding on for bait.

We caught three or four wolves on the ice close to the bank. Sometimes the ice would settle along the banks and the water would run over the ice too close to the shore and then freeze. This made a good path, or rather place for the wolf to travel. Now, where a spruce or cedar tree would fall into the lake so as to leave a narrow space between the boughs on the tree and the bank, was a good place to set. We would watch the weather and when it began snowing we would go to one of these trees from the ice or water side, cut a notch in the ice, put in some ashes or dry pulverized rotten wood. The notch cut in the ice must be just deep enough to let the trap down level with the surface. The clog was concealed under a bough of the tree.

Now, I wish to say that I was never able to catch a timber wolf unless I was able to outwit him, and in order to do this the conditions and surroundings must be perfect for making the set. Where we found good places to make a set of this kind we would place the carcass of a deer several yards from shore out on the ice. This would entice the wolves to come around, and of course increase our chances of making a catch.

We were bothered some by having a wolverine follow a line of deadfalls, tear down the bait pen and take the bait, but we did not allow him to do his cussedness long before we would put a trap in the way.

We would sometimes have the parts of a deer taken down by a lynx where we had hung up venison so that it would be convenient to use for bear bait. We never objected much about it for we were willing to trade venison for a cat almost any time, for deer were very plentiful.

In April, when we were taking up our traps and getting ready to start down the river as soon as the water dropped so that we dare start, we were going onto a stream one day to take up three or four traps that we had set for beaver, our route led us across the point of the ridge. The point faced to the southeast, and the snow was off in spots on this point. When we went over this point in the morning we saw many deer run from these bare spots, so when we came back along in the afternoon we were as careful as possible and kept the highest ground so as to get a good view on this bare point to see how many deer we could count. There were upwards of forty in sight at one time. How I wish I could have had that picture.

We did not dare to start down the river until the first of June, on account of the high water. We had been told that there was a camp on the head of the river where they were cutting wood to be burned into charcoal. While we were waiting for the water to drop we took a knapsack of grub and some fishing tackle and started to find the wood choppers' camp, which we did on the second day after leaving camp. We stayed ten or twelve days at this camp, and while there a Frenchman invited me out to a lake two or three miles from their camp and fish for bass. He said he would take along a couple of traps and we would have some rats for breakfast, as we were going to camp at the lake over night. I did not say much about rats for breakfast, as I thought the man was joking. But sure enough, we had rats for breakfast, also plenty of fish.

Well, after the man had argued and plead the case of the rats from all points of view, and I had done a good deal of snuffing and smelling, I tasted, yes, I ate a piece of muskrat and I must confess it was of a fine flavor and would be splendid eating if it was not a rat. However, I have not tried any more from that day to this. I prefer partridge, and I have never been in a place where there were as many partridges as there were in Upper Michigan.

It is remarkable how long and well one can live on one hundred pounds of flour, twenty-five pounds lard, ten pounds salt and some bacon, (tea and coffee if one thinks he can't get along without it), in a good game and fish country with a good gun and fishing tackle.

We started on our return trip down the river on the second day of June. There had not been a man to our camp during this time. We were well satisfied with our catch with one exception, that being bear, as we only got four and they were all rather small. We had a splendid journey on our return trip down the river. We would see deer at almost every turn and once we saw a bear swimming the river. We caught lots of fish, all we could use, with hardly an effort.



Chapter XIII.

Hunting and Trapping in Cameron County, Pa., in 1869.

In my last letter on hunting and trapping in Cameron County, I promised to give Bill Earl's and my own experience in hunting in that county the next season. Well the story is not long, as we had our camp already built, we concluded not to go out into the woods until it was time to begin hunting and to put out bear traps. Accordingly on the last day of October we took a man with a team to take our traps, camp outfit and the grub stake to camp.

Going by the way of Emporium in that county, we were compelled to stay there over night, the distance being too far to reach camp the first day. At Emporium we purchased what more necessaries we needed, that we had not brought from home. We reached camp the second day about 10 o'clock. When we came in sight of the camp, Bill was walking ahead of the team with an axe cutting out brush here and there as needed. All of a sudden Bill stopped, set down the axe and looked in the direction of the shanty. When I was close enough so Bill could speak to me, he said, "I be-dog-on if the wicky is not occupied." I asked, "What with, porcupines?" Bill's reply was that he had known porkies to do some dog-on mean work, but he had never known them to build fires.

I could now see the shack, and sure enough there was a little smoke curling up from the chimney. Bill said that he hoped that there was no one there that wanted to tarry long, for he was dog-on sorry if that wicky was large enough for two families.

We found the shanty occupied alright. There was a sack of crackers set on the table and a pot of tea set in the chimney and a couple of blankets lay on the bunk. After Bill had sized up the contents of the camp, he concluded that the occupants did not intend to stay long, judging from their outfit, but Bill was mistaken. Bill said that he would proceed to clean house at any rate.

We had taken in new straw for the bunk, so we threw the old boughs and the other litter outside and burned it and went in for a general house cleaning. Just before dark, two men came in great haste. One rushed into the shack and demanded to know what in h -- - does this mean. Bill said, "nothing, just moving in is all."

Then the spokesman said, "Do you fellows pretend to own this camp?" Bill replied that we did, as we did some dog-on hard work building it at least. The one man continued to go on with a great deal of telling what he would do and what he would not, until we had supper ready, when we asked the men to eat with us. The man that had done very little talking readily consented but the other man was still inclined to bully matters, but he finally took a stool and sat up and ate his supper. After supper we learned that they were from near Wellsville, N. Y. We made arrangements for the men to sleep on the floor, or rather on the ground at the side of the bunk.

The next morning after breakfast was over, the man who proposed to run things to his own liking said that he did not see any other way but what we would all have to get along together the best way we could in the shanty. This was more than Bill could stand so he opened on the man and said, "See here, stranger, I am dog-on if a aint willing to do almost anything to be neighborly, but I am dog-on if it don't take a large house for two families to live in, and this shack is altogether too small."

It now began to look as though we were not going to be good neighbors very long, when the man that had but very little to say, up to this time, said, "See here, Hank, you know that this is not our shanty. I told you that some one would be here and want it," and he took his blankets, gun and sack of crackers and started off down the run. After the other man had done some more loud talking, he gathered up the rest of their plunder and started on after his partner with the remark that he would see us again. Bill replied that he would be dog-on pleased to have him come when we were at home.

We were a little afraid that they might return and do us some dirt, but they did not. They went farther down the run and built a sort of a shelter out of boughs and pieces of bark where they stayed about two weeks, when they went home, leaving the field to Bill and myself.

We put in two days cutting wood and calking and mudding the shanty wherever the chinking and mud had been worked out by squirrels and other small animals. As soon as we had this work done we put in our time setting our bear traps. We also built two bear pens. After we had the bear traps all set, we then began putting out small traps, setting the most of the small steel traps for fox and building more deadfalls and repairing those that we had made the year before for marten on the ridges, and along the creek for mink and coon.

After this work was done we gave more time to bear hunting. We had a good deal of freezing weather without much snow for tracking. Being very noisy under foot, we were compelled to hunt for several days by driving the deer, that is, one of us would stand on the runways in the heads of basins or hollows and in the low places on the ridges where it was natural for deer to pass through when jumped up. In going from one ridge to another, we would get a deer in this way nearly every day, and one day we had the good luck to get three bears while driving, an old bear and two cubs. We were also having fairly good luck with the traps.

The first snow that fell to make good tracking was a damp one, and hung on the underbrush so much that it was impossible to see but a few yards unless in very open timber. Here I wish to relate an incident that nearly caused my hair to turn white in a very short time. I am not given very much to superstitions or alarmed at unnatural causes, but in this case I will confess that I felt like showing the white feather.

I was working my way very cautiously along the side of a ridge and down near the base of the hill in low timber, as that is the most natural place to find deer in a storm of this kind. I had just stepped out of the thicket into the edge of a strip of open timber where I could see for several rods along the side of the hill. I had barely stepped into the open when I caught sight of some object jumping from a knoll to a log where it was partly concealed behind some trees, so that I was unable to make out what it was. I was sure that I had never seen anything like it before, either in the woods or out in civilization. I could get a glimpse of the thing as it would pass between the trees, then it would disappear behind brush or a large tree for a moment, then I would get a glimpse of it as it would move.

Sometimes it would appear white and then a fire red. I could see that it was coming in my direction. As I always wore steel gray, or what was commonly known as sheep gray clothing, which is nearly the same color of most large timber, I stepped to a large hemlock tree, leaned close against the tree, set my gun down close to my side and stood waiting to see whether the thing was natural or otherwise.

It was not long before I could see that I had been frightened without any real cause, for it was a hunter who had dressed in fantastic array to put a spell on or charm the deer. He had on a long snow white overshirt and had tied a fire red cloth over his hat and a black sash was tied about his waist. I stood perfectly quiet against the tree until the man was within a few feet of me, I could no longer keep from laughing, and I burst out with laughter. The man jerked his gun from his shoulder as he turned in the direction in which I was standing and gazed at me for a moment and then said, "You frightened me." I replied that I guessed that he was no more frightened than I was when I first caught sight of him.

Well the man explained that he always dressed in that manner when the underbrush was loaded with snow, as the deer would stand and watch him with curiosity until he was within gun shot. When in New Mexico many years after I had tied a red handkerchief to a bush to attract the curiosity of the antelope, and it reminded me of the hunter that I had seen working the curiosity dodge on the deer.

That night when I got into camp, Bill had not got in but came soon after, and he had hardly got the shack door open when he began roaring with laughter. I inquired what it was that pleased him so. "Pleased me so?" "I guess I was pleased, and had you seen the dog-on nondescript that I did, you would have laughed your boots up." I asked if he had seen the man dressed in red, white and black. Bill asked, "Did you see it too?" I told him of the hunter that I had met and talked with. Bill said that he had not been close enough to speak to it, and he was dog-on if he knew whether it was safe to get too close to the dog-on thing or not.

We had good tracking snow from this time on during the remainder of the hunting season. We now each hunted by himself, working as usual over the ground that would bring us in the locality of our traps, which we would look after and relieve any fur bearers that we chanced to get.

We met with one mishap during the season. Well along toward December I went to one of the bear traps that we had not been to in a number of days. The trap was a blacksmith made one with high jaws. I found the trap a short distance from where it had been set, tangled in an old tree top with a bear's foot in it. The bear had been caught just above the foot. As the trap jaws closed tight together the trap clog had got fast solid in the brush soon after the bear had been caught. The animal twisted and pulled until he had unjointed the foot, worn and twisted off the skin and cords of the leg and was gone. He had escaped some time during the night before I came to the trap.

I reset the trap and then took the trail of the bear, which had taken a northeasterly course. I followed the trail until nearly night, when I became satisfied that he was making for a large windfall on a stream known as the South Fork, some fifteen miles away. I gave up the trail and returned to camp, which I reached about 10 o'clock at night. Bill was still keeping supper warm for me well knowing that something was out of the ordinary and wondering what it was.

The next morning we held a council and concluded to look after a few traps near camp and put in a day of partial rest and prepare to take the bear's trail early the next morning. As planned the next morning, we had our blankets and a grub stake strapped to our backs and were off for the trail some time before daylight. Striking the bear's trail where I had left it about 9 o'clock in the forenoon, we followed the trail good and hard all day through wind jams and laurel patches, coming to the big windfall just before dark, very tired.

We put up a rude shelter and camped for the night at the edge of the windfall. In the morning as soon as it was light enough to travel without danger of passing over the trail we were on the move. There were several hundred acres in the windfall so we concluded to go around and make sure that the bear was still there. Bill skirted the jam to the left while I went to the right. Not long after daylight it began to snow. We met on the east side of the jam about 11 o'clock without seeing anything of the crippled bear track, though I had crossed the trail of two bears that had gone into the jam two or three days before.

We now concluded to go back to where the two bears had gone into the jam and one of us stand near the trail while the other one would drop below the trail and work around on the opposite side and drive them out if he could. The wind was blowing strong from the northeast, which would make it next to impossible for the bears to wind the watches. Bill said that he would watch as he could stand the cold weather better than I could. It was now snowing very hard, and we knew that the bears were aware of the approaching storm and had gone to the windfall to go into winter quarters. Chances were that they would not come out unless driven by getting close on to them. We were in hopes that the three bears might be all in one nest, and that the one that did the driving would stand a fair chance to get a shot at them as they left.

I made my calculations from what I knew of the jam about where the bear would lay. Good luck was on my side this time and I hit it just right, coming on to them from the opposite side from where they had gone in, but I did not see or hear them when they went out. The first thing I knew of their whereabouts was when I came on to where the bears had been breaking laurel brush for their bunk. Will I did some fine looking and listening, but all to no purpose, as they had got the wind of me and had gone out. Undoubtedly they would not have done this had they been in their nest a few days longer and had got well to sleep.

They had gone in under two large trees that had been blown out by the roots. They had taken dry rotten wood torn from the two old trees that formed the root to their winter quarters, and with laurel brush and other matter they had made very good quarters for the winter. I soon discovered that the lame bear was not with the two other bears. I did not follow the trail very far when I came onto the trail of the lame bear going on still further into the jam, but I did not follow it but continued on after the two bears to learn what luck Bill had had. I heard no gun shot and was afraid that the bear had not come within gun shot of Bill, although the bears were following nearly back on their trail that they went in on.

When I came to the edge of the wind jam, I saw that the bear had of a sudden made some big jumps down the side of the hill. One of them had turned back into the jam while the other had followed down the hill, and Bill's track was following the trail. I did not go far when I saw Bill tugging away at the bear trying to draw it down to the hollow and near where we had camped the night before.

It was still snowing very hard, and after getting the bear down to the hollow and near to what was called in those days a wagon road -- a near trail cut out through the woods -- we went to the camp where we had stayed over night and rebuilt the fire and ate a lunch. We had not eaten anything since morning, not wishing to spare the time. It was snowing so hard, and as we knew that we would not be able to reach camp until well along in the night, we concluded to again use the camp of the night before. We gathered a few more hemlock boughs and made the shelter a little more comfortable and went to roasting bear meat on a stick to help out the grub we had brought with us, so that we could look further for the lame bear the next morning.

When morning came, it had snowed more than twelve inches, and as we were satisfied that the lame bear would not leave the jam, we concluded to go down the run about five miles to where a man lived by the name of Reese. Arrangements were made with him to get the bear down to his place where we could get it later. From Mr. Reese's we went to camp and waited a few days for the snow to settle a little. On the way back to camp we looked at two or three bear traps and found a small bear in one of the traps, and the last bear that we got during the season.

We now began to take in the bear traps as we came near one on the way to camp. The snow was so deep we were obliged to reset the most of the small traps, although we had when setting out the traps taken every precaution to set in such places as would afford them all the shelter possible. After tending all the traps again, we went once more to see if we could route the lame bear. We spent two days searching the windfall in every quarter, but were unable to find a trace of the track. We were quite positive that she was still somewhere in the jam, but the snow had fallen so deep that it had completely obliterated all signs.

Two years later I was one of a party that killed a bear and captured her two cubs. The old bear had one foot gone. I am quite sure that it was the one that had escaped from our traps.

We now put in the time hunting deer and looking after the small traps until about the first of January, when we pulled all of our traps and went home. This ended my hunting with William Earl, one of the best pards that I ever hit the trail with, or followed a trap line. Bill left these parts and went back east to his native state, and after a time I lost all trace of him.



Chapter XIV.

Hunting and Trapping in Cameron County.

It will be remembered that when Mr. Earl (or Bill, as I preferred to call him,) and the writer followed the bear from the Kinzua in McKene County, through Cameron County, that we saw signs of bear, deer, marten and other game quite plentiful in the region of Baley Run, Salt Run and Hunt's Run, and that we concluded to pitch our camp in that quarter. As there were no huckleberries in the vicinity of our homes, we decided to kill two birds with one stone, that was to pick some huckleberries and build our camp for the next season's hunt.

Accordingly about the last days of July, we took a team and our outfit for camp building and started for Hunt's Run by way of the Sinnamahoning and Baley Run. At this time the country in that section was an unbroken forest of pine, oak and hemlock with a goon sprinkling of chestnut. As the saying was in those days, "God owned the land in that section," so all we had to do was to go into the woods, select our camp site and proceed to build. (Boys, let me stop long enough to say it is different nowadays; you must go through a whole lot of red tape and get a permit to camp and the permit only lasts two weeks, when you must get a renewal.)

The site we selected for our camp was on the left-hand branch of Hunt's Run. We rolled up the usual box log body, about 10 x 14 feet. We put up a bridge roof, putting up about four pairs of rafters and then using three or four small cross poles for roof boards. We then peeled hemlock bark, making the pieces about four feet long, which we used for shingles to cover the roof with. After the roof was completed, we felled a chestnut tree which we split into spaults about four feet long. With these we chinked all the cracks between the logs, striking the axe into the logs, close to the edge of the chinking and then driving a small wedge in the slot made by the axe to hold the chinking in place.

Next we gathered moss from old fallen trees and stuffed all the cracks, using a blunt wedge to press the moss good and tight. We then begun on the mason work. We found a bank of clay that was rather free of stones and made a mortar by using water, making the mortar about as stiff as mortar usually used in house plastering. The chinking and mossing had been done from the inside, while we now filled the space between the logs good and full of mortar, or rather mud.

The next work was to take the team and haul stones, which we found along the run and put up the fireplace. Considerable pains was taken and we done a pretty good job, as we hoped to use this camp for a number of seasons. After the fireplace was completed, we hung a door, using hinges made of blocks of wood and boring auger holes through one end. Shaping the other end on two of these eyes to drive in two holes boring into the logs close to the door jams. The other two eyes were flattened off and made long enough for door cleats as well as to form a part of the door hinge. Now a rod was run through these eyes or holes in these pieces. This formed a good, solid door hinge. Then a door latch was made from a slat of wood, which worked on a pin in a hole bored in one end of the slat and a hole bored through the door. A small hole in the slat and a string tied to latch and run through a hole in the door furnished the means of raising the latch. A loop for the latch to work in and a catch on the door jam and the door was complete.

We next put in the window and made a bunk or bedstead from small poles and the hut was completed. I think we were about four days doing the work including an hour or so each day spent in picking huckleberries enough for our special need. Now as the camp was completed, we began to search for a place where we could find berries more plentiful than we had found them near camp. On the hillsides facing the river, where there were barrens, we found more.

While searching for huckleberries we found a deerlick or salt log, which the deer were working good. Bill said he guessed we had better appropriate the loan of the lick for one night to our own use, and see if we could not get some venison to take home with us as well as huckleberries.

When the sun was about an hour high, we took our guns and went to the salt log. There was no blind made to get in to watch them. We selected two jack pines that stood near together and we each climbed into a tree, breaking some of the boughs out that obstructed our view in the direction of the lick and laid the boughs across some limbs to sit on. We had scarcely got our seats fixed when I heard the crack of a limb off to our left. I whispered to Bill and pointed in the direction I had heard the breaking of the limb. Bill shook his head, to indicate that he had not heard anything, but had hardly done so when I saw Bill begin to cautiously shift his gun from the way it was pointed and slowly move it so as to shoot to his left. When he had the gun worked around so it pointed in the direction in which he wanted it, he began to raise it slowly to his shoulder. I thought to myself, that means venison for breakfast. I thought right, for when Bill touched the trigger and his gun spoke, I saw two yearling deer jump into sight and my gun came to my shoulder from habit, but there was no need to shoot.

The second jump that the deer made one of them fell dead, the other one ran a few rods, stopped and looked back to see what had become of his mate. Bill's gun came to his shoulder like a flash, but I hollowed, "Don't shoot." Bill dropped his gun and said, I came dog-on-nigh making a fool of myself. We got down from our perches and dragged the deer (a yearling buck) out away from the lick, removed the entrails and Bill made a knapsack of the carcass and started for camp.

The sun could still be seen shining on the highest peaks of the hills. Bill said, "That fun was over with too quick; I had one of the most comfortable seats I ever had. I had no time to enjoy it, when you called my attention to those little bucks and spoiled all my comfort." We got to camp before dark and stripped the skin from the deer, spread it out, cut all the meat from the bones, layed it on the skin, sprinkled some salt over it, then wrapped the meat up in the skin, saving out a few choice pieces to frizzle over the coals and eat with our lunch before bunking in for the night.

We had seen some parties, while picking berries during the day. They told us that there was a man by the name of Sage living down on the river near Emporium, who had a large clearing on the hill only about a mile from where we were, or about two miles from our camp. He told us in which direction we would find the field, and said that we would find Mr. Sage there, as he was up there cutting oats. As the grub stake for the horses was getting rather low, and as we were not yet ready to go home, Bill said that if I would stay and jerk the venison (for here we cannot keep venison by hanging it up in a tree, or on a pole, as you can on the Pacific Coast or in the Rockies), he would go and see Mr. Sage.

In the morning I began preparation to jerk the venison, while Bill went in search of grub for the horses. There was no road, but there was but very little down timber in the woods in those days, only occasionally a wind jam, which you had to work your way around. Bill found the clearing all right, and got oats in the bundle for the horses. Bill also made arrangements with Mr. Sage to bury eight bushels of potatoes and leave them on the hill where we could get them as we wished. Bill also killed a large rattlesnake on his way to the field, which he brought to camp, where we skinned and took out the oil. When we were skinning the snake Bill remarked, "that he thought the fur rather light on the varmint, but it was a pretty cuss." Let me say that at our place on the head waters of the Allegheny we had no eels, rattlesnakes or wartelberries, so we concluded that we would stop one night on the Sinnamahoning and get some eels to take home with us.

While Bill was gone for horse feed I was busy jerking the venison. I gathered a good hill of dry hemlock bark from the logs, burned it to a good pile of live coals. I now made a rack or gridiron by driving four crotched stakes in the ground about the embers and then laid small poles across in the crotches to form a rack to spread the venison on over the coals. I stood hemlock bark up about the rack, freshly peeled from the tree and covering the top over also with bark, which forms an oven. It is necessary to remove the top or cover occasionally and turn the meat, and say, boys, next June when you are out camping just kill a small deer and prepare the meat as described. Is it good? I guess yes.

Having our work completed at the camp, the next morning after we had got the horses fed and the venison prepared, we drove back onto Baleys Run. Here we camped near the mouth of the run, and that night we set fifty eel hooks, some in the run and some in the main Sinnamahoning. I think that we caught twenty-two eels and some trout. As we were now in a section where there were some barrens, which contained good huckleberry picking, we put in the next day picking berries until near night, and drove home at night, a distance of about twenty miles. All the time while picking berries, setting eel hooks and trout fishing, of which we did enough to supply our needs, we kept a close watch for signs of animals that we intended to take in later on.

We saw signs of mink, coon and where an otter had been at play on a steep bank of the run. We saw signs of bear in several places where they had torn old logs to pieces in search of grub and ants. We saw at one place where a bear had dug out a woodchuck, and I should judge by the amount of digging he had done that he earned his chuck. We saw considerable signs of bear in the huckleberries, and of them will have more to say later on.

* * *

About October first, Bill and your humble servant again started for camp, which we found all right. From all appearances it had been occupied for several days by someone, probably berry pickers, and as usual they had burned up what wood we had cut. Bill made a little kick, and said they were welcome to the camp, but he would be "dog-on" pleased if they would cut what wood they burned. Our first week in camp was spent in cutting a good supply of wood and mudding the shack a little in places where we failed to do good work the first time.

Being located well up at the head of the streams, it made it necessary for us to do a good deal of traveling to get from one stream to another where the water was of sufficient size to afford good trapping ground. Steel traps being none too plenty with us now, we started in to build deadfalls. The territory so far as trapping was concerned was left to Bill and I, and we took in the waters of Baley Run, the Portage, Conley Run and Hunt's Run, as well as several lesser streams. As the Baley was the farthest from our camp, Bill said we would put up the traps on that stream first. Bill said that we would go at it man fashion, for we would be compelled to get our grub from the trap line, for there was no chance to take a wood job in that section of the country. I suggested that we might get a job at the lumber camp, where we sold the deer the year before, and get a few beans and a little pork. I guess that Bill did not like the idea, for I remember he only gave me a grunt for an answer.

Say, boys, the question of pork and beans leads me to ask how many of you who have a fireplace in your camp have a bean hole? Now, Bill and I had one in our camp, and I tell you we thought it fine and we did it in this way. We dug a hole in one corner of the fireplace about two and a half feet deep and about eighteen inches in diameter, using the regular old style of bake kettle. This is merely an iron pot, with a close fitting flange lid so as to seclude all dust and ashes, and we used it in this way. We would first rake a good lot of live coals from the fireplace into the bean hole, having the beans already in the kettle. Then we would put the kettle down in the hole and rake the hole full of live embers, being careful to cover the hole over with plenty of ashes.

We prepared the beans about in this fashion: After washing we soaked them for about twelve hours. The water was drained off and the beans were then put into the kettle with the necessary trimmings, which consisted of a good chunk of pork put in the center of the beans, and two or three smaller pieces laid on top, a pinch of salt providing that the pork was not sufficiently salty. A spoonful of brown sugar or rather a little baking molasses and a little pepper. Now this kettle was allowed to remain three or four days in the hole without disturbing farther than to cover over occasionally with hot embers. You ask if beans are good baked this way -- we guess yes. We have heard a great deal about the famous Boston baked beans, but we wish to say that they are not in it compared to beans baked in a bean hole.

Well, to get back to the trap line. We took the Baley waters first. This was about six miles from camp, and as it was still a little earlier in the season than we cared to begin to take fur, we would build the deadfalls and have them ready to set when we thought that fur was ripe enough to begin to gather. Bill used a good heavy axe, and would cut the dead pole and bed pieces and the stakes and fit them all ready to put up. He would then go on and select a place to build another trap and get the material all ready as before and then move on to the next place. I would follow him up and build the trap, make the bait pen and have the trap all ready to set when the right time came. The triggers we would make evenings in camp. We always used the three-stick trigger, for then we could adjust the trigger so that we were sure that the front legs of the animal were over the bed piece, when the trap was sprung. In that condition there was not get-away for the animal that tried to snip the bait. We would build traps on one stream until we had a plenty for that stream. We would take up another and put in a supply on that stream, and so on until we had gone over as much ground as we could work to good advantage.

All the time we were putting up these deadfalls we were keeping a watch out for likely places to set our steel traps for fox and other animals. After we had gone over the streams we built the necessary deadfalls in the dark, heavy timbered sections where we thought likely that there might be marten. As it was now well along toward the last of October, we set our bear traps on the different ridges in the sections where the chestnut timber was the most plenty. The chestnut crop was good and we knew that the first hard freeze would open the burs. Bill said we got to get a move on us from early in the morning until after dark when we would get into camp. We wished to get all the traps out now that we could. Later we were going to put in some time gathering chestnuts, as soon as they began to fall, as there was good money in gathering them. At this business there was lively competition with the squirrels, coons, bears and other animals to see which could gather the most, so naturally there is but a few days good picking after the chestnuts fall.

Bill said that we would be in a deal while the nuts lasted and we did, for we gathered several bushels. I do not just remember how many now, but that wasn't all we got while we were gathering chestnuts. One day we came to where a bear had been raking for nuts and as it was only about a mile from camp I said to Bill that it might be possible that if we would stay out and watch for Bruin as long as we could see to shoot, we might get a shot at the bear. Bill said that he preferred to let the traps do the watching. There was a little mist of rain falling, and just the right kind of weather for Bruin to be prowling around. Some way it seemed to me if we stayed and watched we would get a shot at a bear, but Bill had no faith and said that I would get good and wet for my trouble. I told him that if he would take what nuts I had gathered along to the shanty, I would stay and watch awhile at least. Bill agreed, and said that he would have a hot supper ready for me when I came to camp. I suggested to Bill that he have the frying pan hot when I got there, for I would bring in some bear meat for supper. Bill said that I need not bother to skin his, as he would eat his hair and all.

As soon as Bill was gone I selected a point where I could see down the hill, as well as over a good stretch of the top of the ridge. I had only fairly picked my ground to watch when I heard the brush crack close to me from behind. My gun came to my shoulder as I turned in the direction of the noise, and there stood Bill a-grinning. I asked him what had changed his mind. He said that if I could stand it he could, so he stepped along the ridge a few yards and I leaned up against a large hemlock tree. He had scarcely taken his stand when all of a sudden I saw him begin to slowly raise his gun to his shoulder. I knew that he was about to shoot at something, but thought it must be a deer. I thought that I ought to shout and scare it away, for I thought that Bill had come back on purpose to beat me out of the sport, and I guessed right. Bill said after he had started to camp it seemed to him that he had done wrong in leaving me to watch alone, and that I would kill a bear. So he turned back and got there just in time so as not to frighten the bear away, as well as to shoot it, which was a yearling and weighed about 125 pounds, with a fine pelt.

Bill apologized for the little trick. Said he would never do anything of the kind again. He never did. A good reason being that another opportunity never occurred. But later I will tell how I got the laugh on Bill. The next morning Bill took the saddles of the bear to Emporium and sold the meat, but he said that bear meat was not at a premium in Emporium. I think he got about $6.00 out of the saddles. While Bill was gone to Emporium I took two bear traps and went on to a ridge where I thought would be the most likely place to catch a bear, as there was considerable beach timber on that ridge in places. Beach nuts last long after chestnuts are gone, and bear would be likely to work in this timber. As we had not got all of our small traps out yet, Bill said that if I would finish setting the rest of the small traps, he would put in the most of his time hunting deer, as the leaves were now pretty well off from the undergrowth, so that the woods were now quite open. This I agreed to, as I knew Bill to be a good deer hunter, while I was a little skeptical as to some of his trapping methods.

Well, as the busy season was with us now, it was an early breakfast and a late supper day after day. Yet we were able to keep up the pace from the natural stimulating desire for sport, being anxious to know what the results of the next day would be. We were having the usual success of the average hunter and trapper who, as Bill said, if willing to get a move on, our supply of meat and game was never lacking, for I always shot at small game when hunting deer. Bill said that he did not like to come into camp empty handed, so he would shoot a grouse or a squirrel whenever a chance occurred. We had no snow up to this time, so that deer hunting was a little dull, and Bill said that he would take a line of traps, either on Baley Run or on the Conley, as I liked. I said, take your choice, Bill, so he said he would go to Conley Run, which was a little farther from camp than the Baley Run, and one or two more bear traps than on Baley Run.

I found a coon or two, and I think I got a fox and one marten, but no mink or other furs. I found that a bear had been to one trap and torn down the bait pen and taken the bait, but left the trap unsprung. I knew that he would cut the same trick again, if I set the trap there, so I bent over a small sapling and hung the carcass of a coon on it for a bait. The carcass hung four or five feet from the ground.

I set the trap under the carcass and said to myself, "Old fellow, when you take that coon, there will be a bear dance." I got to camp long after dark, but when I came in sight of camp and looked for a light, there was no light to be seen, or any Bill to be found in camp. I lit a light and looked at my watch. It was only a few minutes of eight o'clock. I got supper and waited until nine o'clock, but no Bill came, so I laid down on the bunk to rest, expecting Bill to turn up every minute.

I dropped to sleep and when I awoke, the fire had burned out and Bill had not returned. I looked at my watch. It was after three o'clock, and I knew that there would be no more sleep for me. I went outside and listened, but no sound could be heard. I got my breakfast, put an extra lunch in my knapsack, and sat down and waited for the break of day. As soon as the first streaks of light appeared in the east, I strapped on my knapsack, took my gun and started in the direction in which I had known Bill to take. I followed the ridge to the Conley Run waters, over which Bill would likely come if he had been detained in that region.

When I came to the head of a run that led to the main Conley waters, I stopped at the brow of the hill. I could look down into the hollow. Here I knew that I could be heard for some distance. I listened for some time to see if I could hear a gun shot or any other noise that would lead me to the whereabouts of Bill. Not a sound to be heard, not even the hoot of an owl. I gave a long whoop and then listened, but still no answering sound. I again gave a long continued "co-hoop" and Bill burst out laughing, and asked what was the matter with me. Bill had sat down on a fallen tree that lay close to a large pine tree to rest before making the last pull to the top of the ridge. He had caught a glimpse of me just before I came to the brow of the hill where I stopped to send a wireless message. Bill skulked behind a pine tree to see what I would do and give me a scare, when I came along.

When I inquired what had kept him out all night, he said that he got so big a job on his hands that he could not get to camp. Bill said that he had got about half way down the side of the hill from the ridge leading down into the Conley River, when he jumped a buck, which Bill said slid down the hill like a greased rag. He fired at the pile and happened to catch him well back to the hips. The deer being wounded through the small intestines made it very sick, but it was still able to lead Bill a merry chase. Bill had been working from the middle of the forenoon until about three o'clock in the afternoon before he was able to get in a finishing shot on the buck. While following the deer, he had come near one of the places where we had a bear trap set and found that a bear had been caught. He followed the trail a little ways, and as it led in an opposite direction from that taken by the deer, Bill said he thought he would finish one job at a time, so he continued after the deer.

Before Bill was able to get in the finishing shot on the deer, it had swung around in the direction of the trail of the bear, so that when Bill finally got the buck, he knew that he could not be far from the trail of the bear. He hung up the saddles of the deer, which he had started to take to camp, and let the bear rest until the next morning. After hanging up the saddles he didn't search long until he found the trail of the bear, and followed the trail only a little ways, when he found Bruin fast in a clump of brush. Bill then killed the bear, and taking out the entrails, rolled the carcass up over a log and again started for camp with the deer saddles. He did not go far when it was so dark that it was difficult to travel and carry the deer saddles and gun, so Bill said he thought he would build a little shelter and camp for the night.

Bill had started for camp with the saddles of the buck as soon as he could see to travel. He was near the top of the ridge on his way to camp and had sat down to rest when I came to the brow of the hill and began to "co-hoop" to see if I could get any word from him, which I did and much closer than expected. Bill brought his load up to where I was, and threw it down with the remark "I suppose that you did not think to bring along an extra lunch, did you?" When I told him I had the extra lunch, and also a bottle of tea (Bill being a great hand for tea). Well, said Bill, "then we are all right, once more." We now hung the deer saddles up, and went back after the bear. After setting the bear trap again, as Bill did not have time after he had killed the bear, we started to carry the bear to camp whole. We soon found it too heavy to carry that way, so skinned it and hung up the foreparts and took the skin and hindquarters.

The next morning, we went back after the deer. We went to where Bill had left the fore parts of the deer; then we went to where the fore parts of the bear were left, intending to take them as far as where the deer saddles were and leave them there, and take the deer saddles to camp. When we got to where the bear meat had been left, we found that a cat had been there, and filled his shirt on bear meat. It was not far to where we had a steel trap setting. I told Bill to go on slowly with the deer meat, and I would go and get the trap and set it for the cat. Bill said that he thought that would be the right thing to do, as there was a two dollar bounty on wild cats. He said we could carry the pelt of the cat a great deal easier than we could tote the bear meat; he thought that the cat skin and the bounty would even things up for the bear meat.

I soon had the trap set for the cat, and then hurried on to catch Bill. We went to camp with the deer and the next morning we took the bear and deer saddles to Emporium and shipped them to New York. The distance that we toted those saddles must have been ten or twelve miles. Say boys, won't a man do more hard work to get thirty cents out of a coon skin, or a saddle of venison, or bear, than he would to get thirty dollars in some other way? As it had been three or four days since we had been over a good part of the trap line, we now got back to regular business, each one taking up his line of traps. Each night when he came to camp, we would have some kind of pelts to stretch, either two or three coon, a mink or two, as many more fox, with now and then a marten. It would take the evening to stretch the pelts and tell our day's experience just what particular trap we got that or this fox in, or that mink or coon; just how clever some shy old fox has worked to get the bait at a certain trap; on what particular ridge or point we had seen Old Golden's track (you know all large buck deer have the name of "Old Golden".)

Every man of the woods or trap line knows what pleasure there is in relating the experience of the day's hunt or of the trap line to his pard during the evening in camp. Yet, I will tell of one occurrence though I have told the story many times, and I cannot say that I relate it with any great amount of pleasure. Still since many years have passed, I have often laughed over the circumstance. I can still see that sympathetic grin of Bill's, when he would ask "if it hurt me much."

It was a lowery morning, and Bill proposed that we go together and look after a line of traps on Salt Run, and then put in the balance of the day still-hunting deer. We went down to the lower end of the line, worked up the run so as to be near the top of the ridge and in a locality where we expected deer to be. We had not looked at more than three or four traps, when we came to one that was set under the bank. The trap chain was stapled to a root, and was stationary (and let me say here that I believe it bad policy to fasten a trap to anything, stationary) and it certainly was in this case for me. The water was quite deep right at the point where the trap was set and came close up to the bank. In order to see the trap, it was necessary to lie down on my stomach, and lean my head over the bank.

When I looked down under the bank, I saw that there was some animal in the trap. The trap chain was drawn tight and when I drew gently on the chain I could tell that some kind of an animal was in the trap. I little suspected that it was loaded, as it proved to be. I could not see what sort of an animal it was, but supposed it was a mink. It did not like to be drawn out in sight, and I was afraid to pull too hard on the chain for fear I would draw his foot out of the trap. I let up and straightened up to consult Bill, as to the best thing to do. Bill said, pull him out and if he gets away, we will get him at another trap, and I now suspect that Bill knew what was coming. I leaned down over the bank and stuck my head down to see where the chain was. All of a sudden I was struck with something more terrible than lightning if not quite so fatal, and for the next half hour I was rolling on the ground and washing my eyes. Bill said that I danced the Bear dance and a Pot Full of Catfish all at the same time. When I recovered enough to see what "hit me", I found that I had been terribly shot by a measly skunk square in both eyes. Bill was grinning and asking "if it hurt much" and telling me that I could see better after a little and lots of other sympathetic nothings. I hope that none of you may ever have the experience that I met with by the treatment of that infernal skunk.

After the atmosphere and my eyes had cleared somewhat, we went on and looked after the balance of the traps on the run. We then started out to hunt deer, Bill taking one side of the ridge and I the other. I saw nothing more of Bill until I reached camp long after dark. I worked along the different spires of the main ridge and through the heads of the different basins, and only got a glimpse of an old buck's tail, making over the ridge and beckoning me to come on. He had come over from the opposite side of the ridge and had got wind of me before he was fairly in sight. I kept on working the different points and basins, shaping my course as best I could in the direction of the camp.

A drizzling rain kept up all day, and deer had not moved very much. I felt confident that towards evening the deer would come out in the open to feed in spite of the rain, and pretty well toward night I had the satisfaction of seeing three deer feeding along the hillside and coming in my direction.

The wind was in my favor, and as the deer were rather too far to shoot, I stood quiet, only occasionally moving from one tree to another as a favorable opportunity occurred. The deer finally worked up in gun shot, and they proved to be an old doe, a yearling and the doe's fawn. The yearling was undoubtedly the doe's fawn of the year before. I was very careful to make a sure shot on the doe. The yearling and the fawn only took a few jumps when the gun cracked and the doe went down, and stood looking at the old lady to see what had happened to her. I gave the yearling the contents of the other barrel. He made a jump or two and went down, the fawn still standing and wondering what was taking place, but before I could get a load into my gun, the little fellow thought it best to move on.

I took the entrails out of the two I had shot, hung them up and took a lively pace to camp. Bill was already in and had supper waiting. Bill asked me if I had seen any deer, and when I told him what I had done, he said that he had seen a deer. I told him that if he had used a little skunk eye-opener, he probably would have seen some deer.

As it had now been three or four days since we had made the rounds of the bear traps, we concluded that we would not spend any particular time in deer hunting until we had looked all of the bear traps over. We were quite sure that some of the traps would be likely to be in a mixup with bruin as the weather had been favorable for bruin to be prowling around. Further we had seen several fresh tracks in the past few days. Early in the morning with an extra lunch in our knapsack we started out to see what luck with bruin, each taking a different route.

Bill went to Baley Run, while I went to Conley Run. I had not gone far out on my road, when I came across a man that had been out as he said, hunting deer. But from the story he told, I judged that he had put in the greater part of his time hunting himself, and he was still lost.

The man informed me that he was from Lockhaven, Pa., and that his name was Henry Jacobs; and that he was boarding at a farmhouse on the Portage but had gotten a little mixed and was unable to find his way out to his boarding place. I told him that I was on my way to the Conley waters to look after some bear traps, and if he wished he could go with me to the main branch of the Conley. Then he could follow the stream down until it emptied into the Portage, and to the road which would take him to his boarding house, which Mr. Jacobs seemed pleased to do. But it proved that Mr. Jacobs' destiny was in other directions.

The first bear trap that we came to, we found a "porky" in it. I could see that Mr. Jacobs was very much excited and began to ask many questions as to bears and bear trapping. When we came to where the second trap was setting, we found things generally torn up and the trap gone, and it was plain to be seen that it was no cub that had taken the trap this time. The bear had gone only a few yards, when he had gotten fast in some saplings, and he had gnawed the brush and raked the trees and "raised Ned" generally; but had finally released the clog and had gone on down the hillside.

By this time I had discovered that Mr. Jacobs had become pretty nervous and was shaking rather too much to do good shooting. At every rod we advanced along the trail, it was plain to be seen that Mr. Jacobs was becoming more and more excited. We did not follow the trail far when we discovered Bruin fast again. We went up within a few yards of the bear, who did not seem to like our company and would chank his jaws and snort similar to an angry hog.

I told Mr. Jacobs to shoot the bear, and he did shoot somewhere, but I could not say that he shot in the direction of the bear. As my attention had been on the bear, I had not noticed Mr. Jacobs in particular, but when I saw that he had entirely missed the bear, I looked at him and he was shaking so from excitement, that he could not have hit a barn, and drops of sweat stood all over his forehead. He had a double barrel rifle, and as soon as he fired the first shot, he advanced a few steps toward the bear and fired again, and at once began to reload his gun, all the time going nearer to the bear until I was afraid that he would get so close that the bear could reach him. I had to caution him and tell him to step back, that he was getting too close.

When Mr. Jacobs had one barrel of his gun loaded, he immediately fired again, with the same results of the other two shots. I told him to take my gun and try it, which he did with no better results. Mr. Jacobs was all the time becoming more and more excited, and the sweat was running off him like a man in the harvest field. I loaded my gun, while Mr. Jacobs was loading his, and after Mr. Jacobs fired another shot with no better results, I though that the fun had gone far enough, and shot the bear.

After the bear was dead, Mr. Jacobs wondered why it was so hard to hit a bear's head. "Just look at it," he said, "it is as large as a dry goods box". As soon as the bear was dead, Mr. Jacobs wanted to know if I would sell the bear. When I told him that I expected to sell it, he asked what it was worth. I told him that I thought the hide and meat would bring thirty or thirty-five dollars. He drew out his purse and said, "I will take it." I told him that if he wanted the bear, that we would call it twenty-five dollars, as he should have something for his part in the game. He declared that the hunt had been worth a hundred dollars to him.

We made a sort of a litter or drag rack with which we managed to haul the bear down the hill to an old lumber road where it could be reached with a team.

Not long after this I received a copy of the Williamsport Sun containing the report of a monstrous bear captured by Mr. Jacobs in the wilds of Cameron County. It was a bear story equal to the one the prophet relates when the children called him Baldy.

When I got to camp I found Bill stretching a couple of mink skins. He had also got a fox or two, and said that a bear had been in one of the bear traps, but had escaped, leaving two toes in the trap. Bill was considerably down at the heel over the escape of the bear, and said that if he had attended to the trap the day before, that the bear was then in the trap; that he had put up a hard fight before he had made his escape.

When Bill called for my report I took out a marten skin and the money that I got for the bear and layed them on the table and told Bill there was my count. Bill said that I got the marten from one of the deadfalls, but he was dog-on sorry if he could tell where I caught the money. When I told him about Mr. Jacobs and the capture of the bear, Bill said he would have given a summer's work to have been there and seen the man sweat.

I said that I would relate how it happened that I got even with Bill for the bear that he killed on my watching grounds.

Well, after we had gone the rounds of the traps, we again put in our time still-hunting. Bill had gone south of camp, while I went east. I had traveled until the middle of the afternoon without having any luck or seeing any deer. So I shifted my course to the west and worked my way in the direction of a "burn-down" that was in the head of a hollow. As soon as I came to the brow of the ridge and looked down into the basin I saw four deer feeding and working towards me. The wind was blowing directly from the deer towards me, so I stood quiet and in a few minutes the deer fed up within easy range. I pulled the gun onto an old doe in the lead, and broke her down almost in her tracks. The three remaining deer made a few jumps in my direction and stopped and looked back, which gave me a good shot at a yearling buck, which also went down in my sight. The other two deer ran close by me and over the ridge into the green timber. I had hardly cut the deers' throats when Bill called out, "This is a dog-on pretty trick that you have played me."

Bill had been following these deer all day and had followed to the "burn-down" and had seen the deer on the opposite hill, but too far away to shoot. As the wind was against him he had dropped down the hollow a ways, crossed and worked up around on the opposite side to get the wind in his favor, and was just about ready to fire on the deer when I began shooting. After Bill had explained how he had been working the deer all day and then have me slip in just as he had the game bagged and swipe it, Bill claimed was dog-on mean. I cautioned Bill to hold his temper and I would call it even on the bear he swiped from me, and told him I was pleased to have him on hand to help hang up the deer.

We had worked along now up to about the middle of December with the various ups and downs that one on the trap line and trail always meet with. We had killed twelve or fourteen deer, and I think we had caught six bears and had made a fair catch of fox, mink, marten and some other furs. There had not been much snow up to this time, when a fall of 12 or 14 inches came all in one night. Bears had not denned up to this time, but we were quite sure that bruin would now go into winter quarters. We concluded to gather up the bear traps and all the small traps that were not setting in springs that did not freeze, or those setting in other likely places to make a catch. In nearly the last bear trap that we went to get, we found a bear, and when we began to skin it we found that it had lost two toes on one forefoot. We concluded that it was the same bear that had escaped from Bill's trap some time before, although it was eight or ten miles from where the trap was that had held Bruin's toes.

A day or two after the heavy fall of snow we got a letter from a man by the name of Comstock, living at Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, asking the privilege to come and camp with us and hunt deer until the season closed, the first of January. He stated that he had never killed a deer, and that he was very anxious to kill one. We wrote him to come on, and that one of us would be at Emporium on the following Friday to guide him to our camp. Friday morning I went to Emporium and found Mr. Comstock there as agreed. He had paraphernalia enough to equip a fair-sized army, so we hired a team to take the outfit to camp and also bring out the saddles of a bear and what venison we had on hand.

For three or four days Mr. Comstock hunted all by himself but had no luck in the way of killing deer, as he said it took more time to hunt the shanty than he had to hunt deer, and suggested that we all hunt in company. We had now been on the ground long enough so that we had learned all the runways. Bill said that if I would take Mr. Comstock down to a certain runway, which he had given the name of Fork Point, and place him on it, he would drive the ridge and see if he could not drive a deer to Mr. Comstock.

Bill started a bunch of five deer and succeeded in getting a shot and breaking a foreleg of a large doe. As the doe with the broken leg soon dropped out from the other deer, he was sure that the deer had start enough so that they would come through to where Comstock and I were watching, he decided to take the trail of the broken legged doe, and as good luck, the deer did come through to Mr. Comstock, and as he had an Osgood gun with four shots, he succeeded in killing a very large buck. After firing the four shots, the fun began.

Mr. Comstock was determined to take the buck to camp, as he wanted to take the deer home whole. We had a very steep point to climb for a distance of five hundred yards to reach the top of the ridge. The deer weighed about two hundred pounds. Any hunter will tell you what an awkward job it is to carry a deer of that weight lashed to a pole. Mr. Comstock would not consent to drawing the deer for fear it would rake the hair off. Well, we could not carry it up the steep point on the pole, as the swaying of the deer would throw us off our feet. Mr. Comstock said that he would carry it alone if I would help him get it on his shoulder. Mr. Comstock was a large man, weighing over two hundred pounds, but nevertheless I did not think he would be able to carry the deer and told him so. After some hard tugging we got the deer on his shoulder and he started up the hill. I started to get out of the way, and I was none too soon in doing so. Mr. Comstock had not taken a half dozen steps when back he came, deer and all, like ten thousand bricks. But as he did not break any limbs or his neck, he was bound to try it again, which he did with the same result. But this time he was quite badly bruised, and he was now satisfied to leave the deer until morning, when Bill went with us and we made a sort of a litter and carried it to camp whole; and he was a proud and happy man. When Mr. Comstock and I left the deer and decided to await reinforcements, we struck the trail of Bill, drawing a deer in the direction of camp, so we now knew why Bill had not followed the trail of the deer through to where Comstock and I were watching.

It was now about the closing time for deer hunting, so after Mr. Comstock had left for home, Bill and I put in the time until the first of March tending the small traps with the usual success of the average trapper, getting a fox, or mink or marten or some piece of fur nearly every day.

When the team which we had written home for came and got our camp outfit and our furs, we broke camp and went home to await another trapping season.



Chapter XV.

Trapping and Bee Hunting.

Comrades of the trap line and trail, as every trapper and hunter likes to know what other trappers and hunters are doing, I will tell of some of my last season's (1908) doings. Having been somewhat relieved from my old enemy -- rheumatism -- I concluded to take a trip south and see if I could not find a place suitable to my liking where I might escape some of the rigorous cold of the Northern Pennsylvania winters.

I went first into Southeastern Missouri. Here I found land cheap, unimproved lands ranging from $3.00 to $15.00 per acre; also plenty of timber for fuel and building purposes; plenty of fish of various kinds, some deer, a few wild turkeys, no bear, some mink, plenty of raccoon, a few otter and fox; with minor other fur-bearers, which was all quite satisfactory to me, but I did not like the water.

From Poplar Bluff, Missouri, I went to Kenset, Arkansas, where I found the conditions as to the price of lands satisfactory, although the country was much less broken than Southern Missouri. As to water, well, there was water almost anywhere; in fact, you could hardly cross the streets without wading in water. The people who were natives of that country informed me that the water in the streets was not always so plenty, as they said that there had been very heavy rains of late. Here I found game of all kinds quite scarce, although I was told that southeast of Kenset game was quite plenty, including bear, deer, turkeys, quail, etc., and that mink, otter, coon, opossum, also a few wolves, were to be found. The water gave me the chills in three days, so I concluded to move to other parts of the lower St. Francis River, in Lee County. There appeared to be quite a plenty of mink, otter, coon and some bear, but the cane brakes were pretty thick in the bottoms.

I think that if one was well prepared for trapping, they could do fairly well in either St. Francis or Lee County. I went from Hanes in Lee County, Arkansas, to Memphis, Tennessee. From Memphis I went to a town by the name of Shepard, on the Hatchie River, in Haywood County, Tennessee. Along the Hatchie River there were signs of otter, mink and coon quite plenty, and in some places the cane brakes were quite open. I liked the lay of the land here very well. It was just rolling enough to suit my fancy, but again I failed to find our cold, Pennsylvania spring water. From Shepard I went to Pickens, in Pickens County, South Carolina. Here I found fairly good water, but other conditions were not entirely to my liking.

While I did not have time to look up the game or rather the fur-bearers as thoroughly as I would have liked to, yet I saw considerable signs of mink and coon and was told that there were quite a number of otter in that section on some of the streams. From Pickens I bought a ticket to Columbus, Ohio, where I intended to stop over a day and call on the editor of the greatest of sporting magazines, Hunter-Trader-Trapper, but when I got to Columbus my courage failed. I was afraid that the editor would be too busy pushing the quill to bother with a lone trapper, so concluded to hasten back to old Potter, where chills, jiggers, ticks, fleas and poisonous snakes are unknown, and where the cold, sparkling spring water flows from the mountain side to your very door. Say, boys, you may think that I am stuck on the water question. Well, I am, and I have good cause to me. Only for spring water, I should not have been able to have made the journey which I am writing of.

For the past two years, barring the time I was south, I have drank from four to six quarts of cold spring water every twenty-four hours. I have got more relief from rheumatism than I ever did from all the rheumatism remedies that I ever knew of, and I have tried the most of them. I used all the salt in my food that I could to aid the desire for water, and took six drops of oil of wintergreen three times a day. Now, if any of the old trappers have rheumatism and the good spring water, I ask you to try it.

Well, after getting back home and resting a few days and the frost began to hit the pumpkin vine, I began to feel as I imagined that the wild goose does about their migratory time. At least I felt as though I should fly if I did not get into the woods. We were having splendid weather for camping, and the warm, dry, sunny days afforded splendid weather for bee hunting, and after the trap and gun then my delight is to trail the honey bee to his den tree.

One day when a young man called on me and said that he would give me an interest in a "goose pasture" to go out in the woods and camp, I was interested. Smoky Jim (that is his nickname) although his name is Charles Earl, and there is nothing smoky about Charley except his pipe, which he is very fond of, too much so, I think, for so young a man. Well, when Charley said that he would like to go and camp out in the woods, I was practically as good as gone. I knew Smoky to be a lively kid and all right, although he had never put in any time as a trapper or a bee hunter. I said, "Smoky, can you see a bee fly?" Smoky said that he thought he could, for he knew that he could tell when one stung him, but he had never watched to see how far he could see one fly.

I found that Smoky was given to making comical remarks as well as to smoking. I said, "Smoky, what day can you go?" He replied, "Any day." This was on Tuesday, so I said, "Alright, Smoky, be here Thursday and we will start early Friday morning."

Smoky said, "Alright, but we will not get a darn thing while we are gone if we go on Friday unless we get drowned, and there will have to be more water in the creek than there is now or we won't get that much."

I had already made application to the State Tourist Commissioner for a permit to camp on state lands. It may be well to state here for the benefit of those who wish to so camp in this state (Pennsylvania) that the authorities will not give a permit to camp for a longer time than 14 days. In my case they were very obliging and made out the papers for several applicants of 14 days each, so that it would only have been necessary to have signed one of the applications and send it on a few days before the previous application had expired.

We were all ready to start Friday morning. Our route lay over the mountains a distance of about 20 miles from the head waters of the Allegheny to the head water of the west branch of the Susquehana waters, known as the East Fork of the Sinnamahoning. We pitched our tent just at the point where the Buffalo and Susquehana Railroad begins to cross the divide, known as the Hogback, by means of several switch backs. It is a splendid sight to see two or three trains working their way up the mountain's side on a clear, frosty morning, when the steam and smoke show so plain.

We did not get the tent in good shape for the first night, nor did we get our bunk up, owing to its being so late when we got to our camping ground. The first night in camp we had a sharp frost and in the morning Smoky Jim's fever for camping had dropped fully one-half. He complained that any one that would go into such a country to camp should be reported for trespassing on the rights of the porcupine.

It took until the third day to get our camp in good shape. We built a skeleton frame of small poles all over the tent, leaving a space of about 18 inches between tent and frame, and thatched it good with hemlock boughs. While we were working at the camp we had our bee bait out, and the second day after we put out the bait no bees came to it. Smoky laughed at me and said that a honey bee was too intelligent to stop in a place like that, but Smoky was wrong. The next morning after the sun had got well above the top of the hills, so as to warm up things down in the valley, I heated a large stone quite hot and burned some honey comb on it. It was not long before Smoky called out to me and said that there was one fool of a bee. It was not long before we had bees a-plenty. We paid no attention to them farther than to keep plenty of bait out for them. Every bee hunter knows how much steadier a bee flies after they have the bait well located.

After the camp was well completed and a good pile of wood cut we gave our attention to the bees. We soon located two lines, one going nearly east while the other went nearly south. I told Smoky to take his hatchet and go across the creek some 50 rods and make an opening or a stand about half way between the two lines, or about southeast from the stand, and when he had it ready, to call to me and I would bring the bees over and we could get a cross line and locate nearly the tree that the bees were in.

We soon got the direction in which the bees flew. I then told Smoky to take the line that now flew in a westerly course from the stand and in the direction of two or three large maple trees. The other line now flew nearly north from the stand and back toward the creek where there was considerable large timber still standing.

Leaving the bait on the stand, I took the course of the bees that were now flying north and went to a large birch tree that was standing on the bank of the creek. I was still several rods from the tree when the bees began coming to me and I knew that the tree was close by. I was looking the different trees over to see which tree the bees were in when Smoky began to halloo as though something terrible had happened him.

Guessing at the cause of Smoky's shouting, I continued on in the direction in which the line led and soon saw the bees going into the large birch tree. I took my knife and cut the letters B T on the tree and then went to Smoky, who was still making the woods ring with his shouts.

Smoky began guying me, saying that I was an old bee hunter but it took Smoky to find the first bee tree. I did not tell him that I had found the tree that the other line of bees went to, but agreed with him. I told him to mark the tree that he had located and then he could go and locate the other tree if he wished while I would go to camp and be getting grub ready.

In about three-quarters of an hour Smoky came to camp and began washing for dinner and said not a word. When I saw that Smoky would not talk, I said, "Well, Smoky, did you find the other bee tree?" He said, "Oh! you keep right on baking flapjacks." Well, after Smoky regained his speech and told how blamed bright I was, he was going to go right to work and take out the honey from one of the trees at once. I told him that as we had no screen to put over his face, the bees would sting him to death, and that he had better wait until early the next morning when it was frosty.

Smoky said that he would not go without honey for the flapjacks when we had two bee trees so close to the camp. So he took an old burlap and removed every other thread in a space of about ten inches square, making a sort of an open-work to cover his face, then pulling the sack over his head and buttoning his coat close up about his throat Smoky was ready for the fray.

He cut the birch tree, the one that I had located, that tree being a little closer to camp. There was over a hundred pounds of honey in the tree and we had only one large pail in the camp, and that we had to have to use as a water pail. The tree did not break in falling so as to break up the honey and waste it. While we cut a large beech tree and took a block of about four feet long and split it in half and dug out two large troughs to hold the honey, which was very nice, being nearly all white honey, and Smoky said, "Old Golden, won't we live high now, rabbit, partridge, baked potatoes, buckwheat flapjacks and honey to swim in."

It was now the 20th of October. I told Smoky that we would go up the creek a mile above camp and put out the bee bait, burn more honey comb, and leave the bee box on the stand and await results. In the meantime we would take a couple of bear traps and go on to a ridge and set them. It might be possible that we would get a bear, although we had not seen any bear signs on what ground we had been over. We took the traps, Smoky carrying them, while I carried the bait. The hill was high and rough and I found it about all that I was able to do to climb although I went very slow and rested often. I did not complain, for Smoky was doing all the complaining necessary for both of us. He said that we would not catch a darn thing unless it was a cold, and he didn't think that we would get that much. It proved later that Smoky was wrong in his reckonings.

We set the two bear traps in as likely places as we could find for bear to travel, and put in the balance of the day traveling through the woods in search of bear signs. Not a track or sign could we find, and when we reached camp at night I was seemingly more dead than alive.

The next morning after we had left the bee bait on the old road bed and then climbed the hill to set the two bear traps, Smoky said that we would go down to Hull's, a distance of about three miles, and see if he could get cans to put the extracted honey in. We had made a sack from two towels and had begun to strain or extract the honey from the comb and had the water pail nearly full of strained honey, and were sorely in need of the pail to carry water in.

When I got to where we had left the bee bait, on the old road bed, I found plenty of bees at work. I soon got the line which went up the stream and a little to the left of the road and directly toward two large soft maple trees, the only trees of any size in that direction for a long distance. I said to myself, a quick job for you must be in one or the other of those maples. I left the bait and went to look for the bees in one of the two trees.

When I came to the trees, bees came to me in great numbers, but I could not see a bee going in or out in either. I was satisfied that the bees were in one of the trees, but after looking for a long time I thought that I must be mistaken, that the bees were farther on and up on the side of the hill. I gave it up and moved the bait up the road to a point about opposite where the line would strike the hillside and where several trees were left standing, making a good opening by cutting away the brush. I then released the bees from the box. After they had done much circling I was quite sure I saw two or three of them swing back in the direction of the soft maple trees.

I left the box and went along the creek in search of mink or coon signs, so as to give the bees time to get the bait well located, as they will then fly so much steadier and without doing so much circling. When I returned to the bait, the bees were flying steadily in the direction of the two soft maples and there could be no mistake this time. I took the bait down and placed it in the road opposite the two soft maples and began the second time to search the trees. After looking a long time without seeing bees going to or from the trees, I was again compelled to give it up. I began searching among the old timber, old stumps and stubs, as it was in the midst of an old bark slashing. I would search among the old down trees a while and then look over the two soft maples.

I had kept up this search from 9 o'clock in the morning until 2 o'clock in the afternoon. When I was approaching the two maple trees from the southwest side I readily discovered bees going into the tree close to and just above a large branch or prong of the tree which made it impossible to see them until the sun was just in the right position to shine square on the place where the bees entered the tree.

In my younger days I always carried a pair of climbers and a rope, so that when I found it difficult to locate the particular tree that the bees were in, when they were in thick timber, I could climb any tree no difference how large and locate the bees. This would often save much time in finding a bee tree. I would often climb a tree that stood in a favorable place on the bee line and cut off the top of the tree and make the bee stand up 30 or 40 feet from the ground. This I found a great advantage in lining bees in a thick, bushy section. That day is past with me for I am too clumsy to climb any more.

When I got to camp, I found Smoky at work putting the honey that was strained into cans and he said that he had concluded to change his name from Smoky Jim to Sticky Jim. We concluded to let bee hunting go for a day or two and set two more bear traps south of camp, although we had seen no signs of bear. Hear I will mention one of Smoky's dry remarks.

We took two bear traps and bait for them following up a hollow south from camp to the top of a ridge where there was quite a large clump of green timber still standing. When we came to the head of the hollow and near the top of the ridge where we thought would be a good place to set a bear trap, I pointed to a small scraggly beech sapling and told Smoky to cut it. Then to cut off a piece six or eight feet long for a clog. Also to measure the size of the ring in the trap chain and cut the clog off so that when the ring was put down over the end of the clog, sixteen or eighteen inches to a prong, it would fit the ring fairly close. This would make the ring or chain secure to the clog, as it would give the ring no chance to work about, while I would make a bed to set the trap in and have the trap set by the time that he got the clog ready.

It was now that I found that Smoky had brought a small hatchet weighing less than one-half pound instead of the larger belt axe, but there was nothing to do only to cut the clog with the little hatchet. So Smoky went to work cutting the clog while I went to setting the traps. After a while Smoky came with the clog and he had cut it off where it was considerably too large for the ring in the chain. I said, "Smoky, I guess you did not size that ring or the clog very much for you have got it much too large." Smoky replied readily, "Yes I did too, the tree has grown that much since I began to chop it."

After a time we managed to get the two traps set and got back to camp. That night about 10 o'clock, Smoky woke me with a punch in the ribs and at the same time saying, "Get your gun, the whole Siwash tribe of Indians are on us." On the impulse of the moment I though Smoky was right for I could hear many voices and the barking and snarling of dogs. In a moment all that had ever happened to me and many things that never did, nor can happen, passed through my mind but it was only for a moment when some one called out at the tent door saying, "Get up, you have visitors."

We asked who was there and the reply was, "Oh get up, two sleeps is better than one any time." I got up and put on my pants and unbuckled the tent door and there stood a half dozen men and as many more dogs. Two of the men had a large demijohn strung on a pole and they were carrying it on their shoulders, two more of the men had coons slung over their shoulders. The boys said that they were out coon hunting and by chance ran into our camp and thought that they would call on us and learn what we were doing. The demijohn contained cider, and the barking of the dogs was caused by getting into trouble over scraps that had been thrown about camp.

We invited the boy in and asked them to tell what luck they had had hunting coon. They said that they had only got the two coons on their way up, but thought that they would do better on their way back down the creek. The boys lived about six miles down the stream. The creek ran close along the wagon road nearly all the way so the boys would follow along the road allowing the dogs to hunt along the creek for coon. The boys concluded to stay and eat their lunch before starting back. We made them a cup of hot coffee and set out a plate of honey and the boys ate their lunch, drank cider, and told stories until nearly 1 o'clock.

They said that they had had a dandy time hunting coon along the last of September while coon were working on the corn and they said that they had killed about 30 and one wildcat. I asked if they did not think September rather early in the season to kill coon? They said that they thought that there was as much sport in it in September as at any other time of the year. I asked if there was any more sport in coon hunting in September than there was later in the season? They said that they did not know that there was. I replied that then they were out at least one-half or more on the price of the skins. They replied that it would be a queer jay that would put off a coon hunt a month for the difference that there might be in the price of a coon skin. I saw that I was up against it and that my argument had no weight in the matter, so I dropped it.

When told that we were putting in our time mostly hunting bees, the boys said that we were losing the best time of our lives by not having some good coon dogs along with us, and Smoky quite agreed with them. However, I could not see it in that light. After the boys left, Smoky and I had to laugh over the boys' jolly time until near daybreak before we could get to sleep again and we quite agreed with the boys that the second sleep was better than the first.

It was now the first of November and we had not put out any small traps, as the weather was still very warm and dry for the season of the year. Each day we could see away off to the southwest by the black heavy smoke that the forest fires that had been burning in that direction were coming nearer and nearer to us. Smoky said that he thought that a coon skin in October was worth as much as in November. He said by the time that we could get our traps out the forest fires would have the whole country burned over and all the game driven out. Smoky was not far from the mark in his prophesying.

We now began to put out the small traps at as good a "jag" as I was able to stand the travel. We had, while bee hunting at odd times, selected and prepared many of the sets so that we were now able to set out many more traps in a day than we could have done had we not fixed and selected many places for sets. The fourth day of November was a very warm day in Potter County, and as we had not tried to get any bees west of camp, I told Smoky that we had better let the balance of the traps go for a day and try the bees in that direction as it was not likely that we would have many more days that bees would fly during the season.

We went about one-half mile west of camp and put out the bee bait and burned more comb. It was not long before a bee came to the bait and then another and another, until we had several at work. As soon as the first bee that came was loaded up and began to make preparations to go, I told Smoky to keep a good eye on him to see which way he went, as the quicker we got a line the quicker we could move on.

When the bee first started from the bait, he jagged off east, then he circled so that neither Smoky nor I could tell which way he went. I told Smoky that I was afraid that the bee went back up the creek toward a tree we had already found. Smoky said that he did not know what made me think so, for no one could tell which direction that bee went. I told Smoky that I had always noticed that the way that the bee first started when leaving the bait was pretty sure to be in the direction of the tree and to get in position so that he could see well if the bee should fly back up the creek as we had no time to spare on bees flying in that direction.

It was not long before we had bees a-plenty and they came from a tree that we had already found. I told Smoky that we would leave some bait there so that those bees would not follow us, and we would move down the creek some distance before we would try for more. We moved nearly a mile, and while I was fixing a stand -- there was no stump or good place to set the box -- so I cut a stick about four feet long, an inch in diameter and split the top end into four parts, or in other words quartered the stick, then with two small sticks the size of a lead pencil, pressed down in between these quarters. It spread them so as to form plenty of space to set the box on. The other end of the stick is sharpened to drive firmly into the ground. As I was about to say, while I was fixing the stand, Smoky discovered a bee working on a witch-hazel bush close by the stand. Smoky said that he thought that the bee must have the rheumatism and was gathering Pond's Extract to bathe his joints in (it is with this shrub that Pond's Extract is made) and this was the cause of Smoky making the remark, I suppose.

It was necessary to burn comb here as we soon had three or four bees at work on the bait and in a short time we had bees a-plenty. They flew just to the right of the wagon road in a westerly direction and on to the side of a very steep hill where there was considerable standing timber. We soon got the course of the bees' flight, but there seemed to be two lines, as some of the bees would fly to the left of a large tree that stood Just on the bank of the road, while others would fly to the right of the tree. This caused Smoky to remark that we had another sticky job on our hands, saying that there was two different lines. I told Smoky that I thought not. It was all the same bees and that the bees would soon all be flying to the left or lower side of the tree.

Smoky wished to know how I made that out. I explained that I thought the bees were around the point of the hill and up a side draft that came into the main hollow some sixty rods below where we were and that the bees that were flying to the right of the tree flew in a direct line to the tree by flying up over the point of the hill then down into the hollow; those that flew to the left of the tree flew around the point of the hill and up the hollow to their tree. Smoky laughed at my idea and said that bees always flew in a straight line -- does not everybody say as straight as a bee-line?

I told Smoky that was all very well in a level and open country. That a bee knew that it was no farther around the rim of a kettle than up over the bail; that a bee was far too wise to carry a load up over a hill when he could get there in the same distance on a level; that bees in their flight would often vary their course and fly along the side of a hill to keep out of a strong wind until they were nearly opposite the tree, when they would make nearly a square turn to the tree. That they would also vary their flight from a straight line to follow an opening as a road cut out through the thick woods.

The flight of the bees, as I suspected, was soon all to the left of the tree standing on the bank of the road. We moved the bait down to the mouth of the side draft and soon had a line flying nearly up the hollow. I told Smoky to take the bees some forty rods up the hollow and make a stand while I would follow and inspect the trees that looked favorable. Soon Smoky halloed to me and said that the bees had nearly all left him. I told him to make the stand where he was. As he had passed the tree that was the cause of the bees dropping off all at once.

Just below where Smoky was and a little up on the bank from the hollow stood a large maple tree. I started to inspect the tree. Bees were flying all about me and as soon as I was near enough to the tree to see, I could see bees flying all about the tree, some forty feet from the ground. I called to Smoky and told him that the bees were treed in a large maple.

This was on the fourth day of November and was a very rare thing for bees to be working at that time of the year in this section of the country. This tree made the sixth bee tree that we had found while in camp.

This ended our bee hunting and we now put in the balance of the time, while in camp, with the traps. It will now be necessary to go back to the 20th of October to a time that Smoky said was the biggest day of his life.

On the 20th of October we started out to look at the bear traps with little hopes of getting anything more than a porcupine. Up to this time we had not seen any signs of bear, only what had been made during the summer, where the bear had dug out woodchucks and torn old logs to pieces in search of grubs, and where they had dug wild turnips. These signs were so old that we had but little hopes of getting a bear while in camp and Smoky was continually condemning the country.

We went up along a hollow that led to the top of a high ridge where we had a bear trap setting and where I thought was the most likely place to catch a bear, but found the trap undisturbed.

We next crossed a narrow ridge where we had another trap. The trap was set in a spring run and the banks on either side of the run were quite thickly grown up with low brush. Smoky was in advance a few steps so that when he came to the edge of the thick brush that grew on the bank of the run, parted the brush and looked through at the trap, he caught a glimpse of some black object moving in the run. He quickly stepped back and held up his hand, his eyes sparkling with excitement and he whispered to me, "By Moses, we have got him." Smoky being given to much joking, I asked, "What have we got?" for I had not heard any noise of any kind. Smoky said, "A bear, by long horn spoon-handle." I stepped past Smoky and looked through the brush and there was a large black porcupine moving about a little in the trap.

I stepped back and said to Smoky, "Well, shoot him." Smoky said, "No, I will miss him. You shoot him," at the same time handing me the gun. I now saw that Smoky was in earnest and surely thought we had a bear and I burst out with laughter. Smoky was amazed and said, "You blooming simpleton, what is the matter with you?" The look of anxiety and the manner in which Smoky spoke still caused me to laugh the harder.

When I could cease laughing long enough to tell Smoky what was in the trap, Smoky's change of looks of excitement and anxiety to one of disgust was pitiful. Smoky began to condemn the country and tell how foolish we were to come to such a forsaken place as that was to trap where there was nothing but porcupines.

After resetting the trap we went on to the third trap, which was setting about a mile farther north. It was necessary to cross two narrow ridges in order to reach the trap. Smoky was in a moody state of mind and lagged along behind, hunting partridges, killing two or three.

When we reached the top of the second ridge and the trap was in the hollow beyond, I heard some sort of a noise where the trap was setting, but I was unable to tell what it was. Smoky was behind somewhere on the line, but while I stood listening he came on in great haste. He had heard the same noise and was hurrying up to inquire what it was.

I told him that I was unable to tell just what it was, but was afraid that some dog had got caught in the trap as the sound came from the direction in which the trap was. Smoky said that it was a different noise than he had ever heard a dog make.

I told Smoky that I feared that it was some hound that was in the trap and was making the pitiful sort of a howl and that we must hurry on and get him out of the trap. When we were half way down the side of the hill, the noise ceased, but I could now see that the noise came from some distance farther down the run than where the trap had been set and I knew that no dog could move the trap and clog. We now went a little more quietly. I soon got sight of Bruin rolling and tumbling in a bunch of small birch saplings where the trap clog was fast, good and stout.

Smoky had not got his eye onto the bear yet, when I stopped and pointed in the direction of the bear and said, "Smoky, there is the gentleman that you have been so anxious to see." Smoky had not yet got his eye onto the bear and he said, "That's no darned dog that makes that noise. What is it? I don't see anything." "No, Smoky, it is no dog; neither is it a porky; it is a bear this time all right."

I pointed at the clump of yellow birches and said, "Don't you see him down in the gulch there?" When Smoky got his eye on the bear, you should have seen them sparkle. This was the first bear that Smoky had ever seen outside of captivity. When I told Smoky that we would go up close to the bear and he (Smoky) should shoot it, he again reached the gun to me and again insisted that I should shoot it, saying that he would surely miss it, the same as he declared in the case of the porcupine. I told Smoky that he had plenty of cartridges and that it would be some time before it would be too dark to see to shoot and that he must shoot the bear. It took a great deal of urging to get Smoky to shoot, he declaring all the time that he knew he would miss it.

I said, "Smoky, you must not shoot at the bear but at the base of the bear's ear," which he finally did and Bruin was out of his trouble almost before the smoke from the rifle had cleared away.

The bear was a large one, measuring seven feet two inches from end to end. We were unable to get it out of the woods whole. Smoky insisted that he would carry it if it was as large as a mountain. He soon gave up that idea and we cut the carcass into pieces and took part to camp and returned the next day after the balance. That night after we got to camp with the bear we had for supper bear steak, partridge, rabbit and bacon with warm biscuits and honey, baked potatoes, butter and coffee, with the necessary trimmings, which caused Smoky to remark that the country was all right for a living, but thought that society was rather limited.

The day after we had brought in the remainder of the bear, we could see the smoke from the forest fires that were burning away to the southwest, loom up thick and black. It was plainly to be seen that the fire was steadily working in the direction of our camp and was getting in close proximity to where we had a bear trap setting. I was afraid that the fire would burn sufficiently hard to spoil the trap unless it was taken up, so Smoky said that if I would "mix the muligan" (get supper) that he would go and get the trap, which I readily consented to do, telling Smoky to bring the trap down to a small creek and put the trap in the water.

Smoky got back about the time I had supper ready. He came in and put his gun up and washed ready for supper without saying a word. I saw that Smoky was looking down-hearted but thought that he was a little tired and homesick, so I did not say much to him, but after a little I said, "Charley, did you get anything in the trap?" He answered very short, saying, "If I had you would be likely to see something of it, wouldn't you?" so I said no more.

After supper was over and the dishes washed, Smoky took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me with the remark, "What do you know about that?" I unfolded the paper and found that it contained a lock of bear's hair. I said, "Smoky, what is it? Another one of your jokes?" I thought that Smoky had taken the hair from the bear that we had caught two days before. Smoky remarked that he thought that the joke was on him as much as anyone, and then explained that a bear had been in the trap and he got out.

He described the circumstances, and it was plain to be seen that the guide or stepping stick had been placed a little too close to the trap which had caused the bear to step his foot partly over on to the jaw of the trap and had only been caught by the heel, which was not sufficient to hold him, although Smoky said that the bear had put up quite a fight before it had got out. Smoky said that when he came to where the trap was set and found it gone, he thought he would have the biggest time of his life. A bear all by himself, and when he found that the bear had got away, he felt like throwing himself into the creek along with the trap. I told Charley not to take the matter to heart so, for if he followed the trap line and the trail very long that he would have many a slip just at the time that he thought he had the game bagged.

The next morning the fire was sweeping over the whole country so we hustled around and pulled all of the traps that were not setting in the water or that were not out of reach of the fire. The fire put an end to trapping for everything but a few mink along the stream.

I wish to speak of one of Smoky's dry remarks. Smoky is a strong Republican. A few days after the Presidential election we were going up a small draft to look after three or four traps that I had set for fox. The first trap that we came to was undisturbed. The second one was lying at the side of the brook all in a bunch, chain and all. Plain to be seen that it had been dropped there by human hands. As soon as I saw the trap I said, "Smoky, some one has dropped that trap there." "There has been some animal in it and it has gotten out, see, there is blood on the jaws." "Very true, Smoky, there has been some animal in the trap, but human hands took it out, for no animal leaves a trap, clog and all, lying free in that way, with the trap chain slack in that way." It only required a glance about to see that there had been a coon in the trap and had been fast. Just up on the bank there lay the club that they had used to kill the coon with. After giving my opinion of the gentleman that had taken the coon, I began to reset the trap again where it was before.

Smoky objected to again setting the trap there only for some one else to get the game again, but I told Smoky that lightning rarely struck twice in the same place so we would set the trap again. We started up the hollow and were soon discussing politics again until we came to where the next trap was setting. Just before we came to the trap, Smoky picked up an empty cartridge shell. A few yards farther on lay the second trap which had had a fox in it, as was plain to be seen by the tooth marks on the small brush and by the fur on the trap. That the fox had been shot was evident by the amount of fur that was lying on the ground where the animal had been caught.

This was more than I could stand without giving vent to my feelings. After trying for some time to find words to give the case justice, and failing, Smoky remarked with all the coolness imaginable, that there was one thing certain about it, that it was a Democrat that took the fox and coon. I was astonished at the remark and asked what he meant. "Well, if it had been a Republican that had taken them, he would have taken the traps, too."

We were now getting our trap line down to a few traps along the main creek, and we now worked those traps to the best of our skill, as we wished to get our share of the mink. We had not put out any mink traps until the first of November. The weather had been very dry and warm but as it had now turned cold and I found that I could not stand the cold as I once could, I told Smoky that we would take what mink pelts we could get in a few days and pull stakes. Smoky replied that that sort of "chin music" suited him. So after ten or twelve days of mink trapping we pulled the rest of the traps and went home, having to my idea a pleasant time.

Smoky agreed that the time was all right but he thought that the society was a little slow for him, saying that if it had not been for the boys on the coon hunt we would not have seen a half dozen persons since we had been in camp. We had not made a large catch of furs but I thought that we had done fairly well, all things considered (one old played-out trapper and a kid who had never set a trap for anything greater than a muskrat or a ground hog).

We had caught while in camp one bear, ten mink, eight coon and some other furs as shown in the accompanying picture. After we left I set a few traps about home, catching three fox and a few skunk and four more mink, making fourteen mink in all. We got $4 and $4.50 for the fox, and $4 to $6 for the mink, and from 80 cents to $2.25 for skunk, and about the same for coon. We got 30 to 40 cents each for muskrats.

This will about complete the story of my trapping for the season of 1908. I am sorry that I am no artist, as I could have sent some fine pictures, consisting of the bear in trap, as well as many other animals in traps, and other pictures that would have been interesting had I been able to take them at the right time and place.



Chapter XVI.

Hits and Misses on the Trail.

Many years ago when deer were plenty in this section of the country (North Central Pennsylvania) and dogs were allowed to run deer at their will, there being no restriction by way of law against hounding deer, I started from the house about 10 o'clock in the morning to go to some traps that I had set for mink along the creek in a swamp not far from our place. There was an old road or path that led from the wagon road down through the swamp to the creek. Along this path it was thickly grown up with laurel and other underbrush that nearly shut out the path.

I was accustomed to follow this path to the creek when going to look after my traps. On my way up to the road I heard dogs barking as though they were on the trail of something, but thought nothing of it as it was a common occurrence to hear hounds running nearly every day. I was following this path and had got within a few rods of the creek and was just about ready to climb over a fallen tree that lay across the path.

The tree lay up from the ground about a foot or so and it was perhaps three feet from the ground up to the top of the log. I was just in the act of climbing this log when a good-sized buck deer went to jump the log also and we met, head on. I had no gun and if I had would have had no time to use it. I seized the deer by the horns and forced him back from the log with a startled cry at the same time. The deer, instead of trying to get away, seemed bound to come over the log to where I was, so I held to the deer's horns, not daring to let loose.

I could keep him from raising over the log and after he tried several times to jump the log, he then tried to break loose from me, but I had the advantage of the deer owing to the log being so high that the deer could not pull me over, neither could the deer get in shape to strike me with his feet under the log. I think that I was so badly frightened at the sudden meeting with the deer, that I did not know what to do so I hung tight to the buck's horns and called as loud as I could for help, thinking that some one might possibly be passing along the road, which was not so far away, hear my call and come to my assistance, but no one came. A man by the name of Nelson lived about a fourth of a mile away, who had a large bulldog. The dog's name was Turk. This dog would follow me at every chance that he could get. As no assistance came, I had about made up my mind to release my hold on the deer as my strength was fast leaving me, when I thought to call for Turk. I began calling as loud as I could and it seemed that the dog had heard my calling before I began, for almost before I was aware of his presence the dog sprang over the log and seized the deer by the hind leg, but the dog had barely grabbed the deer when the deer kicked him away from the path into the laurel.

In an instant the dog, with an angry yelp, jumped and seized the deer by the throat and in a moment the deer ceased to struggle and began to settle to the ground. As soon as I dared to release my hold on the deer's horns I got my pocket knife out and sprang over the log and ran the knife blade into the deer's throat. The deer did not seem to notice the knife. I think that the dog had choked the life out of him. The battle was over and it was only a few minutes but it was the hardest battle that I ever had and the dog came to my assistance none too soon for I could not have held on much longer.

This did not end the fight, for I had hardly begun to dress the deer before two dogs that were in pursuit of the deer came up. I was compelled to use sticks, stones and clubs to break up a fight between the bulldog and the hounds, though I finally got the row broke up and drove the hounds off in order to keep peace.

Boys, I am not sure whether the incident just related would be called a hit or a miss. I will tell of an incident that I call a hit. A man by the name of Wells and a brother of mine were camping near the old Jersey Shore turnpike and were trapping, also hunting deer. One day they had been off on the west side of the turnpike setting marten traps and had built a number of deadfalls and had also set several steel traps for foxes. On their way home to camp they had to cross several low ridges which were good sections for deer. It was nearly sundown and just the right time for deer to be on their feet feeding so we spread out along one of the ridges in hopes that some of us might get a shot. There was a good tracking snow and deer tracks were plenty. We were on the last ridge before we dropped off into the hollow to where the camp was and it was beginning to get dark in the heavy timber. I had come out onto a short spur of the ridge and was standing looking over the ground very carefully to see if I could not see a deer feeding, when I heard a shot fired by one of the boys. In a few moments a bunch of five or six deer came in sight, making their way around the point at breakneck speed.

I opened fire on the bunch without taking aim at any particular deer, as it was too dark to get down to real business and the deer were in too much of a hurry to change their feeding grounds to give me very much of a show. I was not stingy of my ammunition and pumped lead at the bunch as long as I could guess where the deer were. As soon as I had ceased to waste ammunition I heard my brother calling for me. When I got to him he was at work taking the entrails out of a good sized buck. We dragged the deer down to where the deer were when I began shooting to see if I had chanced to hit one of the bunch. It was too dark to see much but we found a little blood on the snow in one place but concluded that I had not done much damage.

We dragged the buck that my brother had killed to camp, got our supper and made plans for the next day's work. It was agreed that I should look after the bunch of deer and see what effect my shots had on the deer that we had found that had bled some. I was to work this bunch of deer while the other boys went to look after the marten traps, being quite sure that there would be a marten or two in the traps, for we had built some deadfalls where we saw fresh marten signs quite plenty.

The next morning I was up early and had breakfast before daylight and ready to start out and carry out the work as already planned. It was about one-fourth of a mile from camp to the turnpike and as the deer which I was going to look for were making their course, the last I had seen them, in the direction of the road, I was going to go to the road and then go north along the road to see if they had crossed. The boys would take the same path to the road that I did when they would go south of camp to look after the marten traps.

I had my gun and stood in the cabin door waiting for my brother and Wells to get ready as I would accompany them as far as the road. The boys were having some trouble belting their leggins and creepers on to their satisfaction. I became tired of waiting and made the remark that I could go and kill a deer before they could get their feet dressed. My brother said that I had better be going then, so I started on up the path to the road. It was thawing a little, just enough to make the snow pack. I had gone about a hundred yards from camp when I saw a track of a deer where it had stepped into the path, then had turned back about forty yards to the left of the path. A large birch tree had blown down, knocking one or two smaller trees down so that it made a little jam. Seeing that the tracks were so fresh I knew that the deer was close by and as the woods were open I was quite positive that the deer must be about the jam of trees, when a large doe stepped out in sight and it was only the work of a moment to let her down in her tracks. When the gun cracked out jumped a yearling buck that was lying down just in the edge of the jam and bounded over the trunk of a large birch and stopped broadside to me and I let him down. Thinking of what I had said on leaving the cabin and what my brother had said to me I ran back to camp as quick as I could go without even stopping to cut the deer's throat. As I came around the corner of the cabin I heard my brother say to Wells, "I bet a gander that he has killed a deer all right, for he would not shoot twice so quick at anything else."

Well, the boys had not got their feet dressed yet, but chance had allowed me to make my word good only I had killed two deer instead of one. The boys helped me to hang up the deer and then went to the marten traps while I went in search of the deer I had started after. Soon I struck the trail of the deer and shortly saw that one of them had a broken leg and I did not follow the trail far when the wounded deer dropped out and left the others. I began doing the creeping act and soon found the deer lying on his trail. I hung the deer up and went back to camp thinking that I had enough sport for one day and would let well enough alone.

When the boys came in at night they brought in two marten skins.



Chapter XVII.

Lost in the Woods.

One writer contends that the pocket compass is but very little use to a man in a dense forest. This, I think, depends largely upon circumstances. While the writer has spent a good portion of fifty years almost continuously in the woods, he has seldom found it necessary to use a compass to guide him out. Now this is due partly to the natural faculty of locating any particular place. This faculty of locating any certain place or point by giving or knowing the proper direction to take after one has traveled all day or for several days in the woods, I am inclined to credit to a sort of natural instinct.

I have often thought of the story of the Indian who was met by a man in the woods who asked the Indian if he was lost. The reply was, "No, me ain't lost, wigwam lost, me here." Now I can say without boasting that it is seldom that the camp or a given point gets lost with me, while it is not an uncommon occurrence for the writer to get lost or rather bothered himself in a strange locality. But after a moment's thought, I say the camp or the point I wish to reach is in that direction, and it is not often that I miss my calculation.

As I have had several occasions to search for parties lost in the woods, I wish to relate a particular instance of one man who was lost. It was an uncle of mine by the name of Nelson, and the writer went in search of him. To illustrate that those who are lost lose their heads as soon as they find that they do not know where they are.

Now I wish to say that if you lost your course or get bothered in your bearings, do not lose your head, for if you do you are lost, but keep cool and keep your head. Sit down and fill your pipe, and while you smoke draw a map of the country carefully in your mind, and almost invariably you will locate yourself and in so doing will locate the camp.

To get back to the lost man in question whose name was Amos Fish, and at the time, was the proprietor of the Cherry Springs Hotel, in this county. This hotel was located in the heart of the largest forest in Pennsylvania, and originally was a great resort for hunters from all over the state as well as southern and western New York. (The time of which I write was somewhere in the 60's -- have forgotten exact date.) There were several men boarding at this hotel and my uncle and myself were among the number boarding with Mr. Fish, hunting, as were other boarders. This hotel stood in the center of a field containing perhaps eighty acres of cleared land, and there was not another clearing or a building within a distance of seven miles.

One morning after there had been a fall of four or five inches of snow, which made fine tracking, Mr. Fish thought that he would go out that morning and try and kill a deer. He left the house going through the field in nearly a due east course. After going about one mile he crossed a stream which ran in a north and south direction. Mr. Fish had fished this stream for trout many a time. After crossing this stream Mr. Fish crossed a broad ridge and went on to a small stream known as the Sunken Branch, and a tributary of the stream Mr. Fish had previously crossed. Now Mr. Fish was fairly well acquainted with the location which he was in, but in his search for deer he had got a little mixed in his whereabout and at once lost his head.

My uncle when coming in from hunting that evening crossed Mr. Fish's track on the ridge near the head of the Sunken Branch, and had heard him shoot several times but supposed that he was shooting at deer. When the hunters all got in that night and Mr. Fish failed to appear, the matter was discussed by the hunters from all points of view. It was generally thought that Mr. Fish had had good luck killing deer and had been detained in dressing and hanging them up, or that he had wounded a deer and had been led a long way from home in getting it.

When it got well along in the evening and Mr. Fish failed to come then it was feared that he had met with some misfortune. No one would believe that he was lost, as it was known that he was pretty well acquainted with the woods in the direction that he had been known to take. But as the time went on and still Mr. Fish did not come, we all began to fear for his safety, as the night was very cold, so every few minutes some one would go out and fire a gun. This was continued all night, though there was no answer.

My uncle and myself had an early breakfast and started some time before daybreak for the locality in which uncle had seen Mr. Fish's tracks and heard gun shots which were thought to have been fired by him. Shortly after daybreak we found the track of a man which we could readily see had been made during the night. After following the track some distance we were convinced that we were following the track of Mr. Fish and he was lost, for his tracks would go in a zigzag sort of a circle and crossing his tracks previously made.

After we had followed Mr. Fish's track for an hour or longer we saw him coming nearly towards us with his hat in his hand. We stood still and he came close to us before he seemed to notice us. He had no gun, and when he stopped he stared at us and did not seem to know us. Uncle then spoke to him and said, "Amos, what is the matter, are you lost?" Mr. Fish replied that he wanted to go to the Cherry Springs Hotel. In a few minutes after eating a good lunch which we had carried with us for that purpose, he seemed to know us.

When questioned as to what he had done with his gun, he apparently had forgotten that he ever had a gun. But after a time seemed to remember the gun in a vague sort of way, and said that he must have left it by a tree but could not tell in what direction the tree was. After a search of a half hour we found the gun standing by a tree where apparently Mr. Fish had traveled around for some time.

When we came to the creek on our way to the house and at the place where Mr. Fish had crossed it in the morning before, he asked what stream it was. When told that it was the place where he had crossed the creek the morning before and asked if he did not remember the creek as he had fished there many a time, he said that he had no recollection of ever seeing the stream before. Shortly we came out into the field and Mr. Fish did not know his own house. Asked who lived there and did not seem to recognize his own home until he had been inside the house for several minutes with his family.

I have related this instance of Mr. Fish to show how necessary it is for one who has got slightly mixed in his course to keep cool and not allow himself to become excited. If he does he immediately loses his head and is at once lost, as in the case of Mr. Fish. He was at no time more than four miles from his house, and was quite familiar with the ground he was on during the whole time. He was lost while following the deer that he was in pursuit of. They led him into a windfall perhaps containing one hundred acres, and it was while in this that he became bothered as to the right course to go to his house. He at once lost his head, or more proper, his reasoning faculties, and at once became lost.

Mr. Fish was east of the ridge and road and as he had a compass, all there was for him to do was to consult the compass and go west to the road, but Mr. Fish declared that his compass would not work, and it might have been possible that he held the compass so close to the gun barred that the compass did not work properly.

In my more than fifty years' life in the woods as a trapper and hunter, it has been my lot to search for several persons lost in the woods. Once in these same woods I searched for three weeks for a little child four years old. At first the search for days was carried on by more than a hundred men, then another man and myself continued, then my companion gave it up. I continued alone for days, but there has never been a trace of the child seen or heard of, since its grandmother last saw the little fellow sitting on the door step eating a piece of bread and butter on the morning of its disappearance, along in the early 80's.

To speak of the use of the pocket compass, I would say to the trapper or hunter that where he can it is best to locate his camp when in a section of a country where the woods are very large, and the trapper or hunter is not well acquainted with the locality, on a stream or in a valley of considerable size, or near a public highway or some landmark that is readily recognized by the trapper. Even thought it may be after nightfall, for the thrifty trapper or hunter will oftener find himself on the trail after the stars are shining than he will in camp before dark. Now it is quite necessary that the camper should first acquaint himself with these land marks for some distance either side of his camp (when I say some distance I mean miles) and especially get the general course or direction that the stream runs or other landmarks, for this is where the real use of the pocket compass comes in play.

Now when you start out place out a line of traps or on the trail of a deer or other animal, all that there is to be done is to know whether you are on the south, north or other direction, as the case may be, from this valley or other landmarks. Now the trapper or hunter soon becomes so accustomed to traveling in the woods that when he makes up his mind to strike for camp, he can tell about how long it will take him to reach this valley that the camp is located in. When the time comes to go to camp consult the compass, and as it is known what direction to take to hit the camp, or at least the stream or other landmark on which the camp is located.

Yes, boys, if any one is in the habit of getting lost the pocket compass is a very useful instrument in finding the way, providing it is properly used. Let me say, however, that no matter how often "the shanty gets lost," don't lose your head, for if you do, the compass or the landmarks will do you no good.



Chapter XVIII.

Traps and Other Hints for Trappers.

All trappers have their favorite traps -- the writer has his. Every boy knows that the Newhouse trap is at the top of the ladder, as to quality, but as to convenience, well, I prefer the No. 1 1/2 Oneida Jump trap, which is superior to all others on the market for small game. This trap is now made with jaws much thicker than the original "Jump" (Blake & Lamb), and the way the chain is now fastened gives the animal a straight draw instead of a twist, as was the case with the Blake & Lamb style. The Oneida Jump however, is lacking in strength of the springs, being much weaker than the Blake & Lamb of the same size but in all other ways I consider it far better than the original Blake & Lamb. The spring being so much weaker than the Blake & Lamb springs were, is a serious drawback, as the Oneida Jump trap of this size will not hold a large raccoon or a large fox.

Now, while many trappers might not seriously object to the trap on these grounds as they use many different sizes of traps or a different size of trap for each animal. This I never do in trapper the smaller animals, for when I make a dry or ground set, I set the trap for any animal from the fox to the coon or wildcat, although I may be more particular making the set for mink.

It makes a trapper feel sore to go to a trap and find that a fox or coon has been in his trap and escaped. This rarely if ever occurs when using the Blake & Lamb No. 1 1/2 trap, or as the original was called No. 2, though it had the same spread of jaws as the No. 1 1/2 Oneida Jump. Now the advantages that the Oneida Jump trap has over the long spring trap are many. The most desirable are perhaps the easy manner in which the "jump" trap can be concealed. In fact, a practical set can be made in certain places where it is entirely impracticable to make the set with a long spring trap. Another advantage that the "jump" trap has over the bow or long spring trap is its comparison to the long spring trap in shipping by express. This, if going on a long journey, to your trapping grounds, is not safe by freight, as the trapping season may be over before your traps reach you. Still another advantage is the amount of room saved in packing, for you can pack two of the "jump" traps in the same space required to pack one long spring trap. The writer has had a good deal of experience in this matter and knows the difference in handling the two makes of traps.

Now I do not like to use the double spring "jump" trap where I am trapping, for I might possibly catch a dog or other domestic animal and it is a hard trap to get a live animal out of.

Many, perhaps most trappers use the No. 1 trap for trapping mink, muskrat, marten, etc. The No. 1 Newhouse or Victor is sufficiently strong for these animals but as I have stated, I do not think this the best plan if the trapper is operating on grounds where there are larger animals to be taken, as most frequently the one set can be made to catch several kinds of animals. I have found also that one is more liable to catch the animal by the end of the toes in a No. 1 trap than in the No. 1 1/2, but where one is trapping for the purposes of saving the fox, skunk or other animal alive, then the No. 1 trap should be used, as the animal is not so liable to break a leg or to hurt the foot so badly.

For otter I prefer the single spring Newhouse trap, owing to the fact that it is more easily concealed than the double spring trap. I see that a number of writers think that the No. 5 bear trap should have a larger spread of jaw so as to catch higher on the bear's foot. Now I do not intend to dictate to others as to what kind of a trap they should use, not in the least, for I have my own ideas as to traps and guns as well as the manner of using them. Now as for myself, I think the Newhouse No. 5 bear trap could not be improved, as to spread of jaws. The grasp is just right to catch the bear through the thick of the foot where there is no danger of the bear twisting the foot off. In case where the trap has a spread of jaws sufficient to grasp above the foot and for more space for the bear to place his foot well between the jaws, will say there is plenty of room in the Newhouse No. 5 trap, if the trap is properly set. I also see that some trappers want the swivel in the trap chain 8 or ten inches from the bed piece, or the point of fastening. Now I am somewhat puzzled as to an explanation in this matter, as it seems to me that the swivel will be far less liable to become useless by being twisted or wound around saplings, etc., where the swivel is close to the bed piece than it would be if placed eight or ten inches out in the chain. I prefer to have the swivel in my trap chain placed as close to the trap as possible.

Another thing that I have but little use for is a trap from which the animal must take the bait in order to spring it, for often the animal will go up close enough to a trap to inspect the bait but will not touch it.

I do not think that there should be a latch on any trap, as I think that often the animal's foot is thrown free from the trap, or at least causes many catches by the tips of the toes and the animal escapes, becoming a hard animal to catch thereafter. The animal having a part of the foot resting on the latch and the toes striking the treadle sufficient to unlatch the treadle, the released jaw will throw the latch with the portion of the animal's foot resting on the latch, free from the trap, or at least may often cause a slight catch of the toes or other part of the foot. All that is necessary is to leave an extension to the arm or heel of the treadle to catch over the jaw of the trap. The trap may be made to spring hard or easy by simply raising the pan slightly higher or lowering it to catch farther on to the jaw of the trap more or less as desired.

Now boys, I have given a few of my ideas as to traps, and if any of you have any suggestions to make as to improvements on the animal steel traps, let us hear from you through the columns of the H-T-T. I believe that manufacturers of animal or game traps would be glad to make any improvements on their traps could they be convinced that the suggested improvements were really of any value.

* * *

As I get many letters from trappers who are beginners in the business making inquiries about camping and the necessary traps, guns, etc., I will try to give a few practical hints to those who have had but limited experience of trapper's life. While, like the setting of a trap, there is no single code of rules that will answer for all localities and conditions, I will give a few general rules.

The trapper should first try and inform himself of the nature and conditions of the locality where he intends to trap. If the waters are of such a size that a boat can be used to advantage, then the boat becomes a necessity. Now in regard to traps. If the section where you intend to trap has the larger animals like bear, otter, beaver, etc., then the trapper should provide himself with a sufficient number of traps of different sizes as he may be able to tend and do it well.

I would advise to start with, that the trapper has about one-half dozen No. 5 bear traps, one dozen No. 4 wolf and about the same of No. 3. But the greater number of traps will be Numbers 1 1/2 and 2, if of the Jump or Blake & Lamb pattern. If of other patterns would say use the Hawley & Norton Nos. 1 1/2 and 2, say 75 No. 1 1/2 and 25 No. 2. The genuine Newhouse is of course the best long spring trap made, but a little more expensive, and we find that the H. & N. fills the bill. We prefer the B. & L. on account of its lightness and convenience in setting.

Now, if the trapper is trapping where the animals are no larger than fox, raccoon, wildcat, etc., then I want no traps larger than the No. 2 1/2, nor smaller than the No. 1 1/2 Blake & Lamb.

Now about the gun. If you are in a large game country it is quite necessary that you carry a good rifle. I like the Winchester and not of too large a caliber, but if there is no large game in the locality then I think one should have a Stevens pistol, ten-inch barrel, or a Stevens Pocket Shotgun, 15-inch barrel, and in either case have a good holster to carry it in. As for myself I prefer a Pocket Shotgun. It might be well to have a large shotgun in camp. You will also want your belt axe or hatchet and a good heavy sharp axe at the camp.

As for bedding, this will largely depend on what kind of a cabin or camp you have. If you are in a tent, two persons should have not less than six good blankets. If your camp is so situated that you can drive to it with a team or pack horses, then you should have a straw mattress. But if you are in a locality where you can get cedar or hemlock boughs, you should use only the finer boughs. Begin at the foot of the berth and push the larger or butt end of the bough into the ground and then begin the next row so as to lap or shingle onto the first row, and so on until the head of the berth is reached.

If you use a tent, I find that it is a good idea to make a skeleton frame of good heavy poles over the tent and about twelve inches above and around the tent and shingle it well with boughs, so that the snow will not fall directly on the tent. It will be a great help in keeping out the cold. But I think it is best to have at least one good log cabin well chinked, mudded and banked. Always select a spot where it is easy to drain away the surface water on all sides of the camp, and if possible have the main camp close to good pure water which is a great protection against malaria.

If you are doing a stroke of business so that you will need more than one camp, the others need not be quite so tidy as the main camp, for it is not likely that you will occupy them more than a night or two at a time. Your temporary camps need not be larger than 6 x 8 and quite low, as this will save both fuel and bedding. Do not forget to get up a good supply of wood at all the camps before the trapping season is open, for you will find plenty to do after the trapping season opens without cutting wood.

The main camp should be at least 10 x 12 feet inside. A place should be provided for curing furs outside. Furs should never be cured by a fire or in a warm place, for this will have a tendency to curl the ends of the fur and give it a woolly appearance. There can usually be a place fixed either on the outer gable or under the eaves of the cabin to cure the furs.

Now, as to the commissary part. You will, of course, to a great extent select the kind and quantity according to the distance and convenience in getting the grub to camp. The camper will find that the most convenient as well as better satisfaction, as a rule, will be found in taking provisions to camp in a crude state, i.e., wheat flour, corn meal, beans, bacon, with the necessary supply of tea, coffee, sugar, good baking powder, salt, pepper and a quantity of rice. If, as I have before stated, the camp is so located as to be of easy access by wagon, then choose a bill-of-fare to your own liking.

The medicine box should contain a box of good cathartic pills and a quantity of 2-grain quinine tablets, with any other medicine you may wish. Other necessities about the camp are a good supply of strong cord, a few feet of small rope, a yard or two of muslin, a yard of oilcloth.

It may be well to give a few suggestions about a temporary camp for a night, if by chance you should get caught out and unable to reach camp. You should select a place before dark. If a large fallen tree can be found that lies close to the ground where you wish to build the fire it is best. If the log cannot be readily found then select a bank or knoll to build the fire against. First, build the fire out from the log five or six feet where you will make your bed so as to warm the ground. Now set two crotches about four feet high and place a pole in these crotches. Then from this pole place three or four poles, one end on the ground, the other resting on the pole that rests in the crotches. Then place boughs, bark, or anything to break the wind. This shelter will, of course, be placed over the spot where you will make your bed. Now rake the coals and live embers down against the log where you will have the fire for the night. Now place some boughs over the spot where the fire has been and where your bed will be.

With this kind of a camp you can get along through a rather chilly night. You should always carry matches wrapped in waxed paper in three or four different places about your person. You may lose your match safe.

If convenient, when going into camp, you should take several stretching boards for different kinds of fur with you. If not, you can usually find a tree that will split good and you can split some out. It is usually hard to find withes that are long and straight enough to bend so as to form a good shaped stretcher. You should always aim to stretch and cure the furs you catch in the best manner. In skinning you should rip the animal straight from one heel across to the other and close to the roots of the tail on the under side. Work the skin loose around the bone at the base until you can grasp the bone of the tail with the first two fingers of the right hand while you place the bone between the first two fingers of the left hand. Then by pulling you will draw the entire bone from the tail which you should always do.

Sometimes when the animal has been dead some time the bone will not readily draw from the tail. In this case you should cut a stick the size of your finger about eight inches long. Cut it away in the center until it will readily bend so that the two ends will come together. Then cut a notch in each part of the stick just large enough to let the bone of the tail in and squeeze it out. It is necessary to whittle one side of the stick at the notch so as to form a square shoulder.

You should have about three sizes of stretching boards for mink and fox. For mink they should be from 4 1/2 inches down to 3 inches and for fox from 6 1/4 inches down to 5 inches wide, and in length the fox boards may be four feet and the mink boards three feet long. The boards should taper slightly down to within 8 inches of the end for fox and then rounded up to a point. The mink boards should be rounded at 4 or 5 inches from this point. You will vary the shape of the board in proportion to the width. Stretching boards should not be more than 3/8 inch thick. A belly strip the length, or nearly the length, of the boards 1 1/4 inches at the wide end, tapering to a point at the other end and about 1/4 to 3/8 inch thick. Have the boards smooth and even on the edges. Other stretching boards should be made in proportion to the size and shape of the animal whose skin is to be stretched.

You should not fail to remove all the fat and flesh from the skin immediately after the skin is on the board. If a skin is quite wet when taken from the animal it should be drawn lightly on the board until the fur is quite dry. Then turn the skin flesh side out and stretch.

It is always best if you can go into the country where you intend to trap. This is especially important if the ground is a new field to you. During the summer or early fall, acquaint yourself with the streams and the general surroundings, and prepare some of your best sets for the mink and the fox.

If you have a dog of good intelligence take him along, though he may not be broken to the business of trapping. It is many a fox and coon that my dog has saved for me when they have escaped from footing or a broken chain. If the dog is of much intelligence, and you use care in training him, you will soon find that a dog will learn more about trapping than you supposed possible. If you have long lines of traps your dog will inform you more than once that you have passed a trap that chanced to be a little off the main line.

* * *

Brother bear trappers, how do you like this style of bear trap (see frontispiece) for toting through the woods three or four miles from camp and at the same time tote a couple of sheep heads or the head of a beef for bait? In times gone by I have carried two or three Newhouse bear traps and bait to bait them with from one to five miles in the woods to pinch old Bruin's toes. Such is a pleasure to any red blooded man, who was born a real lover of the open and the stimulating effect of obtaining that $30 or $40, which the hide and meat of the bear brought, had on the trapper, was nearly equal to the desire to be out in the tall timber.

Now brother bear trappers, these traps that you see on my shoulder are of my own make and are made with a half circle bed piece instead of a straight bed piece, as the ordinary trap is made. I wish to call your attention to how this trap fits the shoulders and how much easier it is to carry than the trap with the straight bed piece and note how much more readily you can get your gun into shape for action. Many a deer has given me the slip before I could drop the bear traps and get my gun ready for action when I have been toting bear traps in the woods. But with this style of trap your gun can be put in operation at once, regardless of the traps.

Boys, another thing that I have learned in the last five years' experience in trapping in the south, (this was written Spring of 1913) is that it requires a trap a size larger to trap small fur bearers in the south than it does in the north, owing to the difference in conditions of the streams and the soil. Well friend Bachelder, there is no use of you and I talking or worrying any more over our bear traps or bear trapping. The gentleman sportsman and his dog has ordered you and I and all other trappers of Pennsylvania for that matter to cast our traps on to the scrap pile and we must submit.



Chapter XIX.

Camps and Camping.

I will say that the conditions and location in which one is to camp makes a great difference in the preparations. If one is just going outside of town to camp for a few days outing, commodities may be to your liking as to quality and quantity. In these days, should the larder run low, it is only necessary for the camper to step out a short distance to a farm house where he is almost sure to find a telephone. In such cases all that the camper has to do is to 'phone to town, ordering his favorite brands delivered to camp, and soon an automobile is on the road laden with supplies, hastening to the campers' relief.

Conditions are different when the camper is far from town; or perhaps miles from a dwelling or perhaps even a public road and the camper is compelled to pack his camp outfit, grub stake and all over miles of rough trail, or it may be no trail at all; then the camper must curtail his desires to their utmost limit.

If the camper is on strange ground, and the camp is to be permanent or for some weeks, it is best for the camper not to be in too big a hurry to select the camping ground, and take up with any sort of a place. It is even better to make a temporary camp and look the locality over and select a place where good water can be had, and wood for fuel is plentiful and near camp. If possible, select a spot in a thicket of evergreen timber of a second growth and out of the way of any large trees that might blow onto the camp.

If the ground is sloping, place your camp parallel with the slope, whether tent or log cabin, as the surface water can more readily be drained off, and not allowed to soak into the ground and cause dampness inside of the tent. A ditch should be dug around the tent to drain all surface water, and eaves so the water will not soak inside. If a log cabin, the dirt from the drain can be thrown up against the logs of the cabin.

If the camper expects to camp through cold and snowy weather, it will pay him to place a ridge pole in crotches placed firmly in the ground. The pole should be a foot above the ridge of the tent, then place poles from the ground, the ends resting on this ridge pole as rafters to a building, then nail a few poles to these rafters sufficient to keep boughs from dropping down onto the tent. The boughs should be of an evergreen variety. This outer covering should be well thatched or covered with these boughs. This extra covering adds greatly to the warmth and comfort of the camp, as it protects from the wind blowing directly on the tent, also keeps the snow from falling onto the tent.

It is also a great convenience if this ridge pole is allowed to extend out three or four feet, and a strip of canvas run over the pole and down to side poles, so as to form a sort of an awning so one can step outside to wash when it is raining without getting wet. It also makes a convenient place to pile a small amount of wood, and will be found useful in many ways such as hanging furs, clothing, etc., out to air.

Do not make your bed on the ground. Build a box bedstead by driving four posts into the ground, then nail pieces across, up about twelve inches from the ground. Lay small poles on these cross pieces, then nail one or two small poles entirely around on the posts above the bottom pieces forming a sort of crib. This crib may be filled first with boughs, then on top of the boughs put a quantity of leaves or grass, when the mattress is lacking. There will also be store room under the bed, which would be wasted if the bed is made on the ground.

Brother camper, when you are going well back into the tall timber where you are obliged to pack your outfit over a rough trail or perhaps no trail at all, do not waste any energy packing canned "air" in the shape of canned fruits. Take your grub in a crude state in the way of flour, beans, lard, bacon or pork, and if fruit is taken, take it in a dried form. Take the necessary supply of tea, coffee, sugar, salt and pepper, also that unavoidable baking powder.

As to preparing an emergency camp for a night, if the weather is cold, and there is snow on the ground, the camper should pick a place where he will be as much sheltered from the cold winds as circumstances will allow and where he can get wood as conveniently as possible.

Select a log (if one can be had) that lays close to the ground. Now, scrape away the snow about six or eight feet back from this log, and where you will have your bed, build a fire, on this space the first thing you do. Then build a cover over this space or fire, by first setting two crotched stakes about four feet apart and five or six feet high, back three feet from the log. Cut a pole, and place it in these crotches and then from this pole lay poles long enough to come back so as to give room for your bed, covering the space where the fire is built; one end of the poles resting on the ground. With evergreen boughs, cover this entire framework, top and two sides -- toward the log open.

Now scrape the fire down against the log and proceed to build your fire for the night. Cover the space where the fire was with fine boughs; this is your bed. Take off your coat, and spread it over your shoulders, rather than wear it on you as usual.

When the camper has plenty of time, and a good axe, in building an open campfire the thing to do is to cut two logs six or eight inches in diameter and three feet long and place them at right angles with the back log, and three or four feet apart; then lay the wood across these logs. This will give a draft underneath the wood and cause the fire to burn much better than where the wood lays close to the ground.



Chapter XX.

Deer Hunt Turned Into a Bear Hunt.

A friend by the name of Dingman invited me to come to his camp on More's Run, a tributary of the Sinnamahoning. This was something like forty years ago, when deer were plentiful and several men in this section made it a business to hunt for the money that there was in it, and Nathan Dingman was one of those men. It was about eight miles from my place to Mr. Dingman's camp.

One morning after we had a fall of snow, I packed my knapsack with as much grub stake as I was able to carry, with my gun and blanket, and started over the hill to Mr. Dingman's camp. After I had crossed the divide, I did not go far before I began to see deer tracks. There was no road or trail down the run, and the run was pretty well filled with timber. I had about all that I could handle without deer tracks, but when I was within about a mile of Mr. Dingman's camp, I came onto the trail of several deer that had only been gone a few minutes. I could not stand it longer, so I hung my pack and blanket up in a tree and took my track back up the stream until I was quite sure that I was well out of range of the deer, and then climbed the ridge until I was near the top of the hill and on advantageous ground.

The direction of the trail of the deer where it crossed the stream led me to think that the deer were going south, or down the ridge but on the contrary they had turned to the right and up the ridge. I had not gone far along the ridge before I began a sharp lookout. I suddenly found the deer lying in a thicket of low laurel. They broke from cover at a breakneck speed. I fired both barrels at them with the best aim that I was able to get, and had the satisfaction of seeing one of the deer, a good sized doe, stumble and partly fall, then hobble on in the direction that the other had gone.

It was nearly sundown and I only followed the trail a short distance when I could plainly see that the deer had a foreleg broken, and she soon left the trail of the others, and went down the hill all alone. Knowing that the wounded deer would soon lay down if not disturbed. I left the trail, went back, got my pack, blanket and went on down the creek to Mr. Dingman's camp. I found Mr. Dingman about to sit down to a supper of roast potatoes, venison and other good things to be found in abundance in the woods in those days.

The next morning we were out at daybreak after the wounded doe. Mr. Dingman said that when the doe was started up that she would come to water, and that she would stop on the creek below where I had left the trail, which led down the hill until in sight of the creek, when it turned to the right, then went back up the hill only a few yards to the right of her trail where she had gone down.

When I saw what the doe had done, I thought to myself, old lady, you are well onto the game, and we will have lots of sport before we get you. I was well aware that she had seen me when I passed by on her trail where she had gone down the hill, and thinking that she would go to the creek below where Mr. Dingman was and told him the game the doe was playing. He said that she would come to water at the point just below the camp, and that he would go down there and watch, while I should follow the track through. I told Mr. Dingman that I was afraid that we were too late, and that the doe had already gone out, that she had made her bed so that she could watch her trail where she went down the hill, and had slipped out after I had gone down the hill on her trail.

Mr. Dingman thought that he could get the runway before she would get through, even if she had gone out when I came through on her trail down the hill. In hopes that the deer had not taken the trail and lit out when I came through the hill, I worked my way cautiously back up the hill, only occasionally going in sight of the trail so as to keep her course, but as I feared, when I was about halfway up the hill, I found her bed, but the doe was gone. I took the trail and followed it up the hill until she struck the trail of the deer that she was with when I first started them, and instead of going down the ridge, she took the back trail of the other deer. I followed it back until near where I had wounded her, when she again broke down the hill and crossed the creek near where I first found their trail, and had gone back onto the same ridge that she had come from.

Now the only thing for me to do was to leave the trail and go after Mr. Dingman again. When I found him and we got back to camp, it was about noon, so we got a warm dinner before continuing the chase. When we got up to where I had left the trail, we held council and made our plans for the next move, and decided that as the old lady was continually doing the unexpected, we would follow her track, one going on each side of the trail a few yards from it.

We had only gone a short distance up the hill when we found the old lady's bed, where she had laid down, so that she could watch back on her trail, where she had come down on the opposite hillside. We did not go far when the trail turned to the left and went up the side of the ridge toward the head of the creek. We continued along the trail one on either side and soon we came to where a large hemlock tree had fallen parallel with the side of the hill. Mr. Dingman was on the upper side and above the fallen tree, while the deer tracks led away below the tree. All of a sudden I heard the report of Mr. Dingman's rifle, so I stood still for a minute, and hearing nothing more I went to see the cause of the shooting. The doe had gone beyond the fallen tree, then turned back and went about midway of the tree, on the upper side and lay down. Mr. Dingman caught a glimpse of the old lady as she went out, but did not catch her.

We did not follow the doe far from where she lay behind the fallen tree, for we crossed the trail of a bear going west, and partly in the direction of that of the wounded deer, which continued to work her cards on us all afternoon without our getting sight of her. At dusk we trailed her into a small thicket at the edge of the farm owned by a man by the name of Foster, at the extreme head of the run.

As it was too late in the day to do any more with the old doe, we concluded to go to Mr. Foster's and stay over night, and take the trail early in the morning. It was snowing a little and we thought that the thicket would be an easy place to find our game, should it snow enough to cover the tracks. In the morning when we got up, we found six or eight inches of snow on the ground, that had fallen during the night. We had an early breakfast, and started out to again play the game with the broken legged doe.

Before we got to the edge of the woods, we struck the trail of some animal, that had gone across the field in the early part of the night before it had snowed much. We were not positive what sort of an animal it was, whether man or beast. The trail was leading straight across the field without a curve in it, and was making straight to a laurel patch that was one and a half miles away on the Taggart farm, less than a mile below Coudersport.

Mr. Dingman said that it was a bear. I admitted that it was a bear all right, but replied that I would say it was making for the Adirondack Mountains in New York, rather than the laurel patch on the Taggert farm. We did not have far to go to make sure, and a good part of the distance was across farms, so we concluded to hunt bear a while, and give the old doe a rest for a short time. As Mr. Dingman said, the bear made straight for the laurel patch.

There was not more than 15 or 20 acres in the patch, so we thought that we would circle it and make sure that the bear was still in the laurel. We found that the bear was there all right, so Mr. Dingman selected a place where he thought the bear would come out when he was routed from his nest, while I was to follow the trail and drive out the bear. I followed until near the center of the patch, when I came onto a small open place forty or fifty feet square. This open space was covered with a heavy growth of wild grass which partly held the snow from getting close to the ground, and I could see the trail of the bear through this grass and loose snow very plain until nearly the opposite side of the open space, and there I could see a bunch of snow. I was sure that it was the bear that made the bunch.

I thought the matter over for a minute, then concluded to back out and go after Mr. Dingman, and see what he thought would be best in order to make a sure thing of Bruin's capture. Mr. Dingman thought the best thing to do was to go up town and get plenty of help so as to thoroughly surround the laurel, and make sure of Bruin. I objected, as I thought it best to try our own luck, and if we failed we could still get plenty of help. We followed my track back to where I had turned, and concluded to both fire at the bunch at the same time, hit or miss as luck would have it. When we fired at the bunch there was a shaking of snow, and bruin rolled out but was unable to rise to his feet. On examination we found that one ball had entered his shoulder. It was a short job to get bruin out to the road, and take him up to town where we sold him to Mr. Stebbins, a merchant, and then we made tracks back to see if we could find the broken legged doe. We found by circling the thicket that she was there, and we had the good luck to get her. We drove her out, and thus ended one of the liveliest day's sport that we ever had.



Chapter XXI.

Dog on the Trap Line.

Now, we will say first that there is as much or more difference in the man who handles the dog as there is in the different breeds of dogs. I have heard men say that they wanted no dog on the trap line with them, and that they didn't believe that any one who did want a dog on the trap line knew but very little about trapping at best.

Now those are the views and ideas of some trappers, while my experience has led me to see altogether different. One who is so constituted that they must give a dog the growl or perhaps a kick every time they come in reach, will undoubtedly find a dog of but little use on the trap line. I have known some dogs to refuse to eat, and would lay out where they could watch the direction in which their master had gone and piteously howl for hours. I have seen other dogs that would take for the barn or any other place to get out of the way of the first sight or sound of their master. This man's dog is usually more attached to a stranger than to his master. The man who cannot treat his dog as a friend and companion will have good cause to say that a dog is a nuisance on the trap line.

I have seen men training dogs for bird hunting, who would beat the dog most cruelly and claim that a dog could not be trained to work a bird successfully under any other treatment. Though I have seen others train the same breed of dogs to work a bird to perfection and their most harsh treatment that they would use would be a tap or two with a little switch. I will say that one who cannot understand the wag of a dog's tail, the wistful gaze of the eyes, the quick lifting of the ears, the cautious raising of a foot, and above all, treat his dog as a friend, need not expect his dog to be but little else than a nuisance on the trap line.

Several years ago I had a partner who had a dog -- part stag hound and the other part just dog, I think. One day he, my partner, asked if I would object to his bringing the dog to camp, saying that his wife was going on a visit and he had no place to leave the dog. I told him that if he had a good dog I would be glad to have the dog in camp. In a day or two pard went home and brought in the dog. Well, when he came, the dog was following along behind his master with tail and ears drooping, and looking as though he had never heard a kind word in his life. I asked if the dog was any good and he replied that he did not know how good he was. I asked the name of the dog. He said, "Oh, I call him Pont." I spoke to the dog, calling him by name. The dog looked at me wistfully, wagging his tail. The look that dog gave me said as plain as words that that was the first kind word he had ever heard.

We went inside and the dog started to follow, when his master in a harsh voice said "get out of here." I said, "Where do you expect the dog to go?" I then took an old coat that was in the camp, placed it in a corner and called gently to Pont, patted the coat and told Pont to lay down on the coat which the dog did. I patted the dog, saying, "that is a good place for Pont," and I can see that wistful gaze that dog gave me now. After we had our supper I asked my partner if he wasn't going to fix Pont some supper. "Oh, after awhile I will see if I can find something for him." I took a biscuit from the table, spread some butter on it, called the dog to me, broke the biscuit in pieces and gave it to the dog from my hand, then I found an old basin that chanced to be about the camp and fixed the dog a good supper.

After the dog had finished his supper I went to the coat in the corner, spoke gently to Pont, patted the coat and told Pont to lay down on the coat. That was the end of that, Pont knew his place and took it without further trouble.

The next morning when we were about ready to start out on the trap line I asked pard what he intended to do with Pont. He said that he would tie him to a tree that stood against the shanty close to the door. We were going to take different lines of traps. I said, "What is the harm of Pont going with me?" "All right, if you want him but I don't want any dog with me." I said, "Am (that was pard's given name, for short), I do not believe that dog wants to go with you any more than you want him." Am's reply was that he guessed he would go all right if he wanted him. I said, "Am, just for shucks, say nothing to the dog and see which one he will follow." So we stepped outside the shack and the dog stood close to me.

I said, "Go on Am, and we will see who the dog will follow." He started off and the dog only looked at him. Am stopped and told the dog to come on. The dog got around behind me. A said, "If I wanted you to come you would come or I would break your neck." I said, "No, Am, you won't break Pont's neck when I am around, it would not look nice."

I started on my way, Pont following after I had gone a little ways. I spoke to Pont, patted him on the head and told him what a good dog he was. He jumped about and showed more ways than one how pleased he was. He showed plainly the disgust he had for his master.

It so happened that the first trap that I came to was a trap set in a spring run, and it had a coon in it. I allowed Pont to help kill the coon, and after the coon was dead I patted Pont and told him what great things we had done in capturing the coon, and Pont showed what pride he took in the hunt, so much so that he did not like to have Am go near the pelt. I saw from the very first day out that all Pont needed was kind treatment and proper training to make a good help on the trap line.

I was careful to let him know what I was doing when setting a trap, and when he would go to smell at the bait after a trap had been set, I would speak to him in a firm voice and let him know that I did not approve of what he was doing. When making blind sets, I took the same pains to show and give him to understand what I was doing. I would sometimes, after giving him fair warning, let him put his foot into a trap. I would scold him in a moderate manner and release him. Then all the time when I was resetting the trap I would talk trap to him, and by action and word, teach him the nature of the trap. Mr. Trapper, please do not persuade yourself to believe that the intelligent dog cannot understand if you go about it right.

In two weeks Pont had advanced so far in his training that I no longer had to pay any attention to him on account of the traps and the third day that Pont was with me he found a coon that had escaped with a trap nearly two weeks before. My route called me up a little draw from the main stream, and I had not gone far up this when Pont took the trail of some animal and began working it up the side of a hill. I stood and watched him until the trail took him to an old log, when Pont began to snuff at a hole in the log, and he soon raised his head and gave a long howl, as much as to say "he is here and I want help." After running a stick in the hole I soon discovered that the log was hollow. I took my belt axe and pounded along on the log until I thought I was at the right point and then chopped a hole in the log. As good luck would have it, I made the opening right on the coon, and almost the first thing I saw on looking into the log was the trap. Pont soon had the coon out, and when I saw that it was the coon that had escaped with our trap, I gave Pont praise for what he had done, petting him and telling him of his good deed, and he seemed to understand it all.

Not long after this Am came into camp at night and reported that a fox had broken the chain on a certain trap and gone off with the trap, saying that he would take Pont in the morning and see if he could find the fox. In the morning when we were ready to go Am tried to have Pont follow him but it was no go, Pont would not go with him. Then Am put a rope onto him and tried to lead him but Pont would sulk and would not be led. Then Am lost his temper and wanted to break Pont's neck again. I said that I did not like to have Pont abused and that I would go along with him. When we came to the place where the fox had escaped with the trap Am at once began to slap his hands and hiss Pont on. Pont only crouched behind me for protection. I persuaded Am to go on down the run and look at the traps down that way while Pont and I would look after the escaped fox.

As soon as Am was gone I began to look about where the fox had been caught and search for his trail, and soon Pont began to wag his tail. I began to work Pont's way and said, "has he gone that way?" Pont gave me to understand that the fox had gone that way and that he knew what was wanted. The trail soon left the main hollow and took up a little draw. A little way up this we found where the fox had been fast in some bushes but had freed himself and he had left and gone up the hillside. Pont soon began to get uneasy, and when I said, "hunt him out," away he went, and in a few minutes I heard Pont give a long howl and I knew that he had holed his game. When I came up to Pont he was working at a hole in some shell rocks. I pulled away some loose rocks and could see the fox, and we soon had him out and Pont seemed more pleased over the hunt than I was. There was scarcely a week that Pont did not help us out on the trap line.

Not infrequently did Pont show me a coon den. I had some difficulty in teaching Pont to let the porcupines alone, but after a time he learned that they were not the kind of game that we wanted, and he paid no more attention to them.

I have had many different dogs on the trap line with me. I can say that to any one who can understand "dog's language," has a liking for a dog and has a reasonable amount of patience and is willing to use it, will find a well trained dog of much benefit on the trap line, and often a more genial companion than some partners. But if one is so constituted that he must give his dog a growl or a kick every time he comes in reach, and perhaps only give his dog half enough to eat and cannot treat a dog as his friend, then I say, leave the dog off the trap line.



Chapter XXII.

Two Cases of Buck Fever.

I have heard many hunters say that they had never had a case of buck fever, and that they could shoot at a deer with as little emotion under all circumstances as they could at a target. Now this is not the case with me, for the conditions under which I am working makes all the difference imaginable with my nervous system. I never saw but one place that I did not get the buck fever when deer hunting and that was in Trinity and Humboldt counties, California. There I saw deer so thick and tame that it was no more exciting than it would be to go into a drove of sheep in a pasture and shoot sheep. If by chance you failed to hit the deer the first shot it was only a matter of a few minutes when you would have another opportunity to kill your deer. So there was no cause to get the fever, but such has not been the case in Eastern States, for many years at least.

About 1880, a man by the name of Corwin and I were camping on the Jersey Shore turnpike in Pennsylvania. We had just gone into camp and as I usually make it a point to first get plenty of wood cut for the camp at night, so that when I come home in the evening I will not have to go out and cut wood, I had been cutting wood and fixing up all day until four o'clock in the afternoon, when I suggested to Mr. Corwin that we go out and see if we could find some signs and locate the deer so that we would know where to look for them early the next morning. We followed down a ridge for some distance without seeing any signs of deer but about the time that it was getting dark so that we could not see very good and we were about to go to camp, we came onto a trail of a number of deer. As it was so dark we left the trail and went to camp being careful not to start or alarm the deer. The next morning when we got up we found that a snow had fallen of some 8 or 10 inches and knowing that this snow would cover the trail of the deer so deep that there would be no following it until we could start them out of their beds, we concluded that one of us should go down the ridge opposite or west of the ridge where we had found the trail of the deer. It was decided that I should take the ridge opposite where the deer were thought to be, and Mr. Corwin was to warn me by firing two shots in rapid succession if he started the deer without getting a shot at them.

I was familiar with the woods and knew about where the deer would run when started up from any particular point. I had gone down the ridge until I thought that I was below the point where the deer would have crossed had they done so during the night, or if Mr. Corwin should start them. I had neither heard anything from Mr. Corwin nor seen anything of the deer trail. I had given up hope of Mr. Corwin starting the deer so they would be likely to come my way.

I had struck the trail of a single deer that was going down a short sawtooth point or a short spur of the main ridge. The track had been made during the night when it was still snowing and in some places it was hard to follow the trail owing to so much snow falling. The track led down this spur in the direction of low hemlocks. I was working my way very carefully thinking that the deer had gone down into those low hemlocks to get shelter from the storm and were lying down in the thicket. The thicket was just over a little cone or ridge so that I could not see the surface of the ground and I was dead sure that I would catch my game lying in his bed.

In a moment a dozen deer came into sight as suddenly as though they had come up out of the ground and I was suddenly taken with one of the worst fevers that any man ever had. I at once began firing into the bunch. The deer seemingly did not notice the report of the gun but kept steadily on their trail. I knew the condition I was in and that I was shooting wide of the mark. I then singled out one of the largest deer, a good sized buck, and tried to pick out a spot on the back of his shoulders as though I was shooting at a target. I could not keep the gun within range of the deer by ten feet, so when I thought the gun had jumped into line, I pulled the trigger. The deer made no alteration in its course or speed but kept steadily bounding along. The deer were not more than forty yards from me. I dropped on one knee and leaned the gun across my knee, grabbed a handful of snow and jammed it into my face, then placed the gun to my face and began firing at the deer again with no better results.

When the bunch of deer were nearly a hundred yards away and they had all passed over the brow of the hill, except one large doe that was a little behind the rest, the fever left me as suddenly as it came on. I pulled the gun onto her and fired. She staggered, gave a lunge down the hill and fell dead. I could have told within an inch of where the ball struck her before I went to the deer. I could not have told within fifty feet of where my other shots went.

I followed my drove of deer a short distance to make sure that I had not wounded any of them and then I dragged the doe down into the hollow to dress and hang up. Pretty soon Mr. Corwin came to me and seeing only the one deer asked me if that was the only one I had killed with all that shooting. Mr. Corwin said that he had counted nine shots that I had fired. When I told him the story he had a hearty laugh of half an hour and said that I was lucky that I did not die in a fit.

Now boys, you who have never had the buck fever can laugh at me all you like, but those who are over fond of the chase and get the buck fever will sympathize with me. Had I been expecting and looking for this drove of deer at the time instead of only one deer I should not have been attacked with this case of buck fever.

Now, I will tell you of another case of buck fever from a cause entirely different from that just related. I was following the trail and there was just enough snow on the ground to make the best of still hunting. The wind was blowing just strong enough to make a noise in the tree tops overhead to drown any noise that the hunter might make by stepping on a dry limb, and every once in a while there would come a snow squall that would be so dense that you could see scarcely fifty feet.

I had trailed the doe along the side of the hill for some distance. She was feeding alone and I was working along very carefully, keeping along the ridge several yards above the trail, to always be on advantage ground. I had not seen the trail of any other deer during the morning although it was in the height of the mating season, or as us common folks call it, the running season. I was trailing the doe along through a small basin where the timber was nearly all hardwood, beech and maple, and the woods were very open. I was quite positive that the doe was not far in advance for she had just been feeding on some moss from a limb that had blown down from a tree and the tracks were very fresh. About this time one of those snow squalls had come up. I was standing by a large maple tree waiting for the squall to pass by so that I could look the ground over well before I went any farther.

After the squall had passed I looked the ground over closely but could see nothing of my deer. Forty or fifty yards farther along the side of the hill and below me there was a very large maple tree which had turned up by the roots. This tree hid from view a piece of ground close to the log. I could see that the trail led directly up to the tree. I could see a slight break in the snow on top of the log that I took to be made by the leg of the deer in jumping the log. I could see nothing of the trail beyond the tree so I worked very cautiously along until I could see past the root of the tree and as I suspected, there stood my game with head down, apparently asleep and standing broadside to me. I drew the gun onto a point just back of her shoulders and let go and the deer dropped almost in her tracks.

I cut the deer's throat and began to skin out the foreparts. I had only partly gotten my work done when another one of those snow squalls came along. I was bending over the deer, busy at work when I heard a slight noise, and straightened up to see what had caused it. I looked none too soon to save myself from a terrible thrust from the horns of a large buck deer, for as I straightened up the deer shot past me like a shot from a gun, barely missing me and landed some six or eight feet beyond me. I had stood my gun against the log 8 or 10 feet from me. I sprang for my gun but I was trembling so that I could do nothing and I could scarcely stand on my feet. The buck stood for a moment looking back over his shoulders. Every hair on his back stood up like the hair on the back of an angry dog and I well remember the color of his eyes which were as green as grass.

The deer stood and gazed at me for a moment then slowly walked off. The deer had gone some distance before I could control myself sufficiently to shoot. The buck had followed the trail of the doe up to the fallen tree and had caught me skinning her and it angered him. Instead of running off he was determined to attack me and the only thing that saved me from being severely hurt was my straightening up just at the right time to miss the thrust of the buck and the deer's missing me was what caused him to leave me.

This was the worst case of buck fever that I have ever had and I do not care to ever experience a case of that kind again.



Chapter XXIII.

Partner a Necessity.

As I promised to give some reasons why a partner is necessary, and as I have trapped many seasons both with and without a partner, I should know something about the subject. A writer, some time ago, in Hunter-Trader-Trapper said that it took some trappers fifty years to learn what others learned in a week. Now, I fully agree with this writer, for it only took me about three seconds to learn that a partner was necessary, and it came about in this way.

I had several bear traps set near what is known as the Hogsback on the old Jersey Turnpike Road in Pennsylvania. The traps were strung along the ridge that divides the waters of the East Fork and the West Fork, which are tributaries of the west branch of the Susquehanna River and were setting from one and a half miles to four miles of the wagon road, and about nine miles from any house.

The time in question was the last days of October or the first of November, and the day a very warm one for that time of the year. I had been walking very fast, in fact where the ground was favorable, I would take a dog trot. I wished to make the rounds of the traps and get out of the woods that day. When I came to where the second trap had been set, I found it gone, clog and all. The place where the trap was setting was in the head of a small ravine and near the edge of a windfall, just on the lower side of the bait pen, and but a few feet from it lay the partly decayed trunk of a large tree. I jumped on to this tree to get a good look down into the windfall to see if bruin was anywhere in sight. I had scarcely got on the log when I received a reception which I think was something equal to that the Russian Naval Fleet met with in the Corean Straits. I had jumped square into a colony of large black hornets, and they did punish me terribly in three minutes' time. My feet were swollen so that I was obliged to remove my shoes and my entire body was spotted as a leopard with great purple blotches and the internal fever which I had was most terrible. I thought that every breath that I drew was my last. I was two miles from the wagon road and nine or ten miles in the wilderness. No one knew where I was, nor where the traps were set.

I thought no more of the bear. I only thought of reaching the wagon road. I began one of the worst battles of my life, but after a struggle of three hours I got to the road more dead than alive. But here fortune favored me for soon after a man by the name of White (one of the county commissioners who had been in the southern part of the county on business) came along. He took me home where the doctor soon got me on my feet again.

I told my oldest brother where he would find the trap, so he took a man and team and went early the next morning and got the bear all right. It was four or five days before I felt able again to go into the woods and look at the traps, but when I did, I found a small bear, (a cub) dead and the skin nearly worthless. This was 45 years ago, but I am still working at the same old trade, in a small way.

At another time and previous to the time mentioned, I, with a partner, was trapping on the headwaters of Pine Creek. We had been in camp about a week, when one day we had been setting a line of traps about three miles from camp. It was in November and the weather was very disagreeable, yet we were hustling for we knew that the snow would soon be on us, and then we wished to put in all the time we could hunting deer.

On the day in question Orlando (that was my partner's name) long before noon was complaining of a bad headache, and said that it seemed as though every bone in his body ached. I tried to persuade him to go to camp but he insisted on setting more traps. About three o'clock in the afternoon he was obliged to give up, and said he would sit down where he was and wait until I could go further up the stream and set a couple more traps. I said no, we will go to camp, so we started. We were about three miles from camp, but Orlando could only go a few steps when he would be obliged to rest. He soon became so weak that I could only get him along by partly carrying him. He was several years younger than I, but he was somewhat heavier, so he was rather more of a load than I could well manage.

I kept tugging away with him, and about 9 o'clock in the evening I got him to camp, where I fixed him as comfortable as I could, then I began a race of about eleven miles to Orlando's father's house. The distance was about one-half of the way through the woods and it took me until 12 o'clock to make it, but we soon had a team hitched to the wagon and were on the way back to the camp where we arrived about 3 o'clock in the morning. We could only get within about one and a fourth miles of the camp with a wagon, so we had to leave it there and go on with only the horses. When we got to the camp we found Orlando no better, so we got him on to one of the horses and by steadying him the best we could, managed to work our way back home. We arrived there about 8 o'clock in the morning and found a doctor already waiting.

To make a long story short, it is sufficient to say that Pard had a long run of typhoid fever, and if he had been in the woods alone he would have surely died. I could relate other incidents where a pard did come in very acceptable.

As it is a necessity to have a partner, it is also necessary to have a good one, for the successful trapper has no idler's job on his hands. You should always have a partner who is able to read and write and should have a pencil and paper in your pocket, for it often happens that you wish to leave a message at a certain place where Pard and you expect to meet on the trap line. Then each one takes a different line of traps, and circumstances has happened since you left camp in the morning that it changes the entire program. It also often happens that you get into camp at a different time than what you expected and wish to go out again and take up another line of traps, and you should try to keep one another informed as to about what section you are working in.

Always endeavor to carry out the plans as near as possible the way they were planned before leaving camp in the morning. Of all things, do not accept of a man who is lazy or void of manly principles as a partner, for sooner or later you will drop him. Then it will make no difference how much you have done for him or how much you have befriended him in times past, he will do you all the dirt he is capable of doing.

If you want to know all about a man, go camping with him. Probably you think you know him already, but if you have never camped on the trail with him, you do not. It may be that he is your near neighbor or he may have been a partner in business, but if you have not camped with him, you have yet to learn him. It is not a hard job to believe a man a good fellow when at home, but when you have camped with him on the trail, then you will know him. When your companion wishes to annoy any game, which you may find in your traps for the mere purpose of hearing the animal moan with pain; will shoot birds and animals just for the purpose of killing if you have a team with you, and your companion will ride up the steep hills where other men would walk; will neglect his beasts of burden in any way, this man you should never choose as your camping or trapping partner. But when you find one who will never wantonly torture a dumb animal and is kind to his beasts of burden, always giving it all the advantages and kind treatment possible, this man you needn't fear to accept as a trapping partner for in this man you will find "a friend indeed when in need."



Chapter XXIV.

A Few Words on Deadfalls.

Comrades, as I have been asked to give my idea on the deadfall as a practical trap in taking the fur bearing animals, will say that I do not consider it a useless contrivance as some of the boys of the trap line claim. On the contrary, I consider it to be a very successful trap in taking many of the fur bearers such as will readily take bait including the skunk, mink, coon, opossum, rabbit, muskrat, etc.

It is not to be supposed that the fox, coyote, wolf, etc., can be taken in the deadfall; neither is it supposed to be as convenient or as successful a trap as the steel trap. Yet, under favorable conditions I prefer it to the steel trap in trapping some animals, and it is certainly a little more humane in its operation as it usually kills its prey almost instantly, therefore it saves the animal much suffering.

Now there are many kinds of deadfalls, the most of which have been shown from time to time in Hunter-Trader-Trapper. Were I up on drawing, I would illustrate some of the deadfalls which I consider the most successful, but I am not, so enclose photo. I will mention some of the deadfalls which I have seen in use in different parts of the country, some of which were good, but the majority I have seen in general use I did not like mostly on account of the length of time that it took to construct them, and the manner in which it was necessary to place the bait.

I prefer a deadfall so constructed that several different kinds of bait can be used at the same time, therefore the trap is ready for more than one kind of an animal and also a trap that is readily constructed. In the South we see many deadfalls. The most common deadfalls used are those made by placing a bottom log about six or eight inches in diameter and five or six feet long. The drop was about the same size as the bottom log, only much longer and stakes were split from the pine logs and driven into the ground the entire length of the bottom log on both sides of the log. These stakes or boards were long enough to come above the drop log when the trap was set. The drop log was placed between the two rows of stakes and above the bottom log. The common figure 4 trigger was used and placed about midway of the bottom log and raising the drop log six or eight inches from the bottom log. This made a runway that enabled the animal to enter from either end of the run and the animal necessarily was on top of the bottom log and directly under the drop log. The bait was fastened to the spindle. This deadfall may work well on mink, skunk and opossum, but I hardly think it a good trap for other animals and it requires too much time to construct it.

Another deadfall that I saw in common use on the Pacific Coast as well as in other sections of the country was the ordinary string deadfall. It is hardly necessary to describe this trap for every boy who works a trap line knows how to make them. The trap is made by using a bottom log three or four feet long and a drop log of the same size, but much longer. If the trap is not heavy enough of its own weight, place logs on the drop log until it is sufficiently heavy to kill the animal. Four stakes are driven, two on either side of the log and close to the bottom log and about two feet apart and driven so that the top or drop log will work easily between the stakes. Two of the stakes, the ones driven on the side where the bait pen is, had a crotch or fork and a stick was placed in these crotches. A string was tied to the drop log and to a stick of the proper length so that when the drop log was raised up eight or ten inches from the bottom log and the string passed over the stick in the crotches, one end of the trigger stick would rest against the stick placed in the crotches. The other end would slightly catch onto another stick, laid directly under the one that rests in the crotches and resting against the forked stakes and about two inches from the bottom log. This stick is called the treadle, as the animal going into the bait pen to get the bait must step on this treadle, pushing it down, which will release the trigger spindle and allow the drop log to fall.

The bait pen is usually made by driving stakes in a circle from one of the trap stakes to the other stake on the same side of the bottom log. This style of a deadfall is alright as to handling bait, but I do not consider it a sure trap, as often the animal will set off the trap before it is far enough under the drop to make a sure catch. I prefer a trigger that will cause the animal to get at least one fore leg over the bottom piece before the trap is sprung.

In making this style of a deadfall it is not necessary to use a string and the forked stakes with the cross stick in the forks; all that is necessary is to have two upright standards, one locked on to the other by just a notch cut in the standard that the drop rest on and catch the other end of the standard resting on the bed place. This standard is made slightly wedge shape so as to rest firmly in the notch in the upper standard. The notch should be about two-thirds the distance from the lower end of the stick up and just long enough to come down and rest against the side of the crossbar or treadle, which, as before stated, should be about two inches above the bed piece.

The stone deadfall with the figure 4 trigger, I have found in common use in nearly all sections where large flat rocks were to be had to use in making the trap. This stone deadfall is alright in mink trapping and smaller animals but it is not favored much in coon trapping. There are many other styles of deadfalls which I will try to describe later.

As to animals taking bait, will say, I have never had much trouble in getting meat or carnivorous animals to take bait, but sometimes it is necessary to use a different bait than what they will take at other times. This, undoubtedly, is owing to what the animals have been accustomed to feeding on. If the animal is fed on a certain kind of food and will no longer take readily to it as a bait, then use something different. For instance, I found it difficult on the Pacific Coast in the vicinity of Vancouver to get mink to take flesh as a bait, while they readily took other baits. When the mink will not take bait readily, then of course the deadfall does not make a successful mink trap. While the deadfall cannot take the place of the steel trap, yet a well constructed deadfall under some conditions has advantages over the steel trap. Often a deadfall can be set in a thicket of evergreen trees or under a single pine, hemlock or other evergreen tree, or it may be protected by building a frame of poles above the trap and cover with boughs to partly protect the trap from the heavy snows. Now you have a trap that will work alright, where a steel trap would freeze down from sleet or other causes and would not spring; nor will Johnny Graball carry off a deadfall.

No, boys, do not shun the deadfall when trapping skunk in a section where material is convenient to build it with, and especially if you are near your trapping grounds so that you can go out at times and put up a trap or two so as to have a good line of deadfalls ready when the trapping season arrives.



Chapter XXV.

Advice from a Veteran.

In trapping, cultivate the habit of taking great care in making sets. Always leave the surface level. As you cannot tell what particular animal may come your way, prepare for the most cunning. Note the surroundings of your set and use such material for covering as may be found there so that all may appear natural. Never stake the traps down for a dry land set, but select for a drag an old limb or root; not one fresh cut if avoidable. Obliterate your tracks; John Sneakem will not then catch on so quick. Above all things, never molest another's traps.

The jump-trap as now made by the Oneida Community has thicker jaws than the old style and therefore it is not so liable to foot the animal. I find it a good trap to use.

For mink, a good set is close to a bank and near the edge of the water. The bait if any is used, should be fresh muskrat, rabbit or chicken. All are good. If you wish for scent, the musk from the animal you are trapping is preferable.

One famous trapper says, "any fool knows enough to catch a muskrat." I doubt whether this man himself, knows how to trap them successfully. Of course, everyone knows that muskrats should be trapped along streams or swails where you find their works. For bait use carrots, cabbage or sweet apples. I like sweet apples best, and so do the muskrats. Set the trap in about two inches of water, fasten the chain at full length to a sunken limb, drive a stake on either side of the chain near where it is fastened and you need not fear that the rat will "foot" himself. He will soon become entangled and drown.

Another good set for rats is by scooping a piece out of a sod and placing it on a stone or root just under the water. Set trap on sod, fasten the chain as before and scatter bits of apple on the sod.

* * *

Now, boys, as many of you are about to seek new trapping locations, and as I have had more or less experience in trapping from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and as I get many letters from brother trappers as to different trapping locations, I thought perhaps that it would not come amiss to give you a little of my experience in regard to this matter. I would advise that before you go to a new location in other states from those in which you are familiar with the game laws, that you first write to the State Game Commissioner of the state that you intend to trap in, enclosing 10 or 15 cents in stamps, and ask for a copy of the game laws, or for the information that you desire. The address of the Game Commissioner is usually at the capital of the different states. Advice on game laws is generally so meager that it is often misleading, and one relying on newspaper information, often runs up against problems that he would not have undertaken had he known the exact truth of the matter. The game laws of the different states are changed so often that the only way to get reliable information is to go direct to headquarters. Now, some states have local laws, county laws, and some states have even township laws.

I will also speak of writing to trappers for information as to the quantity of the fur bearing animals and game in their locality as another way to get posted.

Now, while I hope that the average trapper is as truthful as mankind generally, I am aware that a trapper will sometimes exaggerate as to the amount of game in his locality. If the person whom you make the inquiry of, is not particularly interested in trapping, or knows but little about trapping and wild life, he is liable to think there is much more game in his county than there really is. And on the other hand, if the party makes a business of trapping, he is quite liable to think that game is less plentiful than it really is. It is a good plan to write to two or more parties in the same neighborhood, on this matter, if you can, and then draw your own conclusion as to the scarcity or plentifulness of the game in that section. But the better way is to go and prospect the country and acquaint yourself with the locality, for you remember the old adage, "If you would have your business done, go and attend to it yourself; if not, send some one."

* * *

I have read with interest the discussion of the many different makes of guns, the different calibers for large game hunting, etc., and as I am not well up on "gunology," I have listened and wondered why there was so much agitation on the gun question. I believe that nearly all of the modern guns that are manufactured today are good -- at least sufficiently good shooters for all practical purposes. Shotguns can be bought at $3.00 or $4.00 that do good work. Perhaps there is not a man in the country who has carried a gun as many days as the writer, but what has done more target shooting than I have.

Back in the 70's when men hunted deer in this section for the money that was in it, I often did not take my rifle down to shoot from one season's hunting to the next, unless by chance something in the way of game came into fields near the house. I was always in love with my gun and if I did not like it I would get rid of it at the first opportunity. I am still of the opinion that a gun is similar to a man's wife, you must love them in order to get the best results.

I always wanted as good a gun as there was on the market. By this I do not mean the highest priced, nor the highest power gun, but the gun that would do the business. A man by the name of Orlando Reese and I were the first to buy Winchester rifles in this section, and I think in this county. The guns were the common round barrel .44 caliber and we paid $60.00 apiece for them. The same kind of a gun can now, I think, be bought for $12.00 or $14.00. Previous to the time I bought the Winchester, I had been using a Henry rifle for a time, but it was not a good gun for hunting purposes. A few years later the .45-75 Winchester came into use, so I sold my .44 and bought a .45-75. I did not like it so I sold it and bought a Colts, which was a good gun, but one day I was doing some fast work on a bunch of deer and in my haste I did not work the lever just as I should and it jammed. This made me rather angry, so I sold it and got another .44 Winchester, which I used for a long time, but I disposed of it very unexpectedly.

I was coming out from camp after a new stock of provisions. My partner, Amersley Ball, was with me. We had not gone far after getting in the wagon road when we met a man by the name of Lyman who was on his way to the Cross Fork of Kettle Creek, for the purpose of inspecting the timber lands and wanted a gun to carry with him. Before Mr. Lyman was hardly in speaking distance he yelled at me and asked what I would take for my gun. Thinking that he was only joking I said $40.00.

Mr. Lyman came up to me, took my gun from my shoulders, looked at it and asked me if it was alright. I replied that if it was not I would not be carrying it.

Mr. Lyman replied, "I guess that is right," and taking a check from his pocket dropped down on one knee, filled it out for forty dollars and handed it to me, so I was without a gun right in the midst of the hunting season.

My protest was of no use, as Mr. Lyman took the gun and went his way, laughing at me. I received a little more for the gun than the usual price at the time, but there was no dealer at our place who kept the Winchester in stock. The dealers were always obliging and would take your order and get you a gun for a small profit of about sixteen dollars. I had no time to wait for a gun to be ordered, so I began to look about to find some one who had a gun for sale. Mr. Wm. Thompson, the publisher of a local newspaper in our place had bought a new .38 caliber Winchester to use in his annual outing and said that he would have no further use for a gun until another season that if I would give him $35.00, I could have his gun. I gave Mr. Thompson the money and the next morning we went back to camp.

After we had arrived at camp, I crossed the divide from the Sinnemahoning side of the Pine Creek side to hunt. I had not gone far after reaching Pine Creek before I struck the trail of five or six deer. After following the trail a ways I concluded that the deer would pass around the point of the ridge and pass through a hardwood balsam on the other side of the ridge.

I climbed the hill and made for the balsam in hope to head the deer off. I had only reached the brow of the hill so that I could look into the basin when I saw the deer. I thought to myself, there is a good chance to try my new gun, for I had not yet shot it. I drew on a large doe that was in the lead of the bunch and cut loose. The doe made a leap into the air, made a jump or two down the hill and went down, while the rest of the deer made two or three jumps up the hill towards me and stopped and looked back down the hill in the direction of the doe that I had shot. I pulled onto the shoulders of a buck, the largest deer of the bunch, who gave his tail a switch or two, wheeled, made a few jumps down the hill and fell, while the rest of the bunch made a lively break for other parts. I continued to scatter lead as long as I could see them.

I ran down to the deer that I had killed, cut their throats, removed their entrails, climbed some saplings, bent them down, cut off the tops and hung the deer on them. Getting a pole with a crotch at the end to place under the sapling, I pulled the deer up the best that I could and started on the trail of the others. I did not follow the trail long when I saw one of them had a broken leg. The deer with the broken leg soon dropped out from the others and went down the hill, crossed the hollow and went into a thick hemlock timber and laurel.

As it was nearly night, I left the trail and went home to camp. The next morning, Mr. Ball went with me to help get the wounded deer. We did not follow the trail far until we saw the deer fixing to lie down. I backed up and went up the hill above where we thought the deer might be lying. While Mr. Ball waited for me to give the signal to come. Mr. Ball had not gone far after I had howled, letting him know that I was ready, when out of the laurel came the deer. Mr. Ball was close, so that we both got a shot, killing the deer almost before it was on its feet.

Now I was so infatuated with my new gun, that it was a case of love at first sight. This was in the late 70's. I have used several different makes of guns. I also had a .30-30 Savage, which I considered a good gun for big game, and in fact, I can say that the most of the guns that I have tried were all good. I however am still married to my little .38 Winchester. I can say that in all these, considerable more than thirty years, I have never run up against a subject but that this little Winchester was equal to the emergency.

Now I wish to ask, why it is that a hunter cares for a high power gun that will shoot into the next township and kill a man or a horse that the hunter was not aware of existing, when a gun of less power will do just as good execution in deer hunting? The ammunition for the gun of lower power costs much less and there is far less danger in killing a man or beast a mile away. We hear men talk of shooting deer 200 and even 300 yards. In the many years that I have hunted deer, I believe that I have killed two deer at a distance of from 50 to 75 yards, to one a distance of 100 or 150. I believe most deer hunters will agree that there are far more deer killed at a distance of 50 or 60 yards than over that distance. I think that if those hunters who kill deer at a distance of 100 or 200 yards will take the trouble to step off the distance of their long shots, instead of estimating them, they will find that 100 yards in timber is a long ways. Yes, boys, 20 rods through the timber is a long ways to shoot a deer. Why? Because the deer can not often be seen at a greater distance, where there would be any use of shooting at all, and the little .38 will do all of that and more too.

* * *

Perhaps the average beginner at trapping makes his greatest mistake in listening to those who have had more experience in handling the pen than the trap. For instance, someone advised readers to use a No. 2 or 3 Newhouse trap to catch marten and said that marten frequented marshy places. Now if they had asked the editor of Hunter-Trader-Trapper, he would have told you that the Pine Marten frequented the higher and dry grounds in dark, thick woods and that it was their nature to run on old down trees and to run into hollow stubs, trees, etc., and that these were the places to set your traps. Unless you were in a country where the snow fell very deep, then you should use the shelf set. He would have also told you that the No. 1 and 1 1/2 Newhouse trap was plenty strong enough for the marten, that many use No. 0.

The average trapper also makes a mistake in listening to some one's ideas about scents in trapping the animal, instead of going to the forest, the field and the stream and there learn its nature, its habits and ways, and its favorite food. He also makes a mistake by spending his time in looking after scents, rubber gloves to handle traps with and wooden pincers to handle bait, instead of spending his time in learning the right way and the right place to set his traps. For one little slip and the game is gone if the trap is not properly set. It is like hunting in the days of the percussion cap gun. I have tramped all day long over hills and through valleys to get a shot at a deer, and just at night get the coveted opportunity, taking every precaution to see that there was no bush or obstruction in line. I would take deliberate aim, holding my breath that my aim might be sure. I trick the trigger, flick went the hammer, up goes the deer's tail and away he bounds beckoning me to come on. Come on, and my day's tramp has been in vain all on account of a damp gun cap. Now in these days of fixed ammunition, such mishaps rarely occur.

It is so in setting the trap, one little misfit and the game is gone. In the Hunter-Trader-Trapper, I read, undoubtedly written by a trapper of many years experience, telling the true way of setting the trap in front of a V shaped pen. He said that the trap should always be set so that the animal had to pass over the jaws of the trap and not between them. Now mark my mistakes, for of late years I have been very particular to set the traps so that the animal passed between the jaws, not over them for I reasoned like this: I thought that the animal might step on one of the jaws and turn the trap up without springing it. In so doing be frightened away, or that the animal might have ball of foot resting on the jaw of the trap, while it set the trap off with its toes, or the ball of the foot might rest on the latch, while the trap was sprung with the toes on the pan. In either case, the animal's foot would be thrown entirely from the trap or so that it would only get slightly pinched, which would put a flea into the animal's ear that he would never forget.

In days long since past, I was not particular how I set the trap, just so I got it planted, but in those days I also made the mistake of running after scents. We make a mistake in thinking that the fox is more sly in some states than in others.

Not long ago, I received a letter from a friend in Maine, asking if I did not think that the fox was harder to trap in some states than others. Now the states that I have trapped in are rather limited, but I have trapped in Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania, mostly in Pennsylvania. I have also trapped in one or two other states, and wherever I found the fox, I found him the same sly fox. In order to trap this animal successfully it was necessary to comply with the natural conditions.

We make mistakes in not handling our fur properly; in not removing all fat and flesh from the skin in not stretching the skin on the proper shaped stretchers. Stretchers for most fur that we case should not taper more than 1/2 to 3/4 of an inch from shoulder to hind legs.

We make mistakes in setting our traps too early, for one prime skin is worth more than three early caught ones. We make mistakes in not having one, and only one, responsible and honorable party in each large city to ship our furs to; by giving one party a large trade should give the trapper the full market price for his furs. It would also have a tendency to make the buyer honest and honorable, even though he was not built strictly that way in making. All trappers should know the address of the party agreed upon in each city. This would give the trapper a chance to ship to the party most convenient to the trapper.

The worst mistake of all mistakes is in one who uses poison to kill with. Let me tell of an instance that came under my observation the spring of 1900, I believe it was. I had an occasion to go into the southern part of this country, my road lay over the divide between the waters of the Alleghany and Susquehanna, about five miles of the road lay over a mountain that was thickly wooded and no settlers. While crossing this mountain I saw the carcasses of four foxes lying in the road. On making inquiries I learned that a man living in that neighborhood was making a practice each winter of driving over the roads in that section and putting out poisoned meat to kill the foxes. I chanced to meet this man not long ago. I said, "Charley, what luck did you have trapping last winter." His reply was, not much only got one or two foxes. Old Shaw has dogged them out of the country (referring to a man who hunted with dogs). I said, "Charley, don't you think that poison business had something to do with it. He replied, "Oh, h -- l there will be foxes after I am dead." This man called himself a trapper, and is quite an extensive fur buyer. Thomas Pope says, "Man's inhumanity to man, makes countless thousands mourn." But, in this case, I think it is the dumb animal that mourns and not the man. The trapper who makes the greatest mistake of his life is the one who does not subscribe for the Hunter-Trader-Trapper.

* * *

In a former article I undertook to give the most practical way of killing a skunk, as I have found it, but owing to a mistake, it left the method of killing rather hard to be understood, so I will try again. I do this, owing to the many requests that I have from trappers to give a method for killing skunks, without the skunk scenting themselves as well as the trapper. Practically, there is no way of killing a skunk without causing the skunk to discharge his scent. Their scent is a skunk defense, and they will use it when in danger.

Now my way of doing the job is to go at it without hesitation. We have an old adage, "If you would grasp a nettle, grasp it as a man of mettle." Now my plan is to wear clothes on the trap line to be discarded as soon as the day's work on the trap line is finished. When I come to a trap that has a skunk in it, I approach the skunk, advancing a single step at a time, with a good strong stick about four feet long, with the stick drawn up in readiness to strike as soon as close enough. Now when I am close enough to make the blow sure I strike the skunk a hard blow across the back, and immediately after, I place my foot on the skunk's back, holding the animal tight to the ground. At the same time giving the skunk a sharp rap or two on the head with the stick to make sure that it is dead. Then pick up the skunk and remove it a little to one side of the place where it was killed. Rip the skunk across from one leg to the other close to roots of tail, skinning around the scent glands at the roots of tail, so that the glands can be easily cut out and thrown away or saved for bait, as the trapper wishes. Now proceed to skin the skunk. By following these directions, the trapper will not suffer any great inconvenience from the animal's scent.

Now if the trapper is a little timid, he can carry some kind of a gun of small caliber and shoot the skunk in the head. But if the skunk does not use his weapon of defense, then it is a different skunk than I have been accustomed to meet with. If the trapper uses a clog instead of a stake to fasten his trap with, and his traps are close to water, he can use a long pole or a hook and gently drag the skunk to the water and drown it. Then the water will carry the fluid or scent as discharged, away.

Now if the trapper is very timid and has plenty of time, I would advise that he provide himself with a light pole ten or twelve feet long, split at one end and take a quart tin can with sockets or brackets soldered onto the sides of the can, so that the can may be placed in between the split at the end of the pole. The two prongs placed into the sockets on the can so as to hold the can firm. Now fill the can part full of cotton and prepare yourself with a bottle of chloroform (not brandy). Now with this outfit the trapper will proceed to follow along his trap line, and when he finds a skunk in his trap he will cautiously approach the skunk after he, the trapper (not the skunk) has well saturated the cotton in the can from the chloroform from the bottle. Then gently work the can up to the skunk's nose and over its head, when the chloroform will soon do its deadly work. After the skunk is dead, the trapper should remove the scent glands as before described, lest the scent may be squeezed from the glands in skinning the skunk.

Another reader asks what kind of a gun he shall take with him to hunt deer, as he is contemplating going on a deer hunting trip next fall. Now I would say any kind of a rifle that suits you. But if you should ask me what kind of a gun I use, I would not hesitate to say that I prefer the 38-40 and black powder. This gun shoots plenty strong to do all the shooting as to distance or penetrations that the deer hunter will require, and there is not near so much danger of shooting a man or domestic animal a mile away that the hunter knows nothing of, as is the case with a high power gun. Besides, from an economical point, the ammunition for the 38-40 black powder gun costs only about one-half that of the smokeless or high power guns. However, if the hunter thinks that he must have a high power gun in order to be a successful deer hunter, he will find the 30-30 or similar calibers good for large game, and it is not heavy to handle.



Chapter XXVI.

The Screech of the Panther.

Some time ago, a writer to the H-T-T, whose name I have forgotten, gave his views in regard to this subject, and requested that the readers give their experiences and ideas on the matter. A year or so ago, I wrote to a sporting magazine (now defunct) giving my views on this horrible screech of the panther.

I have camped in the wilds of California, Oregon, Idaho and Washington. Sixty years ago, in my childhood days, it was an everyday occurrence to hear some one tell of having a panther follow them through a certain piece of woods, and tell of the horrible screams that the panther gave while following them. And still to this day, there is, occasionally a person who reports of hearing that terrible screech of the panther here in old Potter, notwithstanding that there has not been a panther killed in the county for upwards of fifty years, though twice within fifty years, I have been frightened nearly out of my boots by that terrible screech.

On one occasion I was watching a salt lick for deer; I was on a scaffold built up in a tree thirty or forty feet from the ground. The lick was in a dense hemlock forest. It was well along into the night -- I was listening with all my energy, expecting to hear the tread of a deer, but, so far I had heard nothing but the rustle of the porcupine and the hop of the deer-mouse and the jump of the rabbit on the dry leaves. Still, I was listening intently for that tread of a deer which sounds different from that of any other animal, when, with the suddenness of a flash of lightning that terrible screech of the panther came within six feet of my head.

Was I frightened? I guess yes. And had not my gun been tied to a limb of the tree to keep it in place it would have gone tumbling down the tree to the ground.

Glancing up in the direction from whence that terrible scream came, I could plainly see the outline of a screech owl.

On another occasion I had started about midnight from home to go to my hunting camp. About five miles of the distance was along a road with heavy timber on each side. The night was warm for the time of the year, with a slight mist of rain. I was hustling along the best I could to reach camp by the time it was daylight. I had my rifle and a pack-sack with a grub stake to last for a week, on my back. When again, with great suddenness that terrible screech of the panther sounded in the trees over my head. The screech was so sudden and so sharp that I came near dropping right through to China. After recovering my breath and gazing into the timber for a moment, I again discovered one of those frightful owls.

Every close observer, who has put in a great deal of time in the woods in the night, away from a fire and noise, knows that an owl will alight within a few feet of them, and they will not be aware of the presence of the owl when it approaches them. This noiseless movement of the owl is said to be from the large amount of down that grows on the wings of the bird.

As I stated, I have camped in several states west of the Rockies, and have from childhood until late years almost continually been in the woods, and the only screech of the panther I ever heard came from the owl.

My father moved from Washington County, York State, into this county about a hundred years ago, when northern Pennsylvania was an unbroken wilderness, and the few settlers who lived in these parts were compelled to go sixty miles to Jersey Shore to mill. This trip was made down Pine Creek, and usually with an ox team, and those who made the trip were obliged to camp out every night while making the trip for there were no settlers living along the whole route. The road was merely a trail cut through the woods.

Father often made this trip down Pine Creek to Jersey Shore, camping out each night. I have often heard him say that he never head any kind of a noise that he thought came from a panther -- and panthers were plentiful in this section in those days. Father laughed at the idea of the panther screaming, when he heard people telling of hearing them.

However, regardless of what my father and other early settlers of this section, who were not possessed of strong imaginary minds have told me, as well as my own experience, I have evidence that the panther does scream and scream terribly, too.

A neighbor of mine, by the name of Mr. Mike Green, a man about fifty years old, after reading the article which I mentioned at the beginning, came to me and said that I was away off in regard to the panther not screaming. He told of two occasions where he had had adventures with panthers and they screamed fearfully. One of Mr. Green's adventures happened in Clearfield County, this state, the other in West Virginia.

Mr. Green stated that he was driving a team, hauling supplies for a lumber camp, when on two occasions he was out on the road until late at night with his load of supplies some of which consisted of several quarters of fresh beef. He heard the panther scream out in the woods and narrowly escaped the panther by whipping the team and driving rapidly into camp, the panther following him, screaming at every jump.

A few nights later the panther again attacked Mr. Green near camp. He heard it scream and again made haste to reach the camp. When near camp the panther made several attempts to leap onto the wagon, but owing to Mr. Green's rapid driving the panther failed to reach the load.

Later, Mr. Green was lumbering in West Virginia. The teamster who was hauling camp supplies the same as Mr. Green had in Clearfield County, was killed by a panther. Mr. Green heard the panther scream and when the teamster did not come, he with others from the camp went in search of the man, and found him dead. The men in camp made up a purse to pay the burial expenses, Mr. Green contributing to the fund.

I have often been going along the road at dusk through the woods and had an owl follow along for some distance, flying from tree to tree, alighting on trees near me, and would often give one of those screeches, which no doubt has often been mistaken for the scream of a panther, when this trick of the owl occurred when too dark to be seen.

* * *

The screech of the panther I believe to be all imagination. Years ago it was an everyday occurrence to hear some one tell of a panther screaming in a certain locality and tell how it (the panther) had followed them and how they escaped by running their horses, and how the panther screamed in a tree right over their head, and how they could see the panther's eyes shine.

Now I know that one cannot see an animal's eyes shine unless the animal is in the dark and a light shines directly in their eyes.

It is not always these stories are told to misrepresent facts, but it is often the case of imagination or being mistaken. One of the large owls has another cry or call besides the well known hoo-hoo-hoo, which the deer still-hunter often imitates when he wishes to inform a companion just where he is without fear of alarming the deer. The writer has often seen, just at twilight, or nearly break of day, one of those large owls follow along some distance in the woods, flying from tree to tree, lighting on the lower branches of the trees, only a few feet above my head, apparently doing this from curiosity. Frequently the owl would give a screech which was similar to that given by a woman who has been suddenly frightened. Undoubtedly this screech of the owl has often been taken for that of the panther. Owing to the great abundance of down or fine feathers on the quills of the wings of the owl, the owl can light within six feet of a person's head, and if the owl was not seen, you would not know of its presence, for you could not hear the flight of the owl.

While I have not had as much experience in the haunts of the panther as some, yet I have been all through the Pacific Coast States and a good part of the mountains, and have never heard what I thought was the cry of a panther, or a mountain lion.

My father often told me that he had never heard anything that he called a screech of panther and did not think that a panther ever made any such screeching noise as is claimed, yet in my younger days it was a frequent occurrence to hear some one tell of hearing a panther and how a panther had followed them through a certain piece of woods. Even to this day we occasionally hear of some one being followed by a panther and how they had heard a panther screeching on a certain hill.



Chapter XXVII.

Handling Raw Furs and Other Notes.

Boys, as you are nearly all in from the trap line and the trail, (May, 1910), I am going to take the opportunity to give the younger trappers (and some of the older ones, too) a drubbing. I would like to see every trapper get all that his furs are worth and I would not like to see one-half the value of your furs go, simply because you neglected to skin and stretch your catch as it should be.

During the past winter I was in town one day and met a fur buyer and he asked me to go over and see his bunch of furs, saying, "I am going to ship the furs tomorrow." I went with the fur dealer and found that he had a lot of stuff, several hundred dollars worth of furs, consisting of fox, coon, skunk, mink, and muskrat, some wildcat. A good part of this bunch of furs had been caught at least a month before it should have been. Of this unprime fur I will have but little to say. I am sorry to know that any trapper will throw away his time and money by trapping furs before the fur is in reasonably prime condition.

This dealer had many coon and skunk that had from one-half to a pound of grease left on the skin. I asked the dealer if he was going to ship those pelts with all that grease on. His reply was, that he was going to ship the furs just as they were and added that he did not pay anything for that fat, and only half what the skins were worth if they had been handled right. I suggested that he would have to pay express charges on that grease. The dealer said that he could not help that, signifying that he had made that up in buying the furs. I called the dealer's attention to a very good black skunk skin, that had been badly skinned and stretched and asked what he paid for such a pelt. He said that he did not remember, but he knew that he did not pay $3 for a hide that looked like that. Now this skunk skin was spoiled so far as the looks went, if not in real value, and it at least gave the dealer a good excuse to put that pelt in the third or fourth grade. The trapper, in skinning this skunk, had ripped down on the inside of the forelegs and across the belly three or four inches up from the tail. The proper way being to begin at the heel, ripping straight down the leg and close to the under side of the tail. Then carefully cut around the roots of the tail and work the skin loose from the tail bone until the bone can be taken between the fingers on one hand and with the other hand draw the tail bone clear from the tail.

In this pelt the tail bone had been cut off close to the body and left in the tail. In stretching this skin the trapper had made a wedge-shaped board. The board was at least four inches wider at the broad end than it should have been and then sharpened off to a point. I think it best to make the stretching board in width and length in proportion to the animal, slightly tapering the board up to where the neck of the animal joined to the shoulders, then taper and round up the board to fit the neck and head of the animal. The tapering from the shoulders to the point of the nose of course would necessarily be longer on a board for a fox or mink than that of a muskrat or coon, which would need to be more rounding. There are some good printed patterns for stretching boards for sale.

I have noticed that some trappers have holes in the broad end of their stretching boards and hang up their furs while drying with the head of the animal hanging down. Now I think that is a wrong idea. It is not a natural way for the fur on the animal to lay, pitching towards the head of the animal, and especially if there is any grease, blood, or other matter that would dry, causing the fur to stick out like the quills on a fretful porcupine.

Now, boys, let us get into the habit of getting more money out of our catch of furs by removing the greater part of the fat from the skins; also by taking a little more time to skin and stretch the furs that we catch; also by doing less early and late trapping, when the fur is not in a fairly prime condition. I am pleased to see so many of the trappers in Pennsylvania advocating a closed season on the furbearers of this state, though I think that they seem to be in favor of a longer open season than will be to the trapper's advantage.

* * *

Comrades of the trap line, are you awake to the conditions under which we must work? The dog man has no use for the trapper and his traps. Now comrades, while I am a lover of the dog, and have used him on the trap line and trail, I have, nevertheless used the dog for a different purpose than it is ordinarily used by the average sportsman. I hope the trappers throughout the country will arouse themselves to the conditions and not allow the legislation of their respective states to pass laws to put the trapper in the hole, at the pleasure of the dog man, as has been done here in Pennsylvania. (This was written Spring of 1912.)

I believe that the dog man and the trapper, are each entitled to equal privileges -- the dog has no better friend than the writer. Though we do not blame our brother trapper, who will not put up as good a scrap in defense of his traps and his sport and occupation, as does the dog man in defense of his dog, and his way of enjoying an outdoor life. But comrades, we are all men and sportsmen in our way, and let us be reasonable in this matter; but brother trappers, let us not take a back seat because we may not be possessed with as large an amount of worldly goods as some of the dog men may be.

Express your views upon this matter of the trappers' rights through the columns of Hunter-Trader-Trapper. Also with our respective representatives that they may not pass game laws that the trapper is compelled to ignore, as is the case here in Pennsylvania. Here they ask for a bounty on noxious animals, yet, the law forbids the setting of a trap in a manner that would take anything more wary or greater than the weasel. Was this law enacted wholly for the benefit and pleasure of the dog man?

Now I wish to speak of another matter that I think is greatly to the interest of the trapper, and that is, early and late trapping.

No, no, I do not mean morning and evening -- I refer to trapping early and late in the season. And while I do not approve of putting out traps too early in the season, it is far better that we begin trapping in October, than it is to continue trapping until into March, for such animals as mink, fox and skunk begin to fade, or become rubbed, while the mink that is caught in October, has nearly its full amount of fur. Still, the flesh side of the skin is a little dark, which gives the dealer a chance to quote the skins as unprime, notwithstanding the pelt has its full value as to fur purpose. And as to furs caught in March, the dealer has a chance to quote "springy."

And brother trappers of the States, do not put off your shipments of furs until late in March. It has been my experience where furs are shipped late in the spring, the returns are marked "springy," "rubbed," etc., notwithstanding the skins, or at least part of them, may have been caught in December or January.

Comrades, let us work for our own interest, for no one will do it for us. And, Comrades, you are certainly aware that the dog man is playing every card to put the trapper in the hole.

* * *

Comrades of the trap line and trail, I wish to ask your ideas as to whether it is advisable to stick to the taking of the fur and game late and early, all the year around. We know that we all like the sport, and the trapper is a little greedy, as well as people of other occupations. But, is it wise to take a mink, fox or other fur bearing animal so late or early in the season that the skin is not worth more than one-third of what the same skin would have brought in a prime condition?

On the 18th day of March, 1912, a neighbor, who had put in many a day on the trap line with the writer, a man who with his three younger brothers makes a business of trapping every season and makes good money, came to my house with a female fox skin that he had just caught. I glanced at the skin and remarked that the skin was of but little value. My friend replied in an angry tone, "No. It ain't!" And that is not the worst of it -- she would have soon had five young foxes. I said, "You will keep it right up, won't you, Fred." "No, I am done now," he answered. But I said, "Fred, that is what you say every year."

The skin was large for a female fox, and had it been caught any time from November to the last of January, it would have brought five or six dollars; but the best that he could get for the skin was three dollars. This is only one case of many, which came under my observation, and especially in the case of taking skunks after they are so badly rubbed that they will not bring more than half the price of prime skins.

Now in the case mentioned above, of the female fox, the loss in the price of the skin was small compared to that of the young foxes whose skins would have been worth, next November, or December, in the neighborhood of twenty dollars. In this particular case, my friend would have got the most of those young foxes if not all of them, for the fox den was on his premises, and not far from his house.

Now, comrades, let us stop this catching of unprime furs -- it is our bread and butter. Let us stop wasting it, for there are but few trappers, who have any more of this world's goods than he needs. Let every trapper do all that he can to put a stop to this waste of fur by catching the fur bearers, when their skins are not more than one-half their value -- and many are taken that are practically worthless. We must do all that is in our power to stop a wasteful slaughter of the fur bearing animals, for they are already becoming far too scarce; both for the trappers' benefit, as well as those who wear the finished goods.

Comrades, instead of slaughtering the fur bearers during the season of unprime furs, let us look up our trapping grounds, for the coming season, and have all preparations made, and our plans well laid. Then when the season of prime furs arrives, let us take to the trap line and follow it diligently for two or three months, then drop the fox, skunk, mink, coon and opossum and put in more time on beavers, otters, and muskrats.

This applies to the middle, northern and southern states, while those in the far north, can, of course, continue to take the fox, mink, etc., longer, but it is not good policy for the northern trapper, even to keep up the good work so long as to "kill the goose that lays the golden egg."

* * *

I notice that some of the comrades are complaining that they do not get a square deal from some of the fur buyers. Shame! shame! brothers. Do you not know that the Fur Dealer is not even making a living profit out of your pelts? That is the reason why there are so many in the business. And do they not always urge the trapper to send in his furs early for fear there will be a drop in the price, and the poor trapper will lose on the price of his furs? Now, boys, can't you see that the average fur buyer is awfully good to the poor trapper? But comrades, are not we, the trappers, partly to blame for this unfair deal? Are we careful that our furs are at least fairly prime and carefully cured and handled? Are we always careful when making our estimate to give a fair grade ourselves?

This, comrades, we should always be careful to do, and then we should never ship our furs only to parties who are willing to hold them until they have quoted what price they can pay for the bunch. If the prices are not satisfactory, the fur dealer should have agreed with the shipper before the furs were shipped to him to pay one-half of all express charges, and either return the furs to the shipper or to any house in their city that the shipper may designate.

Now, comrades, make some such bargain with your dealer, and if you do not get a square deal do not be shy in giving the transaction with the dealer's name.

* * *

Comrades of the trap line, come down to camp and let us talk over this question of the fast disappearance of the furbearing animals. The fact of timber becoming scarce has made nearly every one timber-mad -- no, that is not right, I mean money-mad -- and they wish to secure this money through the fast increasing value of timber. In the late sixties, right here in sight of where I am sitting, I saw as nice white pine cut and put into log heaps, burned up for the purpose of clearing the land, as ever grew.

Now, boys, I liken the trapper and the dig-'em-out and the dog-hunter to our ancestors in the wasting of timber, only our ancestors at that time could not see the value of the timber that they were wasting. The trapper, the dig 'em-out and the dog-hunter are all money-mad, made so by the high prices of fur. But unlike our ancestors, the trapper, dig'em-out and dog-hunter should be able to see the folly in taking the furbearers when in an unprime condition, because we all know the difference in the value of a fox, a skunk, a mink, or the skin of any other fur-bearing animal taken in September or late in the spring when unprime, than the same skins would be worth if taken in November or any month during the winter.

I trapped in three different states in the South last season (1912) and I met with trappers and dog-hunters who admitted that they trapped and hunted in September. We saw one trapper who had four large mink also quite a bunch of other furs, consisting of coon, muskrats, civet and skunk; the trapper said that the mink were caught last September or the first of October. He wanted six dollars for the four mink. Just think of those four large mink being offered for six dollars and he could not get a buyer at that price. The rest of his early caught furs ranked with the same grade as the mink. Comrades, just think that over and see how foolish we are to begin trapping so early in the season. These same mink, had they been caught the last of November or in December, would have been worth, easily, six or seven dollars apiece. This same party had two mink that he had caught the first of November and he asked five dollars apiece for them and they were not near as large as those caught in September.

Now, brothers of the trap line, the most of us will admit that we are not overstocked with worldly goods and we are not to be blamed for getting a little money-mad; but when we get so money-mad that it makes us so blind that we not only destroy our pleasure but we throw away from twenty-five cents on a muskrat and four to six dollars on a fox or mink we should stop and think!

While out in camp on our fishing trips this summer, let us invite all of the boys of the neighborhood to come and let us talk this matter over with them and show them how lame we are to indulge in this early and late trapping and hunting of the furbearing animals. Let us induce the boys to become readers of the H-T-T, one of the greatest sporting magazines of the world, and through the columns of this magazine, put up their fight for the protection of the furbearer and the song birds. Unless the trapper puts up his own fight for the protection of the furbearers, they will soon be exterminated. The dog-man is now trying to place a tariff on the trappers' bread and butter in placing a bounty on the furbearer to induce the money-mad trapper to destroy the furbearer during the summer when their fur is worthless.

Also, let us have a little chat with the dig 'em-outs or den-destroyers. Boys, what is the difference how the skunk or coon is caught, whether by the steel trap or by dig'em-outs or by the dog; if the animal is caught is it gone, isn't it all the same? Well, it looks to the fellow up the tree as though there was quite a difference. Now comrades, if we dig out a skunk, that den, that habitation is gone, is it not, and there is nothing left to induce other skunks to frequent that location. Now, as to hunting the coon and possum with the dog, two-thirds of the time the coon or possum is treed in a den tree or rock and the tree is cut down and the rock or other den is destroyed and you will get no more coon or possum at that place. If this work of destroying the dens of the skunk and the coon is thoroughly practiced, the dens will soon be gone and with the disappearance of the dens the skunk and the coon also disappear. If the dig'em-out or dog hunter, when he found that he must destroy a den in order to get his game, would leave it or get the animals in some other way without destroying the den, then there could be no objection to the dig'em-outs or to dog-hunting.

Now, comrades, I will give some of my own experience in regard to this destroying of den trees. I trapped for a short time around a slough or pond in Alabama two years ago. The large timber in the vicinity of this pond was mostly oak and lumbermen were cutting this timber and taking it out. Coon were quite plentiful around this pond when I first began trapping there but I soon noticed that signs were fast disappearing and I could not think what the cause was. I went to another pond or rather a swamp about two miles from this pond where I again found coon quite plentiful.

Not long after I had moved my traps to this other slough a party of negroes came to my camp; they had five dogs. I inquired what luck they were having and they complained that since the timber had been cut around Swan Pond there were no den trees for coon or possum and they were all gone. When these colored people told me what the trouble was I could readily account for the fast disappearance of the coon signs about the pond. I went to the same pond again this past season and while I found a few signs I did not consider it worthwhile to put out a line of traps so I went on to the swamp and put out my traps. It made me two miles further travel in that direction but it paid me just the same.

Comrades, let us induce all the boys to come to camp where we can consult with them and let us get a move on us and locate our trapping grounds and make all preparations for the trapping season. This will enable us when the fur is prime to make more money in two months than we do in four months when we indulge in this September and unprime fur trapping. At the same time we will be able to lift our traps while there is still some of the furbearers left and we have not "killed the goose that lays the golden egg."



Chapter XXVIII.

The Passing of the Fur bearer.

Well, boys, I suppose you are well pleased with the bounty law in this state, (Pennsylvania) as it now is? While it is doubtful if I shall ever again be able to follow the trap line, I am nevertheless as much, and perhaps more, interested in the welfare of the trapper, than when I was able to follow a line of traps.

I am inclined to think that the present bounty law (1907) will not only be a damage to the trapper but also to the state. People who never thought of trapping before are now preparing to trap, and some are already at it, and their cry is, Bounty! Bounty! It reminds me of John Chinaman when gold was discovered at Cripple Creek, Colorado. All John could say in his rush for gold, was Cripple Creek, Cripple Creek! Fortunately the greater part of this class of trappers will catch but few of the shyer animals (and the best fur bearers).

It was the Game Clubs that asked for and received the Bounty Law. Now if the bird hunter will leave his trained bird dog at home, and walk up to the birds he shoots, he will get plenty of exercise, and the game birds will soon be more plentiful -- but I suppose this would not be sportsmanlike.

I am well acquainted with a man who is a member of a Game Club; also a game warden. A neighbor of mine who is a good trapper was visiting me a few days ago and he told me of a little matter that took place between the game warden and sportsman in question, and himself. My neighbor said that he was at the place of business of the Game Warden  --  -- , and he said to my neighbor, "There are three traps you can have for I have no use for them. My dog got in one of them, and I brought the things home with me. I should have thrown them in the river."

When my neighbor came to look at the traps he found his own private mark on the traps, so he said to the warden that they were his traps, for there was his own private mark. The warden replied that he couldn't help that, and that there were three more over at the house that he could get if he wanted to. When my neighbor went to get the other traps he found that they were not his traps, but he knew by the mark on them the traps belonged to his neighbor, so he told the warden about it.

Now the intention of the true sportsman is to kill two birds with one stone through the Bounty Law; destroy the fur bearer, and by so doing, do away with what I have heard many a true sportsman call a nuisance -- the trapper and his traps. Apparently this state or its lawmakers, look upon the game business and the fur industry in a very different light from what many do.

Many states throughout the Union are enacting laws to protect the fur bearing animals of their respective states, and are only placing bounties on such animals as are of little use as fur bearers, and are destructive to stock. No doubt but that these states look upon the hundreds of thousands of dollars put into the pockets of their citizens through the trapper and his products, the same as they would upon equal amount of money brought into their respective commonwealths through any other industry. I believe it would have been well to have had a bounty of $2.00 on a wild cat, and 50 cents or $1.00 on a weasel, and the same on hawks.

I would like to have a little private talk with the trappers of Pennsylvania. I do not wish to go away from home to give advice, for usually unsought-for advice will reach about the same distance that the giver's hat rim does. Boys, remember that this is private -- just between you and I. When we get ready to set our traps about the first of November, let's try to -- Oh, well, you kick, do you? You say that the bounty trapper will have everything caught before the first of November. That is true to a certain extent, but we can't help that, for you know we are not true sportsmen, so all we can do is to stick to common sense.

What I was about to say, boys, when we set our traps about the first of November, was, let's try to set our traps so as to avoid catching our neighbor's cats and dogs. If by mistake we should catch a neighbor's cat, in freezing weather, and the cat's foot is frozen, kill the poor thing at once and don't let it out to remain a poor cripple the remainder of its life. And say, boys, don't you think it would be a good idea to get the consent of the farmers to allow you to set traps on their premises, wherever you can do so? And don't you think it would be best to be very careful to not break down the farmer's fences and leave their bars and gates open when we pass through them tending our traps? In fact, we should be very careful and do as little damage as possible, for you know we trappers are not true sportsmen. The true sportsman can buy or lease lands and have their private game preserves, so let us try to keep on the right side of the farmer or there will soon be a time when we will have no place to set our traps.

* * *

Certain game club men who are headed by a certain M. D. are circulating a petition to both branches of the Legislature and the Governor, to have a law passed to abolish bear trapping in Pennsylvania. This M. D.'s excuse is a plea of humanity, claiming that many bear are caught and allowed to remain in the trap until the bear gnaws or twists off his foot and often the bear is caught the second time and another is taken off, when the bear is destined to go through life on two feet. Now in all of my more than fifty years of bear trapping, I have never known a bear to gnaw his foot in the least degree. Neither have I had a bear twist off his foot when caught in a trap that has a spread of jaws no larger than 12 inches, which will catch a bear through the thick of a foot. The Newhouse No. 5 bear trap which is the most common trap used in bear trapping, has a spread of jaws of 11 1/4 inches.

The law which is now (1910) in force in this state provided that a bear trap must be looked to at least every forty-eight hours. Under these conditions, there is no danger of a bear twisting off a foot. It is true that if a trap is used with a grasp high enough to catch above the foot and the bear is allowed to remain in the trap for a long time, they will sometimes twist off a foot.

But this sympathetic M. D. makes no mention of the bear that is wounded by a gunshot, escapes and lies for weeks, and then dies or recovers as the case may be. The wounding of a bear from a gunshot is far more liable to occur than it is to take a bear's foot by being caught in a trap.

This sympathetic doctor makes no mention of the farmer who has a number of sheep killed by bears, which is almost an every day occurrence during the summer season in any section where bear frequent.

Now, Brother Trappers, it is not the great sympathy that these gentlemen club men have for the bear. No, not in the least. What these gentlemen want is to drive the lowly bear trapper out of business, so that those very sympathetic gentlemen may more easily kill a bear without losing too much of their precious sweat, and not be compelled to get too far from camp and the champagne bottle.

Now, Brother Bear Trappers, my object in writing these few lines is to ask you and each of you to write your respective representative at once, advising him that you are opposed to any law to abolish the trapping of the bear.

I believe that I was the first to advocate some remedy against the wasteful slaughter of the fur bearing animals through the medium of our favorite magazine, the Hunter-Trader-Trapper. I urged that the remedy was with the large raw fur dealers by refusing to accept skins that were not in a reasonably prime condition. Since my writing, other more capable writers have taken up the matter and have advocated a remedy from the same standpoint.

Now by close observation I have become satisfied that there is no use of looking further in that direction for a remedy of this wasteful slaughter of the fur bearing animals. The city fur dealers receive the goods which consist of all manner of skins and all grades from good to poor and worthless. In most cases the dealer received the goods from local dealers who have gathered the furs up from among the trappers, paying such prices as he thought would leave a fair profit on the whole bunch. In most cases paying more for the poorer grade than it was really worth, while paying far less than the prime skins were worth.

Now the dealer was hardly to be blamed for this sort of transaction, for it was the only way that he could make a deal with the trapper. The city dealer is in the same fix as the local dealer. He quotes furs from number one down to number four and trash, making up on the better grades what he may have lost on the poorer. Thus you see there is no one out anything except the trapper, who will insist on trapping too early in the season, as well as too late in the spring of the year.

Now we will say to the brother trappers of Pennsylvania and other states as well, that we are at the parting of the ways, allowing us to use the term. We must do something desperate if we wish to save the fur bearers from becoming extinct and save the trappers' pleasure and what profit he may derive from the business.

Now the only remedy is a closed season on all fur bearing animals. If we are to derive any special benefit from a closed season, the open season must be made short, for every trapper of much experience knows that the fur bearers of Pennsylvania have become extremely scarce in the past few years. In fact in some parts there is but little stock left to build on. I would say that not more than two months of open season should be allowed, if we get real benefit from a closed season, and taking the whole state into consideration, I believe that November and December would give the best general satisfaction.

Now, brother trappers, do not be hard on me because I advocate a shorter season to be open than some trappers seem to be in favor of. Well, we had the bounty law and we all have seen the results. I would like to say here that the bounty law is still doing its work of annihilation. The law is still in force as it appears on the face of it, but nevertheless there has been no appropriation made by the legislature to pay the bounty. Some trappers do not know but what they will get the bounty until they present these certificates for payment, then to learn that there is no bounty for them. Other persons and would-be trappers are getting the certificates and holding them, thinking that there will be an appropriation made to pay this bounty. In this they will also find their mistake.

Now, brother trappers, we all know that the Lord helps him, who helps himself and if we would save the fur bearing animals from complete annihilation we must each of us do our part and not depend on some one else doing the work. Let us all who would have a closed season on mink, fox, skunk and muskrat get a petition to that effect and circulate it. Get your merchant, doctor, and every other business man in your neighborhood to sign the petition and as many others as we possibly can.

Now, my dear friends, let us remember that the gentleman sportsman will not help us in this matter and if we would have a closed season we must push this matter ourselves. In my upwards of fifty years on the trap line and the trail, I have always done my part (as I saw it) to stop wasteful slaughter of game and the fur bearers and I will do the very best that I am able in this matter, although I realize that my days on the trap line are few.

Now, comrades, on the fourth of July (1910), the primaries to nominate candidates to represent the people of the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, will be held. Let every trapper of the state, who is interested in the matter of a closed season on our fur bearing animals get out and talk with their candidates whom they wish to represent them at the next assembly. Let him know that you wish a law passed at the next legislature giving a closed season on fur bearing animals. We should bear in mind, that writing and talking without action will not do. We must get busy at once if we would accomplish anything.



Chapter XXIX.

Destruction of Game and Game Birds.

Of late (1908) there has been much writing and law making in an attempt to preserve the game of this commonwealth, and it reminds one of the old adage of "Locking the Barn Door, after the Horse was Stolen." At the last Assembly of the Pennsylvania Legislature, there was a Bounty Law passed with an appropriation of $50,000 to pay the bounty on the different animals. The appropriation was exhausted almost before the trapping season had begun, or at least should have begun, so far as the trapper's interest was concerned. Now, I wish to speak of the bounty as to fox and mink, and I wish to speak of an incident that came under my observation.

A neighbor of mine makes a business of trapping each fall; there were three in the family, who trapped last fall. They caught 11 fox, 4 mink, 8 coon, 2 weasel and 1 wildcat. This catch was all made before the 20th of October and sold for $34.45, or including bounty, $66.45. Now, had this same fur been caught in November or December, the fur alone would have brought at least $68.00, and the taxpayers would have been $32.00 ahead.

I also know of another party who dug out two nests of young mink and got nine young ones. The old mink escaped. I asked this man why he did not let them go until fall or winter, as these dens were near his mill? He informed me that he never fooled away any time trapping and had he left them go until fall the mink would have been gone and now he was $6.50 ahead. Now, this man had actually destroyed at least $30 worth of furs to get $6.50 in bounty.

While I think that the bounty on wildcats and weasel is all right, I do not think a bounty on fox and mink at all necessary. The high price their fur brings will induce the trapper to take all that the bounty would induce him to do, and at a time when the fur will bring more than a great deal of early caught furs would bring, including the bounty.

It is quite doubtful as to mink being very destructive to birds or their nests, and as to the destruction of poultry, it is a very easy and inexpensive matter for any poultry raiser to arrange his poultry house so as to take any prowling mink that should come about his premises.

Now, I would suggest to the bird hunter, or as he prefers to be called, "sportsman," that if he will leave his automatic gun and his bird dog at home, and merely take a good double-barrel breechloader and go into the bush, and "walk up" his birds, instead of having a dog to show the bird to him, he will do far more to protect the game bird than any bounty law will do! This the sportsman must do, or the game birds of this state will soon be a thing of the past.

About 1870, there was a move begun to check the slaughter of the deer in this state, but it was only in a half-hearted way. The writer circulated the first petition to get the law enacted prohibiting the hounding of deer. After some years the law prohibited the chasing of deer with dogs, but the law could not be enforced for the very reason that these same sportsmen wished to hound deer. He would go on to the streams where there were but few inhabitants, and hire all of the people living in the neighborhood to take their dogs to the hills and start them on the trail of deer. The "sportsman" would lay in ambush and shoot the deer when they came to water, providing they were able to see the sights on their guns sufficiently clear to get a bead on the deer.

These "sportsmen" would pay the natives a good sum for their services and would often buy hounds at high prices and bring them to the locality where they intended to hound deer and pay some one living in the neighborhood a good price to keep their dogs from one season to another. These "sportsmen" were sure to make the constable, whose duty it was to report this violation of the deer law, a present of a fine fishing rod or some other article which might be a ten or twenty dollar bill.

Now, under these conditions it was next to impossible to get any one who knew anything about the transaction to make a complaint, or even be a witness against those transgressors of the deer or hounding law. But in time the law was made sufficiently stringent as to virtually put a stop to this most cruel practice of deer hunting.

But now another bad thing came into vogue. Non-residents were allowed to go into the woods where they would camp from the first day of the open season for deer until the close and often some days after. Now, "the horse has been stolen." The deer in this state are virtually gone. "The door has been strongly locked, but it is now too late." This game rule applies to the game fish of the state and unless there are laws enacted which will apply more closely to the preservation of the game birds, than a closed season and a bounty or scalp law, the game birds will soon go the way of the deer and the game fish too.

I wish to say a word to our friends on the Pacific Coast as to the slaughter of game and especially that of deer. I saw a slaughter of deer in nearly all of the states west of the Rocky Mountains that was cruel. In California, in 1904, I saw men kill deer seemingly for no other purpose than the desire to kill, or as I put it, the desire to murder. I saw deer killed when the slayer positively knew that there could not be any use made of the carcass. I saw deer killed when only a fry would be taken from the ham, the remainder of the carcass left to lay without even the pretense of dressing. It was a common occurrence to kill deer for no other purpose than to feed dogs.

One day I was standing by a man on a sand bar on the bank of a river when we noticed a doe a few rods away looking at us. The man drew his gun to his shoulder in the act of shooting and I exclaimed, "My God, man, you are not going to shoot that deer, are you?" My words were not out of my mouth when the gun cracked. The deer was mortally wounded and ran directly towards us, making desperate efforts to keep its feet. It fell dead within ten feet of where we were standing. I walked away. The slayer of the innocent creature stood and gazed at it a moment and then with his foot he pushed it off the bar into the river. I hope I may never see another such sight. It was June and the doe was heavy with fawn and this man knew that he could make no use of this deer whatever.

I saw much wasteful slaughter of deer but none quite so inhuman as the one mentioned. The game laws of the Pacific Coast were not enforced. When well back in the mountains it was a rare thing to hear the game laws spoken of, not even by the game wardens. Now I think that all who are lovers of the woods and fields should join in a general move to protect this wasteful slaughter of all game and game birds, no matter whether we are the so-called "pot hunter" or the "gentleman sportsman," but none will regret this unreasonable waste of game more than those who are living back in the mountains, where game is most plentiful, when it is gone. Nor none will get more benefit and pleasure from the very fact that they are living in a game section, yet these are the ones who do not seem to care how great the slaughter, apparently never taking it into consideration that the present rate of slaughter will soon leave their game laden section as bare of game as that of the older settled countries.

Comrades, let us all join in the preservation of what game and fish there is left, whether we may be called pot hunters or gentlemen sportsmen. I would be the last one to wish to deprive any trapper or camper from making good use of game at any time when in camp, but let us be careful about the waste of it.

* * *

Comrades of the trap line, you of course are aware that a trapper is considered of small account by those who make or cause to be made, the game laws of this state (Pennsylvania), and brother trapper, are we not as much to blame as the ones who concoct the game laws to their own liking? The accompanying picture will show a part of the confiscation from the writer by the game laws of Pennsylvania and this same confiscation applies to every trapper in the state to a more or less extent. Had we presented our side of this question to our respective representatives in a clear and reasonable light would we not get a square deal? If not, then why not? We are aware that the man with the dollar has a great influence in comparison with the poor trapper, but are there not ten of the poor trappers to one of the dollar men and have we not the just and reasonable side of the question? Do not our representatives know that the raw fur industry of the state is of greater importance, financially, than the wheat crop of the state, for which the legislature does all it can in the way of appropriations to help the farmer to increase the yield of wheat? Had this been shown to the assembly, would it not have passed laws to protect the fur-bearers of the state, instead of bounty laws to exterminate the fur-bearer, and this act at the expense of the public?

Every dollar that is appropriated by the House of Representatives in the way of bounty on so-called noxious animals, must come from the pockets of the taxpayers, and is not a dollar saved in the way of protecting the fur-bearers of the state equivalent to a dollar produced from a bushel of wheat? Now, the dollar man will tell us that the fox and mink are very destructive to game and game birds. This, to a great extent, is a mere bugaboo, or an excuse to knock out the trapper. There is little doubt but that a fox occasionally kills a grouse or partridge or a rabbit. Admitting this to be the case, is not a good fox or mink skin worth ten times as much to the trapper as a partridge or rabbit is to the dollar man?

But that is not all, if it is the pleasure of an individual to amuse himself with the traps, why should he be deprived of that pleasure? It is certain that the trap will not cause any more harm in the way of damage or in a cruel manner, than a dog will. While the dollar man makes a plea in defense of game, it is generally known that his plea is in reality in defense of his manner of sporting, regardless of any desires that the poor trapper may have and there are certainly but few trappers but wish to see the game and game birds preserved as well as the dollar man does.

I doubt if there is a man in the State of Pennsylvania who has worked longer, or done more according to his ability, to protect and preserve game than the writer has, and as to the dog, he has no greater friend than the writer. As to the preservation of game and game birds, I believe in preserving it in a substantial way and not in a mythical manner, under the pretext of a bounty on noxious animals and then pass laws that do away with the trap, the most effective implement there is in taking that noxious animal. As the game and bounty laws of Pennsylvania stand today, it reminds one of the old lady who told the boy that he could go in swimming, but he must not go near the water.

Now, I believe in a bounty on wildcats, hawks and weasel, sufficient to induce the poor man to spend the time necessary to exterminate these animals when an opportunity comes to him, for the dollar man will not take the trouble to do so. But the only effective bounty law must be placed on the game man, in the way of cutting his bag limit of birds for a single day and the season in two, and placing a closed season of five years on deer. There is much said as to the rapid decrease of game. Now, so far as this applies to deer, and my observation extends over four counties of the state, at the present decrease (1913) of the deer, there will not be a deer left in these four counties at the end of five years and the deer law is being continually violated. In order to enforce the game laws of the state, the laws should be as near equal as possible, in giving each man his way of enjoying his manner of out-door sport, either in fishing, hunting or trapping. We are aware that there must be a limit to man's idea of sport. There are plenty of men, for instance, who enjoy the use of dynamite in fishing, in killing all the fish in the stream, small fish along with the large ones, also all kinds of fish that happen to be in the pool where the dynamite is used. It may be the pleasure of other sportsmen to kill birds of all kinds and also deer at any and all times of the year. This kind of work can not be allowed. In order to enforce the game laws, the laws must be in harmony with the greatest number of people possible, and not enact game laws that deprives a goodly portion of the people (I refer to the trapper) of their pleasure simply to gratify a certain class of sportsmen.

The game wardens will then find it hard enough to enforce the law. Say, comrades, I wish to call your attention to an article in the December number of H-T-T, 1912, by Mr. J. R. Bachelder. Mr. Bachelder is an old and respected man and one of the rural mail carriers of Cameron County. Mr. Bachelder describes how the trap law of Pennsylvania has deprived him of the only pleasure that he was able to enjoy in the open, that of tending a few traps.

And comrades, we of the trap line and trail, who are not blessed with the dollar and the automobile, will soon find that our pleasures in the open, like Mr. Bachelder's, are laid by for all time. If the club man, through his leasing policies and the trespass law that he has before the House of Representatives, becomes a law, we can go away back and sit down.

But, comrades, I consider that we are to blame to a large extent for these "one man" game laws. Had we come out at the right time and fought for our rights in the open instead of slinking back in the dark, whining, I believe that the law, as applied to the trap, would be different and I should not violate the game laws after passed, no matter if they are not wholly to my liking.

The professional sportsman makes a great talk about the amount of birds that the fox destroys. Now, the facts are, one weasel or snake will destroy more rabbits or birds and birds' eggs than a dozen foxes. The fox gets the greater part of his food from the field mouse. This fact any close observer knows.

* * *

Brother trappers, you are aware that the nations -- the United States, Great Britain, Japan and Russia, have taken the fur seal under their protection, and will protect the seal and sell their skins. I wish to ask you, brother trapper, if your wife, daughter or sweetheart wears furs made of the seal skin. No? Well, your wife, daughter or sweetheart does wear furs made from the fur bearer that runs on the hillside back of your house. Then, why do you stand for a bounty on these animals from which the furs are made for your wife, daughter or sweetheart to wear, to hasten the extinction of these fur-bearers, while the millionaire gives the word to the government, and the fur-bearer of the millionaire is protected at the expense of the people? Say, you wives, daughters or sweethearts of the trapper, do you stand for this kind of a deal?

A few words in regard to the protection of the game and game birds: I think that every lover of outdoor life should be willing to have a reasonable number to the bag limit of either game birds or game animals, and lend a hand in protecting the game to the amount of the bag limit.

Oh, you find fault with the game laws -- you say that the laws are not just to all alike. Well, in one sense of the word this is true. The state law confiscated your traps, then placed a bounty on noxious animals, and then fines you heavily if you set a trap in a way so as to be able to catch one of these noxious animals (queer laws); but, nevertheless, we should try to protect our game if we are to have any left. At the rate the game is being slaughtered at the present time, there will not be a deer left in the State of Pennsylvania, and but very little game of any kind.

You say that it is a hard matter to protect the game -- that is true; for it is hard to get local game wardens that are of much account. A man of much principle and business qualifications will not accept the position, as he does not like to arrest a neighbor for fear of hurting his regular line of business. The State Game Wardens are not acquainted with the different game localities, and with the people who have but little or no regard for the game laws of the state.

I will give an instance which came under my observation the past season: The game laws of Pennsylvania prohibit the use of buckshot in deer hunting, and the law also prohibits the killing of does. Now, a man who was hunting deer with a shotgun loaded with buckshot, was looking at another hunter's gun, which was a .32 Special Winchester; the shotgun man noticed the small caliber of the Winchester, asked the party who had the rifle (knowing nothing of the shooting power of the Winchester), if he expected to kill anything with that little thing, and at the same time stating that good buckshot gun was the thing to hunt deer with. When asked if he did not know that the law forbade the use of buckshot in deer hunting, he replied, "Oh to  --  --  with the law!" They knocked me out of my bear traps, and the next thing they will do is to pass a law to prohibit hunting with a gun that costs less than $500.00.

At the same time, and in this same place, a party killed a large doe that had its tail entirely shot away and several buckshot were found in its body.

I will tell a little joke that was got off on one of the State Game Wardens as told by himself in the hotel at this place, which is a fact, and took place in these same woods: The Warden was telling a crowd at the hotel how his attention had been called to a doe that some one had killed and hung up in a certain place in the woods. The Warden said he went and found the deer and watched for ten days, but no one came for the deer. A party standing by said to the Warden, "Oh, that is a way we have of fixing you fellows -- we kill a doe, hang it up on the outskirts of the deer hunting grounds, then give you notice of it, and while you are watching the dead deer, we are killing the live ones." The Warden, after listening to the man's story, remarked, "Well by Jonathan! that is one on me -- come on."

The above joke was actually got off here at the hotel in this town.

The number of bears killed in this part, fall of 1911, notwithstanding that the use of steel traps is prohibited, was larger than has been in years. A party of thirteen from this place went into the woods on the Trout River, and during the ten or twelve days they were there, they killed seven bears -- five in one day. And there were several deer killed.

Now comrades, while we can't all agree on the justification of the game laws, we should all join hands and try to protect what little game we have left by getting the bag limit materially cut down, and give fifteen days more time to the hunter. Then stand by the law, or soon the game will all be gone with the exception of a few cotton-tails and what game is on private reserves, and posted lands.



Chapter XXX.

Southern Experiences on the Trap Line.

Comrades of the trap line, I am not able to report a large catch of furs the past season, 1910. I did not catch much fur, but say, boys, I had a good deal of experience nevertheless. I will try to tell of conditions as I found them in North Carolina.

I first stopped in Lee County, where I met Mr. A. L. Lawrence, one of the Hunter-Trader-Trapper's most ardent friends. After stopping here a few days and seeing some of the sights in Lee and Moore Counties, Mr. Lawrence, now my friend and partner, a gentleman whom I had never known before, started for Bladen Co., N. C., where we expected to be kept up a good portion of the night in order to keep up with the skinning and stretching of the numerous furbearing animals caught during the day. Well boys, I will say that we were not troubled in this matter at least.

While there is more fur in that section than in the north, there are also more disadvantages to be met with, than we have here. The majority of people that one meets with in the South are very kind and obliging. Nevertheless you will find it somewhat difficult to find suitable grounds to set your camp, providing the parties are aware that your intentions are to put out a line of traps. Remember that nearly every farmer has a drove of hogs that run in the woods, and the feeding grounds of the razorback is in the bottoms along the creeks and rivers. Naturally the farmer is a little fearful of his pigs being caught, so he says that the better way is to keep "shet" of the trappers, especially those that are strangers to the neighborhood. This is not the only way that the razorback gets in his work, and a good bit of work they get in too. The razorback is a powerful hunter, and it does not require a powerful animal scent to draw the razorback to the trap. To avoid the porker the trap must be set three inches below the water or six feet above the ground. As foxes are not given to tree climbing as a usual thing the trapper is sorely tried to devise schemes to take the fox in a section where the razorback is getting in his work. He is found in most places in the South, although there are some counties and even townships that have a stock law.

The great difficulty with a non-resident or a stranger in getting a site to camp on, is that he must be where he can use the water from some one's well, as springs are not very plenty. The water in the branches, small streams or rivers are not such that a trapper should use; there is such a heavy drainage from swamps that are full of decayed vegetation, so that the trapper would soon be looking for a doctor rather than for opossum and coon.

On South River near Parkersburg, we got a good place to camp, and the people were very kind and neighborly. Mr. Green, the postmaster at Parkersburg, and his family, with whom we stopped a short time before going into camp, were very kind and generous. The young ladies, daughters of Mr. Green, gave us some fine music on the piano, accompanied with singing during the evenings.

About eighteen or twenty miles from Parkersburg on Turnbull Creek where we expected to do the greater part of our trapping, and where mink and coon were quite plentiful with considerable otter signs, we were unable to get a place to camp. The people objected to outside trappers infringing on what they apparently looked upon as their individual right.

At the junction of Cape Fear and Black Rivers in Bladen and Pender counties, there is a section of low swampy country, which is a wild country where there is deer and bear as well as furbearers such as otter, mink, muskrats and coon. The latter are quite numerous. There is also wild turkey, quail and ducks on the river. Now this section of the country had a colony of mixed whites and colored people (Mulatto) who lived in these swamps, other people rarely going into that locality.

We were informed that there was a good deal of illicit or Blockade Whiskey as the natives call it, made in these swamps. It is said that it is not safe for strangers to be caught in their domain too often. I found that one needs nearly double the number of traps to trap in the swamps or bays, as these swamps are called by the natives. There is so much ground that is covered with water so near alike that the animal has no regular place to travel, as is the case along the open streams. Instead the animals have vast areas of ground to travel over that is partially covered with water, so that the mink or raccoon travels anywhere and everywhere, as it is all alike to the mink and coon. Consequently the trapper needs more traps in order to make the same number of catches as would be possible in a locality where the streams did not spread over such a large scope of land.

While the trapper in the South has but little snow or ice to contend with, he will not find it all milk and honey, for the swamps are not a paradise with the gall berry brush, the bamboo briers, saffron sprouts and holly brush. As for game birds, they are not so plentiful, but quail in places are found in good numbers. Wild turkeys are found in small lots scattered all over the country, but by no means plenty: doves are quite plentiful.

As for fur bearers there are quite a number of opossum. Coons are not found late in the season to any great extent only in the swamps where they are quite plentiful. Grey foxes are plenty. There are many hunters in the South who hunt with dogs, and they do not take kindly to any other way of taking the furbearers. Otter signs are seen on nearly all of the streams but by no means are they plenty, and every slide is closely watched by trappers living nearby. The ever present razorback is an obstacle in the way of otter trapping, for the trap must be set under the water, and this is not always practical in otter trapping.

We must not close this short letter without stating that our friend and partner, Mr. A. L. Lawrence, who was a native of Randolph County, N. C, was an expert trapper, and especially on mink. Mr. Lawrence was a good cook as well as a good trapper. Mr. Lawrence was hard to beat on baking opossum and bread making, but when it came to boiling water without burning it, your humble servant could hold him a close second.

Say boys, I forgot to say that you will find Billy the Sneakum just as numerous in Dixie as he is in Pennsylvania.

* * *

Comrades of the trap line, I am not in condition to write much at this time owing to my health, but, later I hope to be able to give a fuller account of my trapping experiences of 1912 in Alabama, northern Georgia, northwestern North Carolina and southeastern Tennessee. And Comrades, right here I wish to say that through the above mentioned sections of the south, I found nearly every trapper a reader and lover of the Hunter-Trader-Trapper, and many of these readers seemed like old neighbors to the writer, when he met them.

Well boys, during all of last year, my health was such that I never again expected to hit the trap line, but as the frost began to turn the leaves of the timber on the hillsides, the trap fever became so high that I was compelled to take a half dozen traps and take to the brush. The first night I got two foxes, the second night I got another fox, three skunk and wife's pet cat. The catching of Timy (the cat) caused wife to put up such a fight, that I was compelled to pull the traps, pack my outfit and start for Alabama.

Now boys, I am not going to tell you entirely of my own experience, but of the experiences of other trappers and hunters as told me by them. One trapper told of the killing of a bear in the thick cane brakes in the swamps of the Mississippi. It was against the game laws of Mississippi to kill bear at that time of the year, and as these hunters could not resist the taking of this bear, they put up a job on the bear. There were four of the hunters going through the thick cane brake, when they saw the bear coming toward them. The head man pulled his hunting knife, and told the other hunters to lie down, he dropping to his knees, knife in hand. When the bear was close up to him he sprang up and shouted "boo". The bear raised up on its hind feet and the hunter seized the bear and plunged the knife into it. The other hunters sprang to their feet, gun in hand and shot the bear. The party who told me this bear story, said it was a put up job, so as to make it appear that the bear was killed in self defense.

I know of many excuses to avoid game laws, but this one beats them all. I have had a good deal of experience in game hunting, but never had the luck to have a bear run on to me in this manner.

I will tell a panther story, which a man told me that happened some year ago, in North Carolina, near the Tennessee line. The man was in a small shack, and he often heard panthers screaming about the shack, and finally one night when he had some fresh deer meat in the shack, the man was awakened by some animal trying to pull up a roof board. The roof of the shack was not more than six or eight feet from the ground floor, and soon the panther raised up a board sufficient to run a foot down through the crack. The man stood watching the game, and when the foot came through the crack, the man seized the panther by the foot, and a terrible fight began. The hunter finally cut a foot of the panther off, and stabbed it with his knife until he killed it. The hunter had a rug made of the skin of this panther, which he intends to keep in the family for all time to come. I think that this hunter is doing the right thing in so doing.

I will now give a little of my own experience, but it is not in the way of an adventure with either a bear or panther, but, no doubt, I was just as nervous for a time as those who had the reported adventure with the bear and the panther.

The last days of December, 1912, I went into camp about twelve or fourteen miles from Crandel, near the Tennessee line. Early the next morning after going into camp, a man came to the camp and asked many questions as to what I was doing. How long I was going to be there? Where I was from? Also many other similar questions, and then went away. That evening four or five men came to my tent, and asked about the same questions that the man in the morning had asked.

When I stepped outside of the tent next morning, there were three or four bunches of hickory withes standing against the guy ropes of the tent. I did not know what those hickory withes meant, but surmised that some jealous trapper had put them there as a warning for me to get out. But it was not long after daylight, when a man came to camp, and said that I was suspicioned of being a spy in search of blockaders. I told this man that there could be nothing farther from it, that that would be the last thing I would mix up in, even if I knew of any such business, that I was simply a trapper and had no other business there.

The man, said that he knew that as soon as he heard my name for he had known of me for the past four years, ever since he had been a reader of the H-T-T. This gentleman told me not to worry, but to stay in my tent a day or two before going out to set my traps, and everything would be all right. I hardly knew what to do, but as it was raining I could not well break camp that night. Five or six men came to camp. Some were those who had been there before, and questioned me as to my business there. But now they were acting entirely different. Now these gentlemen rushed in with hands extended to shake hands and welcome me and offer me any assistance that they were able to give, and nearly all of them offered me a drachm of corn juice. I stayed a few days longer in camp there, and each day friends grew more numerous and corn juice more plentiful. I stayed a day or two and saw that friends were going to be so numerous that it would be next to impossible for me to get out on the trap line for some days at least, so broke camp and pulled for Pennsylvania.



Chapter XXXI.

On the Trap and Trot Line in the South -- Fall of 1912.

Well, comrades of the trap line, as I see so many interesting letters from trappers in the H-T-T, the best of all sporting magazines, I will relate some of my experiences in the South, season of 1912. During the latter part of the winter and the greater part of the summer, my health was so poor that I never again expected to be able to enjoy the pleasures of the trap line. But as time passed and I was able to get out into the fields and wander about, I became stronger from day to day until in the last days of October, when the frost began to crisp the air and the leaves on the trees on the hillsides became a golden hue, it drove the trapping fever into me to such a degree that I was unable to resist the temptation any longer.

I took six or eight traps and went to the brush within sight of the house. I was obliged to use a good, strong staff to climb the hill with and could only take a few steps at a time, without stopping to take my breath. But, boys, I found this sort of exercise better for me than the doctor's medicine that I was taking. My first night's catch was two fox. Many of the readers of the H-T-T will remember of seeing my picture with the two fox in the December, 1912, number. The next two nights I got another fox and three skunk and wife's pet cat. The cat business put it up to me and I was compelled to lift my traps and take for other fields. Had I been able to traverse the hills and woods of old Potter County, I could have done far better than I did in the South.

My trapping fever had now reached such a high mark that I could no longer stave it off and not being able to travel the hills and streams of this section, hit my feet for Alabama, where I could do the greater part of my work from a boat. After reaching Tryanna, I made a trip up Indian Creek every day by boat to a fish trap dam, which I was unable to get the boat over so was compelled to leave it at the dam and hoof it up the creek to the end of the line. On the way back down the creek each day I would gather up a boat load of drift wood to last for the day. The water being at a very low stage, it caused several rapids, which made it tight nipping to paddle the boat over. I had occasion to stop paddling often as I was continually making sets for mink, rats, coon and opossum, first on one side of the stream and then on the other, so that I had abundance of time to rest. But, comrades of the trap line, this kind of work is much better for an old played-out trapper than pills.

While I found trapping conditions here in Alabama different than they were a year ago, I nevertheless got a mink, rat, 'possum or coon nearly every day, but two mink at a single round of traps was the best that I did at any time. There was no otter or beaver in this part of Alabama and but very few fox or skunk, and I found far more trappers than there were a year ago. Many of the trappers were from other states, and last season I did not see or hear of a colored man trapping, but this fall I heard of the dark man and his works daily. One of the worst and most foolish things that the trappers did was their early trapping before furs were any where near in a prime condition. This unwise work was indulged in by the white trappers as well as the negroes.

I was unable to get out into the swamps or sloughs to any great extent and it is in the swamps that the coon are found more plentifully. The mink does not take to the swamps as readily as the coon, nevertheless he is found in the swamps as well as along the rivers and smaller streams. If we could only keep down the trapping fever and the desire to get that mink before the other fellow did, it would help us out in a financial way. We saw many mink that were offered for sale here that were over three feet from tip to tip, from 75 cents to $2.00, and the skins went a-begging at that price. Now, comrades, just think of the difference in what those skins would have brought when in a prime condition. The price then would have been from $3.00 to $7.00, and this same rule applied to the coon and muskrats and other fur bearers, and you are aware that the fur bearers throughout the country are rapidly becoming scarcer each year. While I found more mink, coon and muskrats here in Alabama than I did in either Georgia or North Carolina, yet I did not see mink, coon or rat signs in comparison to what they were a year ago, and I do not believe that there was one-third as many mink, coon or muskrats as there was last season. Opossum seem to hold their own fairly well.

Well, comrades, the picture here shows the greater part of our Alabama catch of furs. I trapped in Alabama about three weeks when I went to Georgia, where I expected, from what I was told, to find far better trapping than was to be had here in Alabama, but I was sadly disappointed.

* * *

Leaving Tryanna, Alabama, by wagon, I went to Farley, eighteen miles. There I took a train to Huntsville, then by the Southern R. R. by the way of Chattanooga to Dikes Creek, Georgia, where I went into camp. I camped at this place about two weeks, building two boats, one a good large boat, sufficient to move my whole outfit from point to point, as I moved down the Etowah River, then the Coosa River. The other boat was much smaller, being suited to the trap and trot line. Boys, you who have trapped on the rivers and large streams of the South, know that the traps and the trot line go hand in hand and with only two or three trot lines, to one who is onto the job, you will find them quite profitable as well as a pleasure. In most places you will find ready sale for the fish you catch at 10 to 12 cents a pound. If one runs his trot lines two or three times a day and takes in from 20 to 100 pounds of fish, it is a little item along the financial trail. But, boys, there is a knack in running a trot line in a successful manner as well as a trap line. Where the trot line is run in connection with the trap line, it makes quite an addition to the trapper's job, for he will be out as late as 9 or 10 o'clock before going to bed to run the trot lines, take off the fish and rebait the lines. It is also necessary to put in any spare time that happens your way in digging wigglers, hunting crawfish and other bait.

The boat is an absolute necessity in trapping in the South, as the most of the fur-bearers are found along the rivers and large streams. It is next to an impossibility to make a successful set for mink and coon along the soft, slippery and sloping banks without the boat. And boys, the conditions on the trap line in the South are altogether different from what it is in the North on the clear, gravelly and rocky streams of the North and East sections. It requires a trap one size larger in the South in successful trapping than it does in the North and East. This is owing to the soft, muddy, clay banks and streams. Another thing that is a necessity along the rivers and streams of the South is the trap stake, while on most streams of the North the clog or drag is far better than a stake.

I did not find the fur-bearers in Georgia as plentiful as I expected, from what I had been told and trappers were numerous, many of them in house boats. I expected to find some beaver on Pumpkin Vine Creek, a branch of the Etowah River, but they failed to show up on investigation. There is but very few otter in northern and central Georgia and in Georgia, as in Alabama, many trappers began trapping in September. The best catch in one night at our camp was while we were camping at Coosa, on the Coosa River, but it was nothing in comparison to what we did in Alabama last season in a single night's catch. The catch at Coosa in one night was two mink, three coon, three rats and two opossum. This was done with about 20 traps. It was raining at this time, so we kept this bunch of furs three days and until there had been several more pieces added to the bunch. We wanted to get a picture of this bunch of furs and the camp at this place but it continued to rain and we were compelled to skin the animals and let the pictures go.

The steamboats are a serious drawback to the trappers on the river in the South. The average trapper plans to get out on his line and fix up as many of his traps as he can after the steamboat passes. On most rivers there is not more than one or two boats passing daily and on some of the rivers, boats do not make more than one or two trips a week. It was the intention of the writer when going to Georgia, to work the trap line all winter, going nearly the entire length of the Alabama River, to the Mississippi line, but met with unexpected conditions that I was unable to endure and was compelled to give up the greater part of the trip, which was a sad disappointment. But comrades, you know that there are but few trappers but what meet with disappointments at times.

The game laws of Georgia are a little hard on the trapper and fisherman. The non-resident trapper has to pay a license of fifteen dollars and the local trapper a license of three dollars. (This alludes to the laws of 1912.) That is not the worst part of it. In fact, the license fund, if justly used in the protection of game and game birds and the propagation of game and birds, I would not object to the license.

The hard part of the game law of Georgia is the trespass part of it. The trapper must have a written permission from the land owner to trap or fish on any man's land and where the river is the dividing line between different parties owning the land, the trapper or fisherman must have the written permit from both land owners, even though he does not leave his boat to set a trap or place a trot line. Now it is a very difficult thing for a stranger to learn who owns the land and often the owner of the land lives in some city of the North, or elsewhere. Now here is where the shoe pinches the hardest. The fine for trespassing on a man's land is $40.00 and it is the duty of the game warden to arrest any one he finds hunting, trapping or fishing on any man's land without a written permit. Here is the worst of all. The game warden must make the arrest without any notice from the land owner and if the game warden fails to make the arrest, he is liable to the same fine as the one who is doing the trespassing. This is a law that the average land owner never asked for.

I had men come to me every day and offer me the privilege of trapping or hunting on their land without any request on my part. I found the majority of the people of Georgia very kind in regard to this trespass matter as well as other matters. It was only a few sporting "Nabobs" that concocted this stringent part in the trespass law, contained in the game laws of Georgia.

Most other states of the south have as trespass laws, that the land owner must order the arrest. The laws of Alabama allow or at least can not stop the trapper or fisherman from trapping or fishing so long as he keeps within the boundary limits of the river, which is sufficient to give the trapper or fisherman ample ground to camp on.

After leaving the Coosa River I went into the extreme northern part of Georgia where I camped for about three weeks and never met a more friendly class of people than within the vicinity of Oakman and Ranger. After leaving this section, I went into camp near Crandel, Ga. From there I went into the Fog Mountains, where I found game fairly plentiful but owing to bad weather and the condition of my health, did not hit the trap line very heavy.



Chapter XXXII.

Trapping in Alabama.

Well, comrades of the trap line, as I am getting well up to the seventy notch, and as the chills of zero weather chases one after the other up and down my spinal column, like a dog after a rabbit in a briar patch, and as I am unable to shake off that desire for the trap line, I concluded to go south again to trap. I began an inquiry in several different sections, in states of the South, and finally decided upon Alabama, where a gentleman and a brother trapper by the name of Ford had invited me to come. On the last days of October, 1911, I arrived in Alabama where I met Mr. Ford, whom I found to be a gentleman in all respects, and a member of the M. E. Church.

My first day's outing after reaching Mr. Ford's place was on the Tennessee River, raising fish nets, and putting out a few mink traps to ascertain what the complexion of the inner side of a mink's coat was. I got a mink the first night, which I found to be of fairly light color, but not quite light enough to my liking. The setting of more traps was delayed for a few days and we spent the time in tending the fish nets.

I have whipped the streams and drowned earthworms for brook trout and other fish, from my childhood days to the present time. I had never done any fishing in large rivers with nets, so you can imagine my feelings when one net after another was raised which contained many fish of different kinds, such as yellow cat, channel cat, buffalo, pickerel, pike, carp, suckers, black bass (called trout in the South) and many other kinds. These fish ran in weight all the way from one-fourth pound up to twenty pounds each, and occasionally a buffalo or yellow catfish much larger. Mr. Ford informed me that often on trot lines they got sturgeon, weighing more than one hundred pounds.

We intended to put out a trot line and catch a sturgeon that I might get some oil. It is said that the oil from a sturgeon is a sure cure for rheumatism in the joints, but it rained so much, keeping us busy adjusting our traps, that we did not get any time to get the bait and put out the trot line. So I did not get to see one of those large fellows.

Mr. Ford pointed out corn and cotton fields where the corn and cotton was still ungathered and told me that he had trot lines set out all through these fields last spring and caught hundreds of pounds of fish -- it hardly seemed possible as the water was then fifteen of twenty feet below the banks of these fields. But in December when it began raining nearly every day, and the water rose so suddenly that I was obliged to leave many of my traps where I had set them around ponds and banks of streams and in the swamps, I could then readily see that it was perfectly possible for the fish to get out into the corn and cotton fields to feed.

The rainy season set in nearly a month earlier this season than usual, causing the rivers and streams to rise so as to flood the whole bottoms (it is called the tide by the people in Alabama).

I will not give my views of the country and conditions in northern Alabama -- it would not look well; it is sufficient to say that the greater part of the land is owned in large tracts by a few men and leased out at from $3.00 to $4.00 per acre. Corn and Cotton are the main crops. Any land lying above the overflowing sections requires heavy fertilizing in order to make a crop. The fertilizer is the commercial sort, and all the crop will sell for is put onto the land in the way of fertilizers. These lands are mostly leased to colored people -- in fact, I was told that the landlords did not care to lease to white men.

The poor white man in northern Alabama is worse off than the colored man, for he is looked upon as neither white nor black. In this section the population is largely of the colored class. All of the landlords have a store, so as to furnish their tenants with goods of an inferior quality at exorbitant prices.

There is no good water to be found in that part of Alabama. The water that the people use is something fearful -- of course the wealthy class have cisterns. The soil is mostly red clay, and terrible to get about in when the least damp. The roads are only names for roads.

South of the Tennessee River is what is called the Sand Mountains; the soil is of a sandy nature, freestone water, and the people are all white -- in fact, it is said that they will not allow a colored man to live there. I heard it stated that they would not even allow a negro to stop over night in that section.

The Sand Mountain region is a piney country with a sandy soil. The land is not as fertile as the bottom lands along the Tennessee River, but they produce a finer grade of cotton, which brings a cent or two a pound more than that of the bottom lands.

As to game in north Alabama, there is but little large game to be found. In the extreme northern part of Madison county, well up to the Tennessee line, there are a few deer and wild hogs; it was said that there were some bear, also plenty of wild turkeys. There were plenty of ducks, and a good many quail.

There is still some lumbering being done, mostly in oak of different kinds, though a good part is white oak. The logs are cut and hauled to the Tennessee River and taken by steamboat to Decatur in Limestone County, and worked up into lumber and manufactured articles. There is still quite large bodies of cugalo gum left in the swamps, though this timber is not yet used to any great extent.

I wish to say that if the trapper expects to ship his camp outfit by freight to any part of the South, he should start it from four to six weeks in advance of the time that he will arrive at the place where he will use it. The trapper, as a usual thing, is too shallow in the region of the pocket book to afford to ship an outfit of camp stove, cooking utensils, tent and a hundred traps or more of various sizes, by express. Of course, he can take his bed blanket and extra clothing as baggage in his trunk.

Now to make this matter plainer, I will give my experience of the last two seasons. In 1910 I trapped here in Pennsylvania the first two weeks of November before going south. So shipped my camp chest by express to Cameron, N. C, started it four days before I started so as to be sure that it would be there by the time I arrived. But when I got to Cameron there was no express matter for Woodcock.

Five days later while I was standing on the depot platform at Cameron waiting for the eleven o'clock express train, along came a freight train, stopped and put off my camp chest. Now, the express charges on this chest was something over ten dollars on 180 pounds.

The next season I concluded that I would not give the express company another rake-off, so started my camp outfit by freight for Madison, Alabama, four weeks before I started, so as to again be sure that it would be there when I arrived. Mr. Ford met me at the station nine miles from his place with a conveyance to take baggage and camp outfit to his place. And boys, imagine my feelings when I was again told by the station agent that there was nothing there for Woodcock. About a week later, I got the goods. So boys, take the hint and start the outfit well ahead if you wish to get it on time. I have had other similar experiences.

On our way back to Mr. Ford's place the day he met me at the station, he called my attention to several different places along the road to mink tracks in the ditches and in the road. I thought that it would be no trick at all to take three or four mink each night, but I was not reckoning on the disadvantages I had to contend with.

This section of the country is very thickly settled with colored people, and each family keeps from one to three dogs, which are out searching for food all the time. These people never think of feeding their dogs. Nearly every night these colored people are out hunting in droves of five or six, and with six or eight dogs. They think it no more of a crime to steal a trap, and anything found in the trap, than they would consider it a crime to eat a baked 'possum. A trapper must keep a good lookout when setting his traps to see that there is no "dark object" anywhere in sight. If there is, you may expect that that particular trap will be missing the next time you come that way.

In setting a trap, the first thing to do is to select a place where the trap is to be set, then look carefully around to see that no "dark object" is in sight; then go into the bush and get the trap, stake and everything that you will use in making the set. Then you will again look carefully for that "dark object," and will proceed to make the set, provided that yourself is the only human being in sight, stopping your work often to look about you. Do not think that this caution is not necessary, for it sure is. The writer had nine traps taken at one time within an hour after he had been over the line.

We went into our first camp, I think, on the 5th of November, at a place called Blackwell's Pond or Blackwell's bottom, I am not sure which. The first day after we got to camp, Mr. Ford went out and put out a few traps, while I stayed in camp and fixed up things.

The next morning we went out to look over the ground a little while. Mr. Ford went to the opposite side of the pond to set a few more traps, and see parties who owned land along the pond, for we found that the land had been posted "No Trespassing." When Mr. Ford came in that evening I think he brought in five rats. We set nine traps that day and went south along the pond to look over the grounds.

The next morning we had one mink and one coon in the nine traps. I think Mr. Ford brought in four rats and had one coon foot. That evening Mr. Ford went home to raise his nets, and when he came back he brought in two mink; I got two coon. Mr. Ford went home again and made arrangements for a team to come in and move us out to "pastures new." He also brought another mink, and I believe that we got two or three coons that night. I think we got nine rats, four mink and eight coons in the three nights with about twenty traps.

The land about this pond had been leased by Mr. Edmon Toney, a wealthy young man living near the place. While Mr. Toney is wealthy, he insists in indulging in the meek and lowly occupation of the trapper. We know Mr. Toney to be a successful trapper, for he caught, while we were in camp at that place, one of the wealthiest and most beautiful young ladies in that section. Mr. Toney is a reader of the H-T-T.

Our next camp was on Little Indian creek, at the edge of a large cugalo swamp not the pleasantest place that one could wish for a camp.

The next day after we went into Camp No. 2. I set a few traps near camp. Mr. Ford went down the creek toward his place and set a few traps, and went home to look after his fish nets, returning to camp that evening. Mr. Ford had warned me that the mink in that section would foot themselves equally as bad as muskrats, but as I had never been bothered with mink footing themselves, I paid no attention to his warning.

The next morning Mr. Ford stepped outside of the tent -- it was about five o'clock and called to me, asking where I had set my first trap on the creek, and being told, he replied, "Well, you have caught a mink." When asked how he knew, he said, "Come out and hear him squall." I ate breakfast and hastened down to release the mink, but my haste was unnecessary for the mink did not propose to wait for me, I found only the mink's foot -- the mink had gone.

I had never had a mink foot itself in this way before and did not think that the mink did, although here in Alabama, we had two mink to foot themselves in one night. Had I heeded Mr. Ford's warning, I would have been several mink pelts ahead.

While there was considerable fur to be found in the vicinity of Camp No. 2, it was a hard place to camp, owing to the scarcity of camp wood and the inconvenience of getting water, so we moved on to Beaver Dam creek, in Limestone county, where we were in hopes of finding a few beaver and quite a plenty of mink and coon. But we were sadly disappointed; we found but little to trap, but found trappers and trap-lifters in abundance, so made haste to get out of that country while we had our boats left. Our catch was only two mink, twelve rats, five coon and one or two 'possum.

We moved from this place back into Madison County and pitched our camp at a point known as the Sinks, where we did a better business. But the rainy season soon set in, so we were compelled to break camp and get out, leaving a good part of our traps where we had set them, now under several feet of water. We shall never see them again.

Well boys, you will excuse me from telling just how many coon we got in an hour and seven minutes. I can only state that during the five weeks that Mr. Ford and the writer were in camp that we got twenty-six mink. I do not remember the number of coons, opossums and rats caught.



Chapter XXXIII.

Some Early Experiences.

Comrades of the trap line and trail, as I have gotten too old, March 1913, and too nigh played out to longer get far out into the tall timber, I will, with the consent of the editor of the H-T-T, relate some of my experiences on the trap line and trail of some years ago.

A young man by the name of Frank Wright was hunting and trapping on the Crossfork waters of Kettle Creek. Frank was a young man barely out of his teens, and had been in the woods but little, but Frank was a hustler and was not afraid of the screech of the owl; the days were altogether too short for him.

We went into camp early in October as we had to do a good deal of repairing on the camp as the cabin had not been used in two or three years, and the porcupines got in their work in good shape. The cabin was built of logs and the "porces" had gnawed nearly all of the chinking out from between the logs and the mud was all gone from around the chinking. Some of the shakes were gone from the roof and the door which was made of split shakes.

First, we split out shakes and repaired the roof and the door. We then split chinking block out of a basswood tree to renew the chinkings that had been gnawed and eaten up by the porcupines. After the chinking was all replaced and fastened in place by making wedges and driving them into the logs, one at each end of each chinking block, we gathered moss from old logs and calked every crack, pressing the moss into the cracks with a wedge-shape stick made for the purpose. The calking was all done from the inside.

After the chinking and calking was done, we dug into a clay bank and got clay, which we mixed with ashes taken from the fire then added sufficient water to make a rather stiff mortar. We filled the spaces between the logs, going over every crack on the outside of the shack.

Now and again Frank would notice a mink or coon track along the creek, while he was gathering moss from the old logs. These tracks would drive Frank nearly wild, and he would double his energy so as to get the shack finished so we could hit the trap line.

After we got the shack in good shape, we went to work getting up a good supply of wood, sufficient to last through the season. We had an open fireplace, so we cut the wood about three feet long. The wood was now up near the camp door, ranked up in good snug piles. We then cut crotched stakes and drove them in the ground on each side of the ranks, and laid poles in, then placed cross poles on and covered with hemlock boughs.

Frank was so anxious to get to work on the trap line, that he at first objected to putting in so much time in getting up the wood, saying that we could get the wood at odd times. But when told that there are no odd times on the trap line, he then worked the harder to get the supply of wood, including a good supply of dry pine for kindling fires, which we got by cutting a dry pine stub.

The camp now being in good shape, we hit the trap line and began building deadfalls for marten. We went onto the ridges into the thick heavy timber, where the marten were most likely to be found. We would select a low hemlock to build the deadfalls under, so the trap would be protected from heavy falls of snow, as much as possible. Some of the traps we would drive crotched stakes and lay poles in them and then cover with hemlock boughs to keep the snow off.

After we had several lines of marten traps built, we went onto the stream and branches and built deadfalls for mink and coon.

Nearly every day we saw deer, but the weather was still too warm to keep venison any length of time, so we did not carry our guns with us. When Frank would see a deer he would make grave threats that he would carry his gun the next day. We were about two miles from the stage road. The stage made only one trip a week, so there was no way of disposing of a deer as long as the weather was so warm. It took but little persuasion to convince Frank that it would be poor policy to kill deer as long as we could make use of but a small part of a single deer.

After we had gotten out a good line of deadfalls for marten, mink and coon, and as it was now about the first of November and time to bait up the deadfalls, and set out what steel traps we had for fox, I told Frank that we would carry our guns with us and try to kill a deer for bait and camp use. Frank could hardly sleep that night; he was so delighted to think that the time had come to quit the monkey business, as he called it, and begin business.

We climbed the ridge where we knew there were some deer, following down the ridge, one on each side, along the brow of the hill. We put in the entire day without getting a shot at a deer. That night it snowed about an inch, so that in the wooded timber, one could see the trail of the deer in the snow; but in hemlock timber there was not enough snow on the ground, so a track could be followed. We had killed a squirrel or two, and had a little prepared bait, so we concluded to bait a few traps until we struck a deer trail.

We did not succeed in finding the tracks of any deer until well along in the afternoon. It so happened that I got a shot at a deer that was nearly hidden from sight behind a large tree. I shot the deer through, just forward of the hips. We followed it only a short distance when we found the bed of the deer, and there was blood in it, so it was plain to be seen in what manner the deer was wounded. All still-hunters (excuse the word still-hunt; the word stalking does not sound good to a backwoodsman) of deer know that when a deer is shot well back through the small intestines, that if conditions will allow, the right thing to do is to leave the trail for a time and the deer will lie down. If left alone for an hour or two the hunter will have but little trouble in getting his deer. So in this case, as we were not far from camp and it was nearly sundown, I told Frank that we had better let the deer go until morning, when we would have more daylight ahead of us, and we would get the deer with less trouble.

We started for camp and had gone only a short distance when Frank said he would work along the ridge a little and see if he could not kill a partridge.

I went on to camp and when dark came I couldn't see nor hear anything of Frank. I ate my supper, and as I could get no word from Frank either by shouting or firing my gun, I climbed to the top of the ridge so I could be heard for a greater distance, but still I could get no answer. It had turned warmer and what little snow was on the ground had melted. I could not follow his trail in the dark, so went back to camp and built a good big fire outside of the camp in case Frank should come in sight, he might see the light and come in. At intervals of half an hour, I would call as loud as I could. I kept this up until midnight, when I lay down to get a little sleep, knowing that I could not help matters by staying up.

At daylight the next morning I was on the ridge at the place where I last saw Frank, and by close watch managed to follow his trail while he was in the hardwood timber, where there was a heavy fall of leaves; but when he struck into the heavy hemlock timber, I could no longer track him. However, I had tracked him sufficiently far enough to see that he had gone back to look for the wounded deer. I made tracks in the direction I expected the wounded deer would be likely to lie down. After some searching I found the bed of the deer, also tracks of a man, which I knew to be Frank. But I could only follow the trail a short distance from where he had driven the deer out of its bed. There were plenty of deer tracks all around, but knowing that the wounded deer would naturally work down the draw, I worked my way along the hollow, keeping a close lookout for any signs of the wounded deer that I might chance to cross. At different times, I found a few drops of blood, but no signs of Frank.

I had worked down the hollow some ways, when I ran onto the wounded deer; it staggered to its feet, but was too near gone to keep its feet. I finished it by shooting it in its head. I removed the entrails as quickly as I could, bent down a sapling and hung the deer up, and then made tracks down the stream the best I could shouting and occasionally firing off my gun.

We were in a big wilderness. No roads or inhabitants west of us for many miles, and this was the course I feared Frank was most likely to take.

I now began to think that I had a serious job on hands. I kept up the search all day without getting the least trace of Frank and returned to camp late that night.

Starting early the next morning, and taking a good lunch with me, I crossed the head of Winfall Run and over the divide onto the waters of the Hamersley, continuing to shout and occasionally firing my gun. I had worked down the run some six or eight miles, when I heard some one hollow two or three times in quick succession. I was quite positive it was Frank. It was miles from any inhabitants in a dense wilderness, and hunters were not common on those parts in those days. I immediately answered the call, and soon I could hear Frank coming down the hill at breakneck speed, giving tongue at every jump.

We at once started for camp, Frank eating the lunch I had brought in my knapsack, and telling of his trials, as we made tracks the best we were able to for camp. Frank, in telling his story, would cry like a baby, and then laugh like a boy with a pair of new boots. But he cut no more boy tricks.

We finished the season's hunt, catching a goodly bunch of fox, marten, mink and coon, as well as killing a good bunch of deer. Had fur and venison brought as much in those days, as at the present time, we would have bought an automobile, and put an end to this hoofing it.



Chapter XXXIV.

The White Deer.

I do not remember whether I have told the boys of the H-T-T the story of the white deer, which I had the good luck to get, and the picture of which was shown in one of the sporting magazines a few years ago. The picture was sent to the magazine by Mrs. Prudence Boyington, Roulett, Pa., who was the owner of the deer at the time, and I believe a daughter of Mrs. Boyington still has the deer.

It was in the spring of 1878 or 1879 that a doe and a white fawn were seen on the hill just south of Lymansville. The fawn and its mother were seen almost daily in some of the fields near the village, and often were seen in some one of the pastures with the cows. The fawn would run and play about like a lamb.

It was plain to be seen from week to week that the fawn was rapidly growing, and as the open season for hunting of deer drew near it was generally understood that the white fawn and its mother should not be killed. When the winter came on, the fawn and its mother were all at once missing. The general supposition was that they had been killed, but when spring came the doe and the white fawn (now a yearling deer) again appeared on its old haunts of the year before. They had merely gone back into the more dense woods to winter.

Along in June it was noticed that there were three deer instead of two. Another fawn had appeared on the scene, this time an ordinary spotted fawn. They were again daily seen during the summer the same as they were the year before. Now it had been strongly urged by the people all about the country that these deer should not be killed, and there was none that was more strongly in favor of this than I was. The deer were regularly seen again all summer and up to the last days of October, when they again disappeared and all were anxious for spring to come to see if they would return as usual. When spring came the deer came back as before, but in June "the whole bunch came up missing," and it was generally thought that they had changed their haunts or they had been killed. The latter was strongly suspected.

I had taken a scout through the woods on the hills back of the locality where these deer had been frequenting and had seen signs that convinced me that the white deer, at least, was still alive, although it had not been seen for a number of weeks. Here I wish to explain that Coudersport is two miles from Lymansville and it is on the hill between the two places that the white deer had been seen most, and it was in the former place that the loudest cry for the protection of this white deer came from.

Now about this time I had killed a deer in the big woods where several of us had been on a fishing trip and I took a piece of this venison to a friend in town. It so happened that one of the side judges of our court (Stebens by name) was at the house of my friend. A few days later I was in a store belonging to a brother of the Judge, when the Judge came in and accused me of killing the white deer. Of course I denied, and told the Judge that I would wager two dollars that the white deer was still living. The Judge said "Very well," and at the same time handed a two dollar bill to a man standing by, by the name of Abison, who was listening to our conversation, which was quite heated. I told the Judge at the very first opportunity I would kill the white deer.

The white deer was not seen in the woods any more, and I was charged with killing it. I said nothing in regard to the charge, for I had now made up my mind to kill it if I could. One day three or four weeks after I had made the wager, Mr. Abison came to me and handed me two dollars and said that the Judge had got his money and told him to give me my money back as he (the Judge) did not want to take the money, that I had killed the white deer all right.

Now I was quite positive that the Judge had learned that the white deer was still alive. I had heard that the white deer had again been seen in a field near town. Now this made me all the more determined to kill the white deer. I will explain that I had learned that several of the sportsmen of Coudersport, the Judge included, had had dogs after the white deer several times the previous fall, but it so happened that there were no watchers at the place where the deer came to the creek.

That fall as soon as the first snow fell I went after the deer. I did not strike the trail until quite late in the afternoon, and as the deer left the woods where it had been accustomed to staying and went into the big woods farther south, I left the trail for that day. I would have got a shot at the deer if my attention had not been called in the wrong direction by the chirping of several blue jays which I thought were excited over the presence of the white deer.

I was working the trail to the best of my ability and knew that I was close to the game, when my attention was drawn by the chirping of those blue jays which were down the side of a hill. I was working the trail so as to be on vantage ground and could see from where I was standing that the trail had turned slightly down the hill along the side of a fallen tree and in the direction of the chirping of the jays. This led me to think that the jays were scolding the deer, so I cautiously advanced a few steps down the hill, expecting every moment to see the deer. While I was watching down the hill, I heard a slight noise to my right and partly behind me. I looked in the direction in which the noise came from and was surprised to catch a glimpse of the deer jumping the log near where I had last seen the trail. The log hid the deer from my sight so that I was unable to get a shot at it. The deer had lain down close to the log, and had I taken a few more steps in the direction I was going instead of giving attention to the jays I would have seen the deer and made my word good the first time.

It was too late in the day to follow the trail farther at this time, knowing that the deer would run a long distance before stopping. As I had a team engaged to take me to my camp and I was anxious to get there on the first tracking snow, I concluded to give the white deer a rest a few days until I returned from camp in the big woods. I was in camp only a few days when the snow went off, so I came home. I had only been home a day or two when a man by the name of Hill came to my house in great haste. He had been cutting logs en a hill, and looking across onto a hill opposite where he was working, saw the white deer, so came to tell we what he had seen. I at once took my gun and started after the deer. I went up the hill in the direction that Mr. Hill had seen the deer until I was quite sure that I was well above the deer, then cautiously worked my way down the side of that hill. There being no snow on the ground and the deer being white, I soon discovered it lying in its bed. I cautiously crept up within shooting distance and fired, killing the deer instantly.

I will explain how it happened that these deer disappeared so suddenly at the time Judge Stebens accused me of killing the white deer and the wager was made between the Judge and your humble servant. A man by the name of Frank Williams had shot the deer breaking a foreleg at the knee joint, and this caused the deer to remain hidden away until it recovered from the wound. The leg or joint was stiff when the deer was killed and the force of the bullet was so spent that it lay against the skin after shattering the knee joint and I still have the ball which I took from the knee. I had the deer mounted and Mrs. Boyington took it as she was collecting freaks and curios of this country.



Chapter XXXV.

A Day of Luck.

Every hunter of long experience could tell of the ups and downs along the trail consisting of good, bad and indifferent luck and as usual tell of our hits and let others tell of our misses, I will tell of a day of good luck. It was in November and there was no snow on the ground. I was camping on the Holman branch of Pine Creek in Pennsylvania and one night, just at dark, a party of several men came to my camp and asked to stay over night. They stated that they were going to camp on the opposite side of the ridge on the Sinnamahoning waters. My camp was small but I made room for the hunters the best I could.

This party was going into a section of country where I had several bear traps as well as a good number of smaller traps set for fox, mink, marten and other fur animals. As I wished to look these traps over the next day before this party got scattered about the woods where my traps were, I got up early the next morning, ate a hasty breakfast and put a lunch into my knapsack and was ready to start out before the party of hunters was up. I cautioned the hunters to see that the fire was safe when they left camp and then started on my day's hunt without the slightest idea that I was starting on one of the luckiest days I ever had.

I had to climb a high ridge, then my route was for some distance on a long ridge, which I would follow for a distance of a mile and a half, when I dropped off the right hand side of the ridge into a ravine where I had a bear trap set. This ridge was a clean open one of beech and maple timber. I knew it would keep me busy the entire day to get over the trap line, the best that I could do, so had no intention of spending any time looking after deer. When I got to this open ridge, I took a dog trot along the ridge.

I was making good time when on looking ahead along the ridge I saw a good-sized buck come from the left hand side of the ridge. He would take a jump or two then drop his head to the ground and then take another hop or two and again drop his head to the ground. I knew that he was on the trail of other deer. I had hardly time to bring my gun to my shoulder when the buck wheeled and disappeared back over the ridge from where he had come. I started on a run to where the deer had gone out of sight, thinking that possibly I might catch him before he got out of range down the side of the hill. Imagine my surprise when just as I reached the top of the hill, where I saw the deer disappear from my sight, I almost ran against the buck. He had turned back to cross the ridge when I met him. He whirled down the hill but I was too close onto him and I caught him before he could get out of reach. I took out the deer's entrails and bent down a sapling and hung the deer up, then I crossed the ridge and started down the ravine to look after the bear traps.

I was hurrying down the hill near a jam of fallen timber, when all at once out jumped five or six deer from this timber. In an instant the whole bunch was out of sight behind the jam with the exception of one large doe. I could see, one of her hips standing out from behind a large hemlock tree. Without hesitating a moment, I fired at what I could see of the deer and it dropped out of sight as the gun cracked. I hurried through the jam of timber to where I saw the deer and there the doe lay, trying to get on her feet. I soon ended her misery by shooting her in the head. I soon had her entrails out and hung up as I had the buck. It was the trail of this bunch of deer that the buck was on when he ran into me.

After I had hung up the deer I hustled on down the ravine to the bear trap. When I got to the place where the trap was set it was gone. The trail led down the ravine and was easy to follow as I hurried along and I soon found a small bear tangled up in a thicket of small brush. It was only the work of a moment to fix bruin in shape to skin. After I had the hide off, I cut the bear up into quarters and hung the meat up in the trees. I toted the trap back up to where it was set and reset it then I went back down the hollow to where I had left the bear skin and took it on my shoulder and made tracks down the hollow to the main creek where I had a string of deadfalls set for mink and coon. The bear skin was about all the load I cared to tote, but I had not gone far down the creek before I had the skins of two good sized coon and one mink tied to my load. The coon and mink skins I could get in my knapsack so they did not bother much.

After following the creek a distance of about one mile I left the creek and went up a long narrow sawtooth point to cross the divide to the Cross Fork waters where I had some bear, fox and marten traps set. When I was about two-thirds of the way up this point I stopped at the side of a large rock which would shelter me from the cold wind. The point was covered with low laurel. I had been watching down the side of the hill to see if I could not catch sight of some animal on the move, but I had not got a glimpse of even a squirrel.

I had about finished my lunch, when I saw the motion of something move in the laurel, forty or fifty yards below me. I picked up my gun and stood watching, when I again caught sight of the animal and in a moment I saw the horns of a deer. I could get the outline of the deer's body so I said, "Now or never," and let go the best I could at the bunch, but when the smoke from the gun was gone, I could neither see nor hear anything but stood ready with my gun to my shoulder. I again saw a part of a deer move in an open space in the laurel. I again fired at the bunch with the remark that I guessed that I could drive him out of there after a while.

I left the bear skin and knapsack at the rock, knowing that the rock would be a good landmark to find them by and went down through the laurel to see what effect my shot had. When I got to where the deer were, when I shot, I readily saw plenty of blood on the green laurel leaves and I only had a few steps to go when I saw the buck lying dead. I cut his throat and stood waiting for the blood to stop flowing and saw a trail that was fresh. I could readily tell by the way the leaves and ground were torn up that the trail was of some animal that was having a hard time to keep on its feet. You can imagine my joy and surprise to get two deer so unexpectedly. I had only a few rods to go when I found a good big doe dead.

Well, you may guess that I lost no time in getting the entrails out of these two deer and swinging them up as I had the other two for it was getting well past noon. I would be a good five miles from camp when I got to my first marten trap.

After I got to the top of the divide, I made the best time that was in me. I looked at several fox and marten traps but none had been disturbed. When I got to the first bear trap on the divide I had an occasion to scold and scold hard, but all to no purpose. I found the limb of a tree jammed in between the jaws of the trap. Of course, I thought some hunter had done me the favor and having as hard a stunt ahead of me, you can guess that the trick was not pleasing to me. Well, here I learned how foolish it was to fly off the handle before you know what has been doing. Now, after a little investigation, I found that the limb had been broken from the tree by the wind and it so happened that it fell right onto the pan of the trap and sprang it. Setting the trap, I hurried on to the next bear trap and here I had another chance to be disgusted, even more than in the first case. This time it was a porcupine in the trap but there was nothing to be done, only reset the trap and hurry on again. None of the other traps were disturbed, neither the small traps nor the bear trap until I came to the last marten trap which had a marten in it. It was now too dark to see to skin it so I was obliged to dump the carcass into the knapsack and tote it along with the coons and mink pelts.

I had about one mile to go to reach the road, then four miles to camp and I often thought what a hunter and a trapper would endure and call it sport. It must have been nearly nine o'clock when I got to camp, where I still found the hunting party. They had taken a part of their outfit to their camp grounds and had worked on their camp until nearly night when they returned to my camp to stay for the night and get the balance of their outfit.

Well, I was pleased to find them still in camp for they volunteered to go with me the next day and help me get the deer and bear out to the road in return for venison and bear meat. This ended one of the luckiest and hardest day's work that I ever did on the trail or trap line.



Chapter XXXVI.

A Mixed Bag.

I promised some of my old trapper friends back East, that I would let them, who were fortunate enough to be subscribers to the H-T-T, hear from me. I will say that this is a mountain region of the first magnitude. A man that cannot mount a donkey and ride over a trail where the river is hundreds of feet below, or as it looks to be nearly under him, and the trail not more than twelve inches wide, hewn out of the solid rock, he had best remain in the East.

This is a sportsman's paradise, and the trapper will find here prey in the way of bear, both black and brown, fisher, mink, raccoon, fox, otter, panther, or as the natives call them, mountain lion, wildcat, skunk, civet cat and many other fur bearing animals and all quite numerous. Deer seem to be very abundant. I counted thirteen in a lick this morning, and it is not an uncommon thing to see from ten to twenty in the licks at one time.

The fishing is said to be the best in the spring and fall. It is not an uncommon thing to catch salmon, weighing from six to thirty-five pounds, and as it is only thirty-five miles to the Pacific Ocean, they are of the very best quality. Mountain trout are plentiful.

Another animal that is plenty is the mountain goat. Bear, mountain lion, and other signs are as numerous as those of rabbits in the East. I am not prepared at this time, to say how shrewd these animals are to trap, but if they take bait as readily as they are reported to, they must not be very hard to catch. There is a bounty of $4.00 on wolves and the writer has seen numerous signs of them.

Will say to my friends in the East that while on my way from the coast to the ranch, a distance of only fifty miles, and the most of the way over mountain trails, I stopped often to watch the deer feeding along the side of the trail. When they saw you they would trot off a short distance and begin feeding again.

Only last evening, Mrs. Evie Newell, shot and killed a large mountain lion that started into the yard after a pig. It seems to me panthers are thicker here than wildcats in Pennsylvania.

* * *

I have experimented with scents for years and have found scents of no particular benefit for trapping the fox. I have tried the skunk and muskrat scent, the matrix of the female fox taken at the proper time. I have had a female fox and have lead her to my trapping place, and I have tried many so-called fox scents and all to no purpose. Fox urine may, in some particular places, be used to some slight advantage. It is not so with other animals in regard to scents, for they do not use the same acute instinct that the fox does.

I do not wish to insinuate upon those that do use scent, but for me, I would not give a cent for a barrel of so-called fox decoy. I boil my traps in soft maple bark, hemlock boughs or something of that nature. I do not do this because the fox can be any more readily got into the trap, but because it forms a glazing on the trap and thereby prevents them from rusting and the trap will then spring more readily. It makes no difference how rusty the trap is, so far as catching the fox is concerned.

No boys, no scent for me, the fox soon learns to associate the scent business with the man, then you are up against it. With me there is nothing mysterious about trapping. It is simply practical ways of setting the trap, learned from many years of experience.

* * *

I have had fifty years experience as a hunter and trapper. I have netted wild pigeons in the Adirondack Mountains, in New York, to the Indian Territory, so you know that the articles in H-T-T are very interesting to me. I would say that no young trapper should be without this journal, although I would advise them not to take too readily to scents and decoys.

As to the discussions that have been in H-T-T, one writer says he has twenty ways to catch the fox; now I have just as many different ways as there are different conditions. I would say that no one can become a successful trapper until he learns to comply with the natural conditions, which will differ with almost every trap he sets when trapping fox, mink, etc.

I will tell my brother trappers what I have been doing this fall (1902) along the line of trapping. In August I took a trip through portions of Montana, Idaho and Washington, to look up a site to do a little trapping this winter. There is much more game here than in the East, but nothing like you hear talked of. I found the mountains too steep and the underbrush too thick and from what I could learn, I was afraid the weather was too cold for one of my age and condition of health, but, oh boys, what trout fishing I found in the Clearwater; this is a branch of Snake River and empties into that river at Lewiston, Idaho.

As I found things, I thought I would return to old Potter County, Pennsylvania, and have a little fun trapping the fox and skunk as that is about the only game there is in this section when we have no beechnuts, for that is the only mast we have here. We have no beechnuts this season and most of the fur bearing animals have migrated south of here where there are chestnuts, acorns and hickory nuts.

Brothers, I will tell you where my camp is, and you will always find the latch-string out. My camp stands at the very head of the Allegheny River, 1700 feet above sea level. From the cabin door you could throw a stone over the divide to where the water flows into the west branch of the Susquehanna. In a half hour a person can, from my camp, catch trout from the waters of the Allegheny, and the Susquehanna.

As we have no beechnuts we have no bears, so I have not set my bear traps. This will cut my sport considerably short. I have put out but about sixty small traps, so I spend my time about equally between camp and home.

I will send a picture of myself and my old dog Mage, who I believe knows more about trapping than some families. But poor old Mage is 13 years old and is following the down trail very rapidly. He is quite deaf and gets around with difficulty. Poor fellow, he is nearly to the end of the trail.

The furs shown in the picture are my first four days' catch with forty traps: 9 fox, 2 coon, 1 mink and 7 skunk. My catch to date, November 25, in thirteen days is 14 fox, 27 skunk, 9 coon and 1 mink.

* * *

Brothers, I will give some reasons why I do not write more of my experience as a trapper. First, I am not much given to writing. Second, my experiences in trapping are so different from so many trappers who write, that I thought it best to say but little or nothing about trapping. I could call myself, "Old Honesty," and then write or cause it to be written and published in some of the sporting papers, that I had caught 300 fox this season, as I see one trapper did, but I would not feel good about it after I had done so. Fifty-seven fox are the most that I ever caught in one season.

A brother was down to see me and I was pleased to meet him, I wish to say, brother trappers, that if you should have an opportunity to meet Brother Stearns, you will find him a gentleman in every respect. But, Brother Stearns and I could not agree on the scent question, and he did not like to believe that I handled my traps, bait and all pertaining to the setting of the trap, bare-handed. He went so far as to hint that I was cold-blooded, and even felt of my pulse to see if my circulation was all right. Hold on, I am mistaken, it was my hands that he felt of to see if they were not cold, but he pronounced them all right. He then related a story about an old uncle of his and a crow, but shook his head and said it did not do any harm to wear gloves if it did not do any good. That is all right, but we do not like to be carrying unnecessary weight.

One word with Brother Chas. T. Wells. No, brother, I do not go much on scents. Perhaps you would have caught more than 15 fox, but I do not like to own that you could have done so. Now the first ten days that I was in the woods, there were hundreds of head of cattle in the woods, and the woods were full of men gathering them up, and one could do but little or nothing in the way of trapping. Neither did the 15 include the five that were stolen, nor the two that broke the chains and went off with the trap. By the way, Brother Stearns could tell you of a chase I had with one of those that carried off a trap, the worst jaunt I have had in many a day. No brother, the only scent I use is the urine of the fox and I only use that in certain places. No, I believe that one good method is much better than scents in trapping the fox. If one wishes to use scents, they will find none better than some of those advertised in the H-T-T.

Now brothers, while I do not believe that any one man is so cute he cannot find his equal, I do not like to believe but that I can catch as many fox as the next one -- all things being equal. For the last ten years I have not set traps over a scope of territory to exceed two or three miles square and if Brother Stearns had been on the ground that I trapped on, a few days before I began trapping, he would have seen but few fox signs. I usually trap on a different piece of ground each year. I know of some trappers here that begin trapping the first of September and they are good trappers too, but they are so greedy, they are willing to kill the "goose that lays the golden egg."

* * *

Several years ago, through the courtesy of Mr. John Shawl, one of the Tide Water Pipe Line Co's telegraph operators, I was allowed the use of one of their offices for camping purposes during the trapping season. Now, do not think that this office was located in a town, for it was not. On the contrary, it was located in the largest wooded section of this locality, and on the old Jersey Shore Turnpike. There was a path or sort of a woods road at the point where this office was located, leading from this road to another road, a distance of more than four miles and making a cut off for people who wished to go on to the waters of the Sinnamahoning or Kettel Creek in Northern Pennsylvania.

It was customary for me to stay in camp for a week or ten days and then go home and stay two or three days. One day on returning from one of my trips home, I had rather better luck than coming, getting 5 fox, 3 coon and 1 wildcat. I usually hung my furs on the side of the building close up under the eaves until I went home, then I would take them home on the following morning of the day I had caught them.

There was a rap at the door about five o'clock in the morning and on going to the door, I found two men with a lantern; one man of middle age, the other a young man. There had just been a fall of snow of about four inches, and the men were going onto the Cross Fork of Kettel Creek, deer hunting. They had stayed at a farm house on the other road and had started from this house between three and four o'clock in the morning. Seeing a light in the office, they thought they would come in and stay until daylight.

The old gentleman inquired what I was doing there. I informed him that I was trying to trap a little. He said that he should not think it would pay me, but if I could catch a fox it would be different, as he had seen several tracks along the road by the light of the lantern. He also told me that he had a recipe for making fox scent, that was a dead sure thing, and as I lived so far from his place, I would not be liable to interfere with his trapping, he would knock off one-half his usual price and sell me a recipe for five dollars.

I said I would see what luck I had while they were gone, and it might be possible that I would buy his recipe when he came back. He said, delays were dangerous, and that I was losing the greatest opportunity of my life, that he might not come back that way. I thanked him, but told him I would chance it.

It was now daylight, and as the hunters stepped outside they noticed the carcass of a wildcat, and I told them if they would step to the corner of the building, they would see what I got yesterday. They did so, and gazed for one second at the pelts, then the older of the two said, "Come, Charley, let's be going," and they left without even bidding me good morning.

Comrades you do not know how I enjoy your letters as given in this splendid magazine, especially so this winter (season of 1905-6) as I have not been able to trap. But I have no kick coming for this is only the third time in fifty years, but what I have been able to be out with the traps and gun.

I know that the readers of the H-T-T would be pleased to read articles from old veterans. The H-T-T has about reached the height of perfection so far as the trapper is concerned. There is none of the high top boot, fashionable, corduroy suits and checkered cap business about the H-T-T. Success to all.

* * *

Boys, you know how we all like to gather around a camp fire and talk over our hunting and trapping experiences, of how we caught a certain mink, fox, coon or bear, or how we killed a certain deer. So while we are out fishing I thought I would like to have a chat with the trappers. And boys, all you who have not camped out for a week and had a good time fishing, do not know how much you have lost, especially those who need the care of a doctor.

Yes, boys, take your camp outfit and go out into the woods among the hills, streams and lakes. There you will find one of the most competent doctors and nurses that ever treated the ills of human family. Do not forget to take a few copies of the HUNTER-TRADER-TRAPPER along and other sporting magazines, as well as some of the Harding Library, so while you are resting in camp you can visit with the trapper boys all over the Union.

This is May 20, 1905, and the second time I have been out camping and fishing this spring. Trout are not as plentiful as they were forty years ago by a great deal, but we still get all we can use, and that is plenty.

While you are out fishing do not forget to keep a lookout for signs of game you will be trapping next winter. You may see where there has been a litter of young mink, fox or coon reared. While these animals are of migratory nature, they will, nevertheless, visit their old homes frequently, so you will find these places a pretty sure place to make a catch next fall when you put our your traps. Do not forget that during the summer is just the time to fix some of your best sets for fox and other fur bearing animals.

As I have had many years experience in camping, let me say to those who have never camped, and who expect to camp the coming season, that now is the time to hunt up a partner and get acquainted. I have camped many seasons in large woods both with and without partners.

<eob>

Hudson Bay

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

Appointment To The Service Of The Hudson Bay Company -- The "Prince Rupert" -- The Annual Dinner Of The "H.B.C." -- Fellow-Voyagers -- Threatening Weather -- A Squall -- Island Of Lewis.

Reader, -- I take for granted that you are tolerably well acquainted with the different modes of life and travelling peculiar to European nations. I also presume that you know something of the inhabitants of the East; and, it may be, a good deal of the Americans in general. But I suspect -- at least I would fain hope -- that you have only a vague and indefinite knowledge of life in those wild, uncivilised regions of the northern continent of America that surround the shores of Hudson Bay. I would fain hope this, I say, that I may have the satisfaction of giving you information on the subject, and of showing you that there is a body of civilised men who move, and breathe (pretty cool air, by the way!), and spend their lives in a quarter of the globe as totally different, in most respects, from the part you inhabit, as a beaver, roaming among the ponds and marshes of his native home, is from that sagacious animal when converted into a fashionable hat.

About the middle of May eighteen hundred and forty-one, I was thrown into a state of ecstatic joy by the arrival of a letter appointing me to the enviable situation of apprentice clerk in the service of the Honourable Hudson Bay Company. To describe the immense extent to which I expanded, both mentally and bodily, upon the receipt of this letter, is impossible; it is sufficient to know that from that moment I fancied myself a complete man of business, and treated my old companions with the condescending suavity of one who knows that he is talking to his inferiors.

A few days after, however, my pride was brought very low indeed, as I lay tossing about in my berth on the tumbling waves of the German Ocean, eschewing breakfast as a dangerous meal, and looking upon dinner with a species of horror utterly incomprehensible by those who have not experienced an attack of sea-sickness. Miseries of this description, fortunately, do not last long. In a couple of days we got into the comparatively still water of the Thames; and I, with a host of pale-faced young ladies and cadaverous-looking young gentlemen, emerged for the first time from the interior of the ship, to behold the beauties and wonders of the great metropolis, as we glided slowly up the crowded river.

Leave-taking is a disagreeable subject either to reflect upon or to write about, so we will skip that part of the business and proceed at once to Gravesend, where I stood (having parted from all my friends) on the deck of the good ship Prince Rupert, contemplating the boats and crowds of shipping that passed continually before me, and thinking how soon I was to leave the scenes to which I had been so long accustomed for a far-distant land. I was a boy, however; and this, I think, is equivalent to saying that I did not sorrow long. My future companion and fellow-clerk, Mr Wiseacre, was pacing the deck near me. This turned my thoughts into another channel, and set me speculating upon his probable temper, qualities, and age; whether or not he was strong enough to thrash me, and if we were likely to be good friends. The captain, too, was chatting and laughing with the doctor as carelessly as if he had not the great responsibility of taking a huge ship across a boundless waste of waters, and through fields and islands of ice, to a distant country some three thousand miles to the north-west of England. Thus encouraged, my spirits began to rise, and when the cry arose on deck that the steamer containing the committee of the Honourable Hudson Bay Company was in sight, I sprang up the companion-ladder in a state of mind, if not happy, at least as nearly so as under the circumstances could be expected.

Upon gaining the deck, I beheld a small steamboat passing close under our stern, filled with a number of elderly-looking gentlemen, who eyed us with a very critical expression of countenance. I had a pretty good guess who these gentlemen were; but had I been entirely ignorant, I should soon have been enlightened by the remark of a sailor, who whispered to his comrade, "I say, Bill, them's the great guns!"

I suppose the fact of their being so had a sympathetic effect upon the guns of the Company's three ships -- the Prince Rupert, Prince Albert, and Prince of Wales -- for they all three fired a salute of blank cartridge at the steamer as she passed them in succession. The steamer then ranged alongside of us, and the elderly gentlemen came on board and shook hands with the captain and officers, smiling blandly as they observed the neat, trim appearance of the three fine vessels, which, with everything in readiness for setting sail on the following morning, strained at their cables, as if anxious to commence their struggle with the waves.

It is a custom of the directors of the Hudson Bay Company to give a public dinner annually to the officers of their ships upon the eve of their departure from Gravesend. Accordingly, one of the gentlemen of the committee, before leaving the vessel, invited the captain and officers to attend; and, to my astonishment and delight, also begged me to honour them with my company. I accepted the invitation with extreme politeness; and, from inability to express my joy in any other way, winked to my friend Wiseacre, with whom I had become, by this time, pretty familiar. He, being also invited, winked in return to me; and having disposed of this piece of juvenile freemasonry to our satisfaction, we assisted the crew in giving three hearty cheers, as the little steamer darted from the side and proceeded to the shore.

The dinner, like all other public dinners, was as good and substantial as a lavish expenditure of cash could make it; but really my recollections of it are very indistinct. The ceaseless din of plates, glasses, knives, forks, and tongues was tremendous; and this, together with the novelty of the scene, the heat of the room, and excellence of the viands, tended to render me oblivious of much that took place. Almost all the faces present were strange to me. Who were, and who were not, the gentlemen of the committee, was to me matter of the most perfect indifference; and as no one took the trouble to address me in particular, I confined myself to the interesting occupation of trying to make sense of a conversation held by upwards of fifty pairs of lungs at one and the same time. Nothing intelligible, however, was to be heard, except when a sudden lull in the noise gave a bald-headed old gentleman near the head of the table an opportunity of drinking the health of a red-faced old gentleman near the foot, upon whom he bestowed an amount of flattery perfectly bewildering; and after making the unfortunate red-faced gentleman writhe for half an hour in a fever of modesty, sat down amid thunders of applause. Whether the applause, by the way, was intended for the speaker or the speakee, I do not know; but being quite indifferent, I clapped my hands with the rest. The red-faced gentleman, now purple with excitement, then rose, and during a solemn silence delivered himself of a speech, to the effect that the day then passing was certainly the happiest in his mortal career, that he could not find words adequately to express the varied feelings which swelled his throbbing bosom, and that he felt quite faint with the mighty load of honour just thrown upon his delighted shoulders by his bald-headed friend. The red-faced gentleman then sat down to the national air of rat-tat-tat, played in full chorus with knives, forks, spoons, nut-crackers, and knuckles on the polished surface of the mahogany table.

We left the dinner-table at a late hour, and after I, in company with some other youngsters, had done as much mischief as we conveniently could without risking our detention by the strong arm of the law, we went down to the beach and embarked in a boat with the captain for the ship. How the sailors ever found her in the impenetrable darkness which prevailed all around is a mystery to me to this day. Find her, however, they did; and in half an hour I was in the land of Nod.

The sun was blazing high in the heavens next morning when I awoke, and gazed around for a few moments to discover where I was; but the rattling of ropes and blocks, the stamping of feet overhead, the shouts of gruff voices, and, above all, a certain strange and disagreeable motion in my dormitory, soon enlightened me on that point. We were going rapidly down the Thames with a fair breeze, and had actually set sail for the distant shores of Hudson Bay.

What took place during the next five or six days I know not. The demon of sea-sickness had completely prostrated my faculties, bodily and mental. Some faint recollections I have of stormy weather, horrible noises, and hurried dinners; but the greater part of that period is a miserable blank in my memory. Towards the sixth day, however, the savoury flavour of a splendid salmon-trout floated past my dried-up nostrils like "Afric's spicy gale," and caused my collapsed stomach to yearn with strong emotion. The ship, too, was going more quietly through the water; and a broad stream of sunshine shot through the small window of my berth, penetrated my breast, and went down into the centre of my heart, filling it with a calm, complacent pleasure quite indescribable. Sounds, however, of an attack upon the trout roused me, and with a mighty effort I tumbled out of bed, donned my clothes, and seated myself for the first time at the cabin table.

Our party consisted of the captain; Mr Carles, a chief factor in the Company's service; the doctor; young Mr Wiseacre, afore-mentioned; the first and second mates; and myself. The captain was a thin, middle-sized, offhand man; thoroughly acquainted with his profession; good-humoured and gruff by turns; and he always spoke with the air of an oracle. Mr Carles was a mild, good-natured man, of about fifty-five, with a smooth, bald head, encircled by a growth of long, thin hair. He was stoutly built, and possessed of that truly amiable and captivating disposition which enters earnestly and kindly into the affairs of others, and totally repudiates self. From early manhood he had roughed life in the very roughest and wildest scenes of the wilderness, and was now returning to those scenes after a short visit to his native land. The doctor was a nondescript; a compound of gravity, fun, seriousness, and humbug -- the latter predominating. He had been everywhere (at least, so he said), had seen everything, knew everybody, and played the fiddle. It cannot be said, I fear, that he played it well; but, amid the various vicissitudes of his chequered life, the doctor had frequently found himself in company where his violin was almost idolised and himself deified; especially when the place chanced to be the American backwoods, where violins are scarce, the auditors semi-barbarous Highlanders, and the music Scotch reels. Mr Wiseacre was nothing! He never spoke except when compelled to do so; never read, and never cared for anything or anybody; wore very long hair, which almost hid his face, owing to a habit which he had of holding his head always down: and apparently lived but to eat, drink, and sleep. Sometimes, though very rarely, he became so far facetious as to indulge in a wink and a low giggle; but beyond this he seldom soared. The two mates were simply mates. Those who know the population of the sea will understand the description sufficiently; those who don't, will never, I fear, be made to understand by description. They worked the ship, hove the log, changed the watch, turned out and tumbled in, with the callous indifference and stern regularity of clock work; inhabited tarpaulin dreadnoughts and sou'-westers; came down to meals with modest diffidence, and walked the deck with bantam-cock-like assurance. Nevertheless, they were warm-hearted fellows, both of them, although the heat didn't often come to the surface. The first mate was a broad Scotchman, in every sense of the term; the second was a burly little Englishman.

"How's the wind, Collins?" said the captain, as the second mate sat down at the dinner-table, and brushed the spray from his face with the back of his brown hand.

"Changed a point to the s'uthard o' sou'-west, sir," he answered, "and looks as if it would blow hard."

"Humph!" ejaculated the captain, while he proceeded to help the fish. "I hope it'll only keep quiet till we get into blue water, and then it may blow like blazes for all I care, -- Take some trout, doctor? It's the last you'll put your teeth through for six weeks to come, I know; so make the most of it. -- I wish I were only through the Pentland Firth, and scudding under full sail for the ice -- I do." And the captain looked fiercely at the compass which hung over his head, as if he had said something worthy of being recorded in history, and began to eat.

After a pause of five minutes or so -- during which time the knives and forks had been clattering pretty vigorously, and the trout had become a miserable skeleton -- the captain resumed his discourse.

"I tell you what it is now, gentlemen; if there's not going to be a change of some sort or other, I'm no sailor."

"It does look very threatening," said Mr Carles, peering through the stern window. "I don't much like the look of these clouds behind us. Look there, doctor!" he continued, pointing towards the window. "What do you think of that?"

"Nothing!" replied the doctor, through a mouthful of duff and potatoes. "A squall, I fancy; wish it'd only wait till after dinner."

"It never does," said the captain. "I've been to sea these fifteen years, and I always find that squalls come on at breakfast or dinner, like an unwelcome visitor. They've got a thorough contempt for tea --  seem to know it's but swipes, and not worth pitching into one's lap; but dinner's sure to bring 'em on, if they're in the neighbourhood, and make 'em bu'st their cheeks at you. Remember once, when I was cruising in the Mediterranean, in Lord P -- -'s yacht, we'd been stewing on deck under an awning the whole forenoon, scarce able to breathe, when the bell rang for dinner. Well, down we all tumbled -- about ten ladies and fifteen gentlemen, or thereabouts -- and seated ourselves round the table. There was no end of grub of every kind. Lord P -- - was eccentric in that way, and was always at some new dodge or other in the way of cookery. At this time he had invented a new dumpling. Its jacket was much the same as usual -- inch-thick duff; but its contents were beyond anything I ever saw, except the maw of an old shark. Well, just as the steward took off the cover, hiss-iss went the wind overhead, and one of those horrible squalls that come rattling down without a moment's warning in those parts, struck the ship, and gave her a heel over that sent the salt-cellars chasing the tumblers like all-possessed; and the great dumpling gave a heavy lurch to leeward, rolled fairly over on its beam-ends, and began to course straight down the table quite sedate and quiet-like. Several dives were made at it by the gentlemen as it passed, but they all missed; and finally, just as a youngster made a grab at it with both hands that bid fair to be successful, another howl of the squall changed its course, and sent it like a cannon-shot straight into the face of the steward, where it split its sides, and scattered its contents right and left. I don't know how it ended, for I bolted up the companion, and saw the squall splitting away to leeward, shrieking as it went, just as if it were rejoicing at the mischief it had done."

The laugh which greeted the captain's anecdote had scarce subsided when the tough sides of the good Prince Rupert gave a gentle creak, and the angle at which the active steward perambulated the cabin became absurdly acute.

Just then the doctor cast his eye up at the compass suspended above the captain's head. "Hallo!" said he -- But before he could give utterance to the sentiments to which "hallo" was the preface, the hoarse voice of the first mate came rolling down the companion-hatch, -- "A squall, sir! scoorin' doon like mad! Wund's veered richt roond to the nor'-east."

The captain and second mate sprang hastily to their feet and rushed upon deck, where the rest of us joined them as speedily as possible.

On gaining the quarter-deck, the scene that presented itself was truly grand. Thick black clouds rolled heavily overhead, and cast a gloom upon the sea which caused it to look like ink. Not a breath of wind swelled the sails, which the men were actively engaged in taking in. Far away on our weather-quarter the clouds were thicker and darker; and just where they met the sea there was seen a bright streak of white, which rapidly grew broader and brighter, until we could perceive that it was the sea lashed into a seething foam by the gale which was sweeping over it.

"Mind your helm!" shouted the captain.

"Ay, ay, sir!" sang out the man at the wheel. And in another moment the squall burst upon us with all its fury, laying the huge vessel over on its side as if it had been a feather on the wave, and causing her to fly through the black water like a dolphin.

In a few minutes the first violence of the squall passed away, and was succeeded by a steady breeze, which bore us merrily along over the swelling billows.

"A stiff one, that," said the captain, turning to the doctor, who, with imperturbable nonchalance, was standing near him, holding on to a stanchion with one hand, while the other reposed in his breeches pocket.

"I hope it will last," replied the doctor. "If it does, we'll not be long of reaching the blue water you long so much for."

Young Wiseacre, who during the squall had been clutching the weather-shrouds with the tenacity of a drowning man, opened his eyes very wide on hearing this, to him, insane wish, and said to me in an undertone, "I say, do you think the doctor is quite right in his mind?"

"I have no doubt of it," replied I. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I heard him say to the captain he wished that this would last."

"Is that all?" said I, while a very vile spirit of vanity took possession of me, inducing me to speak in a tone which indicated a tranquillity of mind that I certainly did not enjoy. "Oh, this is nothing at all! I see you've never been on salt water before. Just wait a bit, old fellow!" And having given utterance to this somewhat dark and mysterious expression, I staggered across the deck, and amused myself in watching the thick volumes of spray that flew at every plunge from the sides of the bounding vessel.

The doctor's wish was granted. The breeze continued steady and strong, sending us through the Pentland Firth in grand style, and carrying us in a short time to the island of Lewis, where we hove-to for a pilot. After a little signalising we obtained one, who steered our good ship in safety through the narrow entrance to the bay of Stornoway into whose quiet waters we finally dropped our anchor.



Chapter Two.

Stornoway -- The Ball -- At Sea -- Go Out To Tea On The Atlantic -- Among The Ice -- Sighting Land -- A Sleepy Sight -- York Factory And Bachelors' Hall.

The harbour of Stornoway is surrounded by high hills, except at the entrance, where a passage -- not more, I should think, than three hundred yards wide -- admits vessels of any tonnage into its sheltering bosom. Stornoway, a pretty, modest-looking town, apparently pleased with its lot, and contented to be far away from the busy and bustling world, lies snugly at the bottom of the bay. Here we remained upwards of a week, engaging men for the wild Nor'-West, and cultivating the acquaintance of the people, who were extremely kind and very hospitable. Occasionally Wiseacre and I amused ourselves with fishing excursions to the middle of the bay in small boats; in which excursions we were usually accompanied by two or three very ragged little boys from the town. Our sport was generally good, and rendered extremely interesting by our uncertainty as to which of the monsters of the deep would first attack our hooks. Rock-codlings and flounders appeared the most voracious, and occasionally a skate or long-legged crab came struggling to the surface.

Just before leaving this peaceful little spot, our captain gave a grand ball on board, to which were invited the elite of Stornoway. Great preparations were made for the occasion. The quarter-deck was well washed and scrubbed; an awning was spread over it, which formed a capital ceiling; and representatives of almost every flag that waves formed the walls of the large and airy apartment. Oil lamps, placed upon the skylights, companion, and capstan, shed a mellow light upon the scene, the romantic effect of which was greatly heightened by a few flickering rays of the moon, which shot through various openings in the drapery, and disported playfully upon the deck. At an early and very unfashionable hour on the evening of the appointed night the guests arrived in detachments; and while the gentlemen scrambled up the side of the vessel, the ladies, amid a good deal of blushing and hesitation, were hoisted on board in a chair. Tea was served on deck; and after half an hour's laughing and chatting, during which time our violin-player was endeavouring to coax his first string to the proper pitch without breaking, the ball opened with a Scotch reel. Every one knows what Scotch reels are, but every one does not know how the belles of the Western Isles can dance them.

"Just look at that slip of thread-paper," said the doctor to the captain, pointing to a thin, flat young lady, still in her teens. "I've watched her from the first. She's been up at six successive rounds, flinging her shanks about worse than a teething baby; and she's up again for another, just as cool and serene as a night in the latter end of October. I wonder what she's made of?"

"Leather, p'r'aps, or gutta-percha," suggested the captain, who had himself been "flinging his legs" about pretty violently during the previous half-hour. "I wish that she had been my partner instead of the heavy fair one that you see over there leaning against the mizzen belaying-pins."

"Which?" inquired the doctor. "The old lady with the stu'n-sails set on her shoulders?"

"No, no," replied the captain -- "the young lady; fat -- very fat -- fair, and twenty, with the big blue eyes like signal-lamps on a locomotive. She twisted me round just as if I'd been a fathom of pump-water, shouting and laughing all the time in my face, like a sou'-west gale, and never looking a bit where she was going till she pitched head-foremost into the union-jack, carrying it and me along with her off the quarter-deck and half-way down the companion. It's a blessing she fell undermost, else I should have been spread all over the deck like a capsized pail of slops."

"Hallo!" exclaimed the doctor; "what's wrong with the old lady over there? She's making very uncommon faces."

"She's sea-sick, I do believe," cried the captain, rushing across the deck towards her.

And, without doubt, the old lady in question was showing symptoms of that terrible malady, although the bay was as smooth as a mill-pond, and the Prince Rupert reposed on its quiet bosom without the slightest perceptible motion. With impressive nautical politeness the captain handed her below, and in the sudden sympathy of his heart proposed as a remedy a stiff glass of brandy and water.

"Or a pipe of cavendish," suggested the second mate, who met them on the ladder as they descended, and could not refrain from a facetious remark, even although he knew it would, as it did, call forth a thundering command from his superior to go on deck and mind his own business.

"Isn't it jolly," said a young Stornowite, coming up to Wiseacre, with a face blazing with glee -- "isn't it jolly, Mr Wiseacre?"

"Oh, very!" replied Wiseacre, in a voice of such dismal melancholy that the young Stornowite's countenance instantly went out, and he wheeled suddenly round to light it again at the visage of some more sympathising companion.

Just at this point of the revelry the fiddler's first string, which had endured with a dogged tenacity that was wonderful even for catgut, gave way with a loud bang, causing an abrupt termination to the uproar, and producing a dead silence. A few minutes, however, soon rectified this mischance. The discordant tones of the violin, as the new string was tortured into tune, once more opened the safety-valve, and the ball began de novo.

Great was the fun, and numerous were the ludicrous incidents that happened during that eventful night; and loud were the noise and merriment of the dancers as they went with vigorous energy through the bewildering evolutions of country-dance and reel. Immense was the delight of the company when the funniest old gentleman there volunteered a song; and ecstatic the joy when he followed it up by a speech upon every subject that an ordinary mind could possibly embrace in a quarter of an hour. But who can describe the scene that ensued when supper was reported ready in the cabin! -- a cabin that was very small indeed, with a stair leading down to it so steep that those who were pretty high up could have easily stepped upon the shoulders of those who were near the foot; and the unpleasant idea was painfully suggested that if any one of the heavy ladies (there were several of them) was to slip her foot on commencing the descent, she would infallibly sweep them all down in a mass, and cram them into the cook's pantry, the door of which stood wickedly open at the foot of the stair, as if it anticipated some such catastrophe. Such pushing, squeezing, laughing, shrieking, and joking, in the vain attempt made to get upwards of thirty people crammed into a room of twelve feet by ten! Such droll and cutting remarks as were made when they were at last requested to sup in detachments! All this, however, was nothing to what ensued after supper, when the fiddler became more energetic, and the dancers more vigorous than ever. But enough. The first grey streaks of morning glimmered in the east ere the joyous party "tumbled down the sides" and departed to their homes.

There is a sweet yet melancholy pleasure, when far away from friends and home, in thinking over happy days gone by, and dwelling on the scenes and pleasures that have passed away, perhaps for ever. So I thought and felt as I recalled to mind the fun and frolic of the Stornoway ball, and the graver mirth of the Gravesend dinner, until memory traced my course backward, step by step, to the peaceful time when I dwelt in Scotland, surrounded by the gentle inmates of my happy home. We had left the shores and the green water behind us, and were now ploughing through the blue waves of the wide Atlantic; and when I turned my straining eyes towards the faint blue line of the lessening hills, "a tear unbidden trembled" as the thought arose that I looked perhaps for the last time upon my dear native land.

The sea has ever been an inexhaustible subject for the pens of most classes of writers. The poet, the traveller, and the novelist has each devoted a portion of his time and talents to the mighty ocean; but that part of it which it has fallen to my lot to describe is very different from those portions about which poets have sung with rapture. Here, none of the many wonders of the tropical latitudes beguile the tedium of the voyage; no glittering dolphins force the winged inhabitants of the deep to seek shelter on the vessel's deck; no ravenous sharks follow in our wake to eat us if we chance to fall overboard, or amuse us by swallowing our baited hook; no passing vessel cheers us with the knowledge that there are others besides ourselves roaming over the interminable waste of waters. All was dreary and monotonous; the same unvarying expanse of sky and water met our gaze each morning as we ascended to the deck, to walk for half an hour before breakfast, except when the topsails of the other two vessels fluttered for a moment on the distant horizon. Occasionally we approached closer to each other, and once or twice hailed with the trumpet; but these breaks in the solitude of our existence were few and far between.

Towards the end of July we approached Hudson Straits, having seen nothing on the way worth mentioning, except one whale, which passed close under the stern of the ship. This was a great novelty to me, being the first that I had ever seen, and it gave me something to talk of and think about for the next four days.

The ships now began to close in, as we neared the entrance of the straits, and we had the pleasure of sailing in company for a few days. The shores of the straits became visible occasionally, and soon we passed with perfect confidence and security among those narrow channels and mountains of ice that damped the ardour and retarded the progress of Hudson, Button, Gibbons, and other navigators in days of yore.

One day, during a dead calm, our ship and the Prince of Wales lay close to each other, rolling in the swell of the glassy ocean. There seemed to be no prospect of a breeze, so the captain ordered his gig to be launched, and invited the doctor, Mr Carles, and myself to go on board the Prince of Wales with him. We accepted his offer, and were soon alongside. Old Captain Ryle, a veteran in the Company's service, received us kindly, and insisted on our staying to tea. The passengers on board were -- a chief factor, [The chief factorship is the highest rank attainable in the service, the chief trader being next] who had been home on leave of absence, and was returning to end his days, perhaps, in the North-West; and Mr John Leagues, a young apprentice clerk, going, like myself, to try his fortune in Hudson Bay. He was a fine, candid young fellow, full of spirit, with a kind, engaging disposition. From the first moment I saw him I formed a friendship for him, which was destined to ripen into a lasting one many years after. I sighed on parting from him that evening, thinking that we should never meet again; but about six years from the time I bade him farewell in Hudson Straits, I again grasped his hand on the shores of the mighty St. Lawrence, and renewed a friendship which afforded me the greatest pleasure I enjoyed in the country, and which, I trust, neither time nor distance will ever lessen or destroy.

We spent the evening delightfully, the more so that we were not likely to have such an opportunity again, as the Prince of Wales would shortly part company from us, and direct her course to Moose Factory, in James Bay, while we should proceed across Hudson Bay to York Factory. We left the ship just as a few cats-paws on the surface of the water gave indications of a coming breeze.

Ice now began to surround us in all directions; and soon after this I saw, for the first time, that monster of the Polar Seas, an iceberg. It was a noble sight. We passed quite close, and had a fine opportunity of observing it. Though not so large as they are frequently seen, it was beautifully and fantastically formed. High peaks rose from it on various places, and down its sides streams of water and miniature cataracts flowed in torrents. The whole mass was of a delicate greenish-white colour, and its lofty pinnacles sparkled in the moonbeams as it floated past, bending majestically in the swell of the ocean. About this time, too, we met numerous fields and floes of ice, to get through which we often experienced considerable difficulty.

My favourite amusement, as we thus threaded our way through the ice, was to ascend to the royal-yard, and there to sit and cogitate whilst gazing on the most beautiful and romantic scenes.

It is impossible to convey a correct idea of the beauty, the magnificence, of some of the scenes through which we passed. Sometimes thousands of the most grotesque, fanciful, and beautiful icebergs and icefields surrounded us on all sides, intersected by numerous serpentine canals, which glittered in the sun (for the weather was fine nearly all the time we were in the straits), like threads of silver twining round ruined palaces of crystal. The masses assumed every variety of form and size; and many of them bore such a striking resemblance to cathedrals, churches, columns, arches, and spires, that I could almost fancy we had been transported to one of the floating cities of Fairyland. The rapid motion, too, of our ship, in what appeared a dead calm, added much to the magical effect of the scene. A light but steady breeze urged her along with considerable velocity through a maze of ponds and canals, which, from the immense quantity of ice that surrounded them, were calm and unruffled as the surface of a mill-pond.

Not a sound disturbed the delightful stillness of nature, save the gentle rippling of the vessel's bow as she sped on her way, or the occasional puffing of a lazy whale, awakened from a nap by our unceremonious intrusion on his domains. Now and then, however, my reveries were interrupted by the ship coming into sudden contact with huge lumps of ice. This happened occasionally when we arrived at the termination of one of those natural canals through which we passed, and found it necessary to force our way into the next. These concussions were occasionally very severe -- so much so, at times, as to make the ship's bell ring; but we heeded this little, as the vessel was provided with huge blocks of timber on her bows, called ice-pieces, and was, besides, built expressly for sailing in the northern seas. It only became annoying at meal-times, when a spoonful of soup would sometimes make a little private excursion of its own over the shoulder of the owner instead of into his mouth.

As we proceeded, the ice became more closely packed, and at last compelled us to bore through it. The ship, however, was never altogether arrested, though often much retarded. I recollect, while thus surrounded, filling a bucket with water from a pool on the ice, to see whether it was fresh or not, as I had been rather sceptical upon this point. It was excellent, and might almost compete with the water from the famous spring of Crawley. In a few days we got out of the ice altogether; and in this, as the ships are frequently detained for weeks in the straits, we considered ourselves very fortunate.

We all experienced at this time a severe disappointment in the non-appearance of the Esquimaux from the coast. The captain said they would be sure to come off to us, as they had always been in the habit of doing so, for the purpose of exchanging ivory and oil for saws, files, needles, etcetera, a large chestful of which is put on board annually for this purpose. The ivory usually procured from them is walrus tusks. These are not very large, and are of inferior quality.

As we approached the shores of the straits, we shortened sail and fired three or four guns, but no noisy "chimo" floated across the water in answer to our salute; still we lingered for a while, but, as there was no sign of the natives on shore, the captain concluded they had gone off to the interior, and he steered out to sea again. I was very much disappointed at this, as it was wholly unexpected, and Wiseacre and I had promised ourselves much pleasure in trading with them; for which purpose all the buttons of our old waistcoats had been amputated. It was useless, however, to repine, so I contented myself with the hope that they would yet visit us in some other part of the straits. We afterwards learned that our guns had attracted them to the coast in time to board the Prince Albert (which was out of sight astern), though too late for us.

The passage across Hudson Bay was stormy, but no one on board cared for this, all having become accustomed to rough weather. For my part, I had become quite a sailor, and could ascend and descend easily to the truck without creeping through the lubber's hole. I shall not forget the first time I attempted this: our youngest apprentice had challenged me to try it, so up we went together -- he on the fore and I on the main mast. The tops were gained easily, and we even made two or three steps up the top-mast shrouds with affected indifference; but, alas! our courage was failing -- at least mine was -- very fast. However, we gained the cross-trees pretty well, and then sat down for a little to recover breath. The topgallant-mast still reared its taper form high above me, and the worst was yet to come. The top-gallant shrouds had no ratlines on them, so I was obliged to shin up; and, as I worked myself up the two small ropes, the tenacity with which I grasped them was fearful. At last I reached the top, and with my feet on the small collar that fastens the ropes to the mast, and my arms circling the mast itself -- for nothing but a bare pole, crossed by the royal-yard, now rose above me -- I glanced upwards. After taking a long breath, and screwing up my courage, I slowly shinned up the slender pole, and, standing on the royal-yard, laid my hand upon the truck. After a time I became accustomed to it, and thought nothing of taking an airing on the royal-yard after breakfast.

About the 5th or 6th of August, the captain said we must be near the land. The deep-sea lead was rigged, and a sharp lookout kept, but no land appeared. At last, one fine day, while at the mast-head, I saw something like land on the horizon, and told them so on deck. They saw it too, but gave me no answer. Soon a hurried order to "Dowse top-gallant-sails and reef top-sails" made me slide down rather hastily from my elevated position. I had scarcely gained the deck, when a squall, the severest we had yet encountered, struck the ship, laying her almost on her beam-ends; and the sea, which had been nearly calm a few minutes before, foamed and hissed like a seething caldron, and became white as snow. This, I believe, was what sailors call a white squall. It was as short as it was severe, and great was our relief when the ship regained her natural position in the water. Next day we saw land in earnest, and in the afternoon anchored in "Five Fathom Hole," after passing in safety a sandbar, which renders the entrance into this roadstead rather difficult.

Here, then, for the first time I beheld the shores of Hudson Bay; and truly their appearance was anything but prepossessing. Though only at the distance of two miles, so low and flat was the land, that it appeared ten miles off, and scarcely a tree was to be seen. We could just see the tops of one or two houses in York Factory, the principal depot of the country, which was seven miles up the river at the mouth of which we lay. In a short time the sails of a small schooner came in sight, and in half an hour more the Frances (named after the amiable lady of the governor, Sir George Simpson) was riding alongside.

The skipper came on board, and immediately there commenced between him and the captain a sharp fire of questions and answers, which roused me from a slumber in which I had been indulging, and hurried me on deck. Here the face of things had changed. The hatches were off, and bales of goods were scattered about in all directions. Another small schooner had arrived, and the process of discharging the vessel was going rapidly forward. A boat was then dispatched to the factory with the packet-box and letter-bag, and soon after the Frances stood in for the shore.

The Prince Albert had arrived almost at the same moment with the Prince Rupert, and was now visited by the second schooner, which soon returned to our ship to take the passengers on shore. The passengers who came out in the Prince Albert were on board -- namely, the Reverend Mr Gowley, a clergyman of the Church of England, and his lady; and Mr Rob, a sort of catechist, or semi-clerical schoolmaster. They were missionaries bound for Red River Colony; and as I had some prospect of going there myself, I was delighted to have the probable chance of travelling with companions who, from the short survey I had of them while they conversed with the captain and Mr Carles, seemed good-natured and agreeable.

Mr Carles, Mr Wiseacre, and I now bade adieu to the good ship which had been our home for such a length of time (but I must say I did not regret the parting), and followed our baggage on board the schooner, expecting to reach the factory before dusk. "There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip," is a proverb well authenticated and often quoted, and on the present occasion its truth was verified. We had not been long under weigh before the ebb tide began to run so strong against us as to preclude the possibility of our reaching the shore that night. There was no help for it, however; so down went the anchor to the bottom, and down went I to the cabin.

Such a cabin! A good-sized trunk, with a small table in it, and the lid shut down, had about as much right to the name. It was awfully small --  even I could not stand upright in it, though at the time I had scarcely attained to the altitude of five feet; yet here were we destined to pass the night -- and a wretched night we did pass. We got over the first part tolerably, but as it grew late our eyes grew heavy. We yawned, fidgeted and made superhuman efforts to keep awake and seem happy; but it would not do. There were only two berths in the cabin; and, as so many gentlemen were present, Mrs Gowley would not get into either of them, but declared she would sit up all night. The gentlemen, on the other hand, could not be so ungallant as to go to sleep while the only lady present sat up. The case was desperate, and so I went off to the hold, intending to lie down on a bale, if I could find one. In my search I tumbled over something soft, which gave vent to a frightful howl, and proved to be no less a personage than Mr Wiseacre, who had anticipated me, and found a convenient place whereon to lie. My search, however, was less successful. Not a corner big enough for a cat to sleep in was to be found, all the goods having been flung hastily into the hold, so that it was a chaos of box corners, stove legs, edges of kegs and casks, which presented a surface that put to flight all hope of horizontal repose; so I was obliged to return to the cabin, where I found the unhappy inmates winking and blinking at each other like owls in the sunshine.

"You had better make use of one of these berths, my young friend," said Mr Gowley, with a bland smile, as I entered; "you seem very much overcome with sleep, and we have resolved to sit up all night."

"Do get in," urged Mrs Gowley, who was a sweet, gentle creature, and seemed much too delicate and fragile to stand the rough life that was likely to be the lot of the wife of a missionary to the Red men of the Far North; "I do not intend to lie down to-night; and besides, it will soon be morning." A sweet but very sleepy smile flitted across her face as she spoke.

Of course, I protested against this with great vehemence, assuring them that I could not think of anything so ungallant, and that I meant to sit it out manfully with the rest. Mr Rob, who was a comical little Welshman, of about thirty years of age, with a sharp, snub nose, which was decorated with spectacles, sat huddled up in a corner, immersed in sleepiness to such an extent that he would not have smiled for worlds, and spent the weary hours in vain efforts to keep his head on his shoulders -- an object, apparently, of some difficulty, seeing that it swayed backwards and forwards and round about like that of a Chinese mandarin! For a few minutes I sat gazing steadfastly at the revolving object before me, when my own head became similarly affected, and fell suddenly back against the bulk-head with a tremendous crash, wakening them all up, and causing Mr Rob to stare at me with an expression of vacant gravity, mingled with surprise, which slowly and gradually faded away again as sleep reasserted its irresistible power.

Flesh and blood could not stand this. I would have lain down on the table, but poor Mrs Gowley's head already covered the greater part of that; or on the floor, but, alas! it was too small. At last I began to reason thus with myself: "Here are two capital beds, with nobody in them; it is the height of folly to permit them to remain empty; but then, what a selfish-looking thing to leave Mrs Gowley sitting up! After all, she won't go to bed. Oh dear! what is to be done?" (Bang went the head again.) "You'd better turn in," said Mr Gowley. Again I protested that I could not think of it; but my eyes would not keep open to look him in the face. At last my scruples -- I blush to say it -- were overcome, and I allowed myself to be half forced into the berth; while Mr Rob, whose self-denial could endure no longer, took advantage of the confusion thus occasioned, and vanished into the other like a harlequin. Poor Mr and Mrs Gowley laid their innocent heads side by side upon the table, and snored in concert.

How long I slept I know not, but long before day a tremendous thumping awoke me, and after I had collected my faculties enough to understand it, I found that the schooner was grounding as the tide receded. "Oh!" thought I; and, being utterly incapable of thinking more, I fell back on the pillow again, sound asleep, and did not awake till long after daybreak.

Next morning was beautiful; but we were still aground, and, from what the skipper said, there appeared to be no prospect of getting ashore till the afternoon. Our patience, however, was not tried so long; for, early in the day, a boat came off from the factory to take us ashore: but the missionaries preferred remaining in the schooner. Mr Carles, young Wiseacre, and I gladly availed ourselves of the opportunity, and were soon sailing with a fair breeze up Hayes River. We approached to within a few yards of the shore; and I formed, at first sight, a very poor opinion of the country which, two years later, I was destined to traverse full many a mile in search of the feathered inhabitants of the marshes.

The Point of Marsh, which was the first land we made, was quite low --  only a few feet above the sea -- and studded here and there with thick willows, but not a single tree. Long lank grass covered it in every place, affording ducks and geese shelter, in the autumn and spring. In the centre of it stood the ship-beacon -- a tall, ungainly-looking pile, which rose upwards like a monster out of the water. Altogether, a more desolate prospect could not well be imagined.

The banks of Hayes River are formed of clay, and they improved a little in verdure as we ascended; but still, wherever the eye turned, the same universal flatness met the gaze. The river was here about two miles wide, and filled with shallows and sandbanks, which render the navigation difficult for vessels above fifty tons.

As we proceeded, a small bark canoe, with an Indian and his wife in it, glided swiftly past us; and this was the first Indian, and the first of these slender craft, I had seen. Afterwards, I became more intimately acquainted with them than was altogether agreeable.

In a short time we reached the wooden wharf, which, owing to the smallness of everything else in the vicinity, had rather an imposing look, and projected a long way into the water; but our boat passed this and made for a small slip, on which two or three gentlemen waited to receive us.

My voyage was ended. The boat's keel grated harshly on the gravel; the next moment my feet once more pressed terra firma, and I stood at last on the shores of the New World, a stranger in a strange land.

I do not intend to give a minute description of York Factory here, as a full account of it will be found in a succeeding chapter, and shall, therefore, confine myself to a slight sketch of the establishment, and our proceedings there during a stay of about three weeks.

York Factory is the principal depot of the Northern department, from whence all the supplies for the trade are issued, and where all the furs of the district are collected and shipped for England. As may be supposed, then, the establishment is a large one. There are always between thirty and forty men resident at the post, [The word "post," used here and elsewhere throughout the book, signifies an establishment of any kind, small or great, and has no reference whatever to the "post" of epistolary notoriety.] summer and winter; generally four or five clerks, a postmaster, and a skipper for the small schooners. The whole is under the direction and superintendence of a chief factor, or chief trader.

As the winter is very long (nearly eight months), and the summer very short, all the transport of goods to, and returns from, the interior must necessarily be effected as quickly as possible. The consequence is, that great numbers of men and boats are constantly arriving from the inland posts, and departing again, during the summer; and as each brigade is commanded by a chief factor, trader, or clerk, there is a constant succession of new faces, which, after a long and dreary winter, during which the inhabitants never see a stranger, renders the summer at York Factory the most agreeable part of the year. The arrival of the ship from England, too, delights those inhabitants of the wilderness with letters from home, which can only be received twice a year --  namely, at the time now alluded to, by the ship; and again in December, when letters and accounts are conveyed throughout the interior by means of sledges drawn by men.

The fort (as all establishments in the Indian country, whether small or great, are sometimes called) is a large square, I should think about six or seven acres, enclosed within high stockades, and planted on the banks of Hayes River, nearly five miles from its mouth. The houses are all of wood, and, of course, have no pretension to architectural beauty; but their clean, white appearance and regularity have a pleasing effect on the eye. Before the front gate stand four large brass field-pieces; but these warlike instruments are only used for the purpose of saluting the ship with blank cartridge on her arrival and departure, the decayed state of the carriages rendering it dangerous to load the guns with a full charge.

The country, as I said before, is flat and swampy, and the only objects that rise very prominently above the rest, and catch the wandering eye, are a lofty "outlook," or scaffolding of wood, painted black, from which to watch for the arrival of the ship; and a flagstaff, from whose peak, on Sundays, the snowy folds of St. George's flag flutter in the breeze.

Such was York Factory in 1841; and as this description is sufficient to give a general idea of the place, I shall conclude it, and proceed with my narrative.

Mr Grave, the chief factor then in charge, received us very kindly, and introduced us to some of the gentlemen standing beside him on the wharf. Mr Carles, being also a chief factor, was taken by him to the commissioned gentlemen's house; while Wiseacre and I, being apprentice clerks, were shown the young gentlemen's house -- or, as the young gentlemen themselves called it, Bachelors' Hall -- and were told to make ourselves at home. To Bachelors' Hall, then, we proceeded, and introduced ourselves. The persons assembled there were -- the accountant, five clerks, the postmaster, and one or two others. Some of them were smoking, and some talking; and a pretty considerable noise they made. Bachelors' Hall, indeed, was worthy of its name, being a place that would have killed any woman, so full was it of smoke, noise, and confusion.

After having made ourselves acquainted with everybody, I thought it time to present a letter of introduction I had to Mrs Grave, the wife of the gentleman in charge, who received me very kindly. I was much indebted to this lady for supplying me with several pairs of moccasins for my further voyage, and much useful information, without which I should have been badly off indeed. Had it not been for her kindness, I should in all probability have been allowed to depart very ill provided for the journey to Red River, for which I was desired to hold myself in readiness. Young Wiseacre, on the other hand, learned that he was to remain at York Factory that winter, and was placed in the office the day after our arrival, where he commenced work for the first time. We had a long and sage conversation upon the subject the same evening, and I well remember congratulating him, with an extremely grave face, upon his having now begun to do for himself. Poor fellow! his subsequent travels in the country were long and perilous.

But let us pause here a while. The reader has been landed in a new country, and it may be well, before describing our voyage to Red River, to make him acquainted with the peculiarities of the service, and the people with whom he will in imagination have to associate.



Chapter Three.

Description Of The Hudson Bay Company -- Their Forts And Establishments --  Food -- Articles Of Trade And Manner Of Trading.

In the year 1669, a Company was formed in London, under the direction of Prince Rupert, for the purpose of prosecuting the fur-trade in the regions surrounding Hudson Bay. This Company obtained a charter from Charles the Second, granting to them and their successors, under the name of "The Governor and Company of Adventurers trading into Hudson's Bay," the sole right of trading in all the country watered by rivers flowing into Hudson Bay. The charter also authorised them to build and fit out men-of-war, establish forts, prevent any other company from carrying on trade with the natives in their territories, and required that they should do all in their power to promote Discovery.

Armed with these powers, then, the Hudson Bay Company established a fort near the head of James Bay. Soon afterwards, several others were built in different parts of the country; and before long the Company spread and grew wealthy, and eventually extended their trade far beyond the chartered limits.

With the internal economy of the Company under the superintendence of Prince Rupert, however, I am not acquainted; but as it will be necessary to the reader's forming a correct idea of the peculiarities of the country and service, that he should know something of its character under the direction of Sir George Simpson, I shall give a brief outline of its arrangements.

Reader, you will materially assist me in my description if you will endeavour to draw the following landscape on the retina of your mind's eye.

Imagine an immense extent of country, many hundred miles broad and many hundred miles long, covered with dense forests, expanded lakes, broad rivers, wide prairies, swamps, and mighty mountains: and all in a state of primeval simplicity -- undefaced by the axe of civilised man, and untenanted by aught save a few roving hordes of Red Indians and myriads of wild animals. Imagine amid this wilderness a number of small squares, each enclosing half a dozen wooden houses and about a dozen men, and between each of these establishments a space of forest varying from fifty to three hundred miles in length; and you will have a pretty correct idea of the Hudson Bay Company's territories, and of the number of and distance between their forts. The idea, however, may be still more correctly obtained by imagining populous Great Britain converted into a wilderness and planted in the middle of Rupert's Land. The Company, in that case, would build three forts in it -- one at the Land's End, one in Wales, and one in the Highlands; so that in Britain there would be but three hamlets, with a population of some thirty men, half a dozen women, and a few children! The Company's posts extend, with these intervals between, from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean, and from within the Arctic Circle to the northern boundaries of the United States.

Throughout this immense country there are probably not more ladies than would suffice to form half a dozen quadrilles; and these -- poor banished creatures! -- are chiefly the wives of the principal gentlemen connected with the fur-trade. The rest of the female population consists chiefly of half-breeds and Indians; the latter entirely devoid of education, and the former as much enlightened as can be expected from those whose life is spent in such a country. Even these are not very numerous; and yet without them the men would be in a sad condition, for they are the only tailors and washer-women in the country, and make all the mittens, moccasins, fur caps, deer-skin coats, etcetera, etcetera, worn in the land.

There are one or two favoured spots, however, into which a missionary or two have penetrated; and in Red River Settlement (the only colony in the Company's territories) there are several churches and clergymen, both Protestant and Roman Catholic.

The country is divided into four large departments: the Northern department, which includes all the establishments in the far north and frozen regions; the Southern department, including those to the south and east of this, the post at the head of James Bay, and along the shores of Lake Superior; the Montreal department, including the country in the neighbourhood of Montreal, up the Ottawa River, and along the north shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence and Esquimaux Bay; and the Columbia department, which comprehends an immense extent of country to the west of the Rocky Mountains, including the Oregon territory, which, although the Hudson Bay Company still trade in it, now belongs to the Americans.

These departments are divided into a number of districts, each under the direction of an influential officer; and these again are subdivided into numerous establishments, forts, posts, and outposts.

The name of fort, as already remarked, is given to all the posts in the country; but some of them certainly do not merit the name -- indeed, few of them do. The only two in the country that are real, bona fide forts, are Fort Garry and the Stone Fort in the colony of Red River, which are surrounded by stone walls with bastions at the corners. The others are merely defended by wooden pickets or stockades; and a few, where the Indians are quiet and harmless, are entirely destitute of defence of any kind. Some of the chief posts have a complement of about thirty or forty men; but most of them have only ten, five, four, and even two, besides the gentleman in charge. As in most instances these posts are planted in a wilderness far from men, and the inhabitants have only the society of each other, some idea may be formed of the solitary life led by many of the Company's servants.

The following is a list of the forts in the four different departments, as correctly given as possible; but, owing to the great number in the country, the constant abandoning of old and establishing of new forts, it is difficult to get at a perfectly correct knowledge of their number and names: -- 

Northern Department.

York Fort (the depot). Churchill. Severn. Oxford House. Trout Lake House. Norway House. Nelson River House. Berens River House. Red River Colony. Fort Garry. Stone Fort. Manitoba House. Fort Pelly. Cumberland House. Carlton House. Fort Pitt. Edmonton. Rocky Mountain House. Fort Aminaboine. Jasper's House. Henry's House. Fort Chipewyan. Fort Vermilion. Fort Dunvegan. Fort Simpson. Fort Norman. Fort Good Hope. Fort Halkett. Fort Resolution. Peel's River. Fort Alexander. Rat Portage House. Fort Frances. Isle a la Crosse.

Southern Department.

Moose Factory (the depot). Rupert's House. Fort George. Michiskau. Albany. Lac Seul Kinogomousse. Matawagamingue. Kuckatoosh. New Brunswick. Abitibi. Temiscamingue. Grand Lac. Trout Lake. Matarva. Canasicomica. Lacloche. Sault de Ste. Maria. Fort William. Pic House. Michipicoton. Bachiwino. Nepigon. Washwonaby. Pike Lake. Temagamy. Green Lake. Missisague.

Montreal Department.

Lachine (the depot). Riviere du Moine. Lac des Allumettes. Fort Coulonge. Riviere Desert. Lac des Sables. Lake of Two Mountains. Kikandatch. Weymontachingue. Rat River. Ashabmoushwan. Chicoutimie. Lake St. John's. Tadousac. Isle Jeremie. Port Neuf. Goodbout. Trinity River. Seven Islands. Mingan. Nabisippi. Natoequene. Musquarro. Fort Nasoopie. Mainewan Lake. Sandy Banks. Gull Islands. North-west River. Rigolet. Kiboksk. Eyelick.

Columbia Department.

Fort Vancouver (the depot). Fort George. Nez Perce. Ockanagan. Colville. Fort Hall. Thompson's River. Fort Langley. Cootanies. Flat-head Post. Nisqually. Alexandria. Fort Chilcotin. Fort James. Fort Fluz Cuz. Babine Lake. And an agency in the Sandwich Islands.

There are seven different grades in the service. First, the labourer, who is ready to turn his hand to anything; to become a trapper, fisherman, or rough carpenter at the shortest notice. He is generally employed in cutting firewood for the consumption of the establishment at which he is stationed, shovelling snow from before the doors, mending all sorts of damages to all sorts of things, and, during the summer months, in transporting furs and goods between his post and the nearest depot. Next in rank is the interpreter. He is, for the most part, an intelligent labourer, of pretty long standing in the service, who, having picked up a smattering of Indian, is consequently very useful in trading with the natives. After the interpreter comes the postmaster; usually a promoted labourer, who, for good behaviour or valuable services, has been put upon a footing with the gentlemen of the service, in the same manner that a private soldier in the army is sometimes raised to the rank of a commissioned officer. At whatever station a postmaster may happen to be placed, he is generally the most useful and active man there. He is often placed in charge of one of the many small stations, or outposts, throughout the country. Next are the apprentice clerks -- raw lads, who come out fresh from school, with their mouths agape at the wonders they behold in Hudson Bay. They generally, for the purpose of appearing manly, acquire all the bad habits of the country as quickly as possible, and are stuffed full of what they call fun, with a strong spice of mischief. They become more sensible and sedate before they get through the first five years of their apprenticeship, after which they attain to the rank of clerks. The clerk, after a number of years' service (averaging from thirteen to twenty), becomes a chief trader (or half-shareholder), and in a few years more he attains the highest rank to which any one can rise in the service, that of chief factor (or shareholder).

It is a strange fact that three-fourths of the Company's servants are Scotch Highlanders and Orkneymen. There are very few Irishmen, and still fewer English. A great number, however, are half-breeds and French Canadians, especially among the labourers and voyageurs.

From the great extent, and variety of feature, in the country occupied by the fur-traders, they subsist, as may be supposed, on widely different kinds of food. In the prairie, or plain countries, animal food is chiefly used, as there thousands of deer and bisons wander about, while the woods are stocked with game and wild-fowl. In other places, however, where deer are scarce and game not so abundant, fish of various kinds are caught in the rivers and lakes; and in other parts of the country they live partly upon fish and partly upon animal food. Vegetables are very scarce in the more northern posts, owing to the severity of the winter, and consequent shortness of summer. As the Company's servants are liable, on the shortest notice, to be sent from one end of the continent to another, they are quite accustomed to change of diet; -- one year rejoicing in buffalo-humps and marrow-bones, in the prairies of the Saskatchewan, and the next devouring hung white-fish and scarce venison, in the sterile regions of Mackenzie River, or varying the meal with a little of that delectable substance often spoken of by Franklin, Back, and Richardson as their only dish -- namely, tripe-de-roche, a lichen or moss which grows on the most barren rocks, and is only used as food in the absence of all other provisions.

During the first years of the Company, they were much censured for not carrying out the provision contained in the royal charter, that they should prosecute Discovery as much as possible; and it was even alleged that they endeavoured to prevent adventurers, not connected with themselves, from advancing in their researches. There is every reason to believe, however, that this censure was undeserved. A new company, recently formed in a wild country, could not at first be expected to have time or funds to advance the arduous and expensive cause of Discovery. With regard to their having impeded the attempts of others, it is doubtful whether any one in the service ever did so; but even had such been the case, the unauthorised and dishonourable conduct of one or two of their servants does not sanction the condemnation of the whole Company. Besides, the cause of Discovery was effectively advanced in former days by Herne, and in later years by Dease and Simpson, Dr Rae, and others; so that, whatever might have been the case at first, there can be no doubt that the Company have done much for the cause of late years.

The trade carried on by the Company is in peltries of all sorts, oil, dried and salted fish, feathers, quills, etcetera. A list of some of their principal articles of commerce is subjoined: -- 

Beaver-skins. Bear-skins, Black. Bear-skins, Brown. Bear-skins, White or Polar. Bear-skins, Grizzly. Badger-skins. Buffalo or Bison Robes (see note below). Castorum, a substance procured from the body of the beaver. Deer-skins, Rein. Deer-skins, Red. Deer-skins, Moose or Elk. Deer-skins, parchment. Feathers of all kinds. Fisher-skins. Fox-skins, Black. Fox-skins, Silver. Fox-skins, Cross. Fox-skins, Red. Fox-skins, White. Fox-skins, Blue. Goose-skins. Ivory (tusks of the Walrus). Lynx-skins. Marten-skins. Musquash-skins. Otter-skins. Oil, Seal. Oil, Whale. Swan-skins. Salmon, salted. Seal-skins. Wolf-skins Wolverine-skins.

Note. The hide of the bison -- or, as it is called by the fur-traders, the buffalo -- when dressed on one side and the hair left on the other, is called a robe. Great numbers are sent to Canada, where they are used for sleigh wrappers in winter. In the Indian county they are often used instead of blankets.

The most valuable of the furs mentioned in the above list is that of the black fox. This beautiful animal resembles in shape the common fox of England, but it is much larger, and jet-black, with the exception of one or two white hairs along the back-bone and a pure white tuft on the end of the tail. A single skin sometimes brings from twenty-five to thirty guineas in the British market; but, unfortunately, they are very scarce. The silver fox differs from the black fox only in the number of white hairs with which its fur is sprinkled; and the more numerous the white hairs, the less valuable does it become. The cross fox is a cross between the black or silver and the red fox. The red fox bears a much inferior fur to the other kinds; yet it is a good article of trade, as this species is very numerous. These four kinds of foxes are sometimes produced in the same litter, the mother being a red fox. The white fox is of less value than the red, and is also very numerous, particularly on the shores of Hudson Bay. The variety termed the blue fox is neither numerous nor valuable. It is of a dirty bluish-grey colour, and seldom makes its appearance at the Company's posts.

Beaver, in days of yore, was the staple fur of the country; but, alas! the silk hat has given it its death-blow, and the star of the beaver has now probably set for ever -- that is to say, with regard to men; probably the animals themselves fancy that their lucky star has just risen. The most profitable fur in the country is that of the marten. It somewhat resembles the Russian sable, and generally maintains a steady price. These animals, moreover, are very numerous throughout most part of the Company's territories, particularly in Mackenzie River, whence great numbers are annually sent to England.

All the above animals and a few others are caught in steel and wooden traps by the natives; while deer, buffaloes, etcetera, are run down, shot, and snared in various ways, the details of which will be found in another part of this volume.

Trade is carried on with the natives by means of a standard valuation, called in some parts of the country a castor. This is to obviate the necessity of circulating money, of which there is little or none, excepting in the colony of Red River. Thus, an Indian arrives at a fort with a bundle of furs, with which he proceeds to the Indian trading-room. There the trader separates the furs into different lots, and, valuing each at the standard valuation, adds the amount together, and tells the Indian (who has looked on the while with great interest and anxiety) that he has got fifty or sixty casters; at the same time he hands the Indian fifty or sixty little bits of wood in lieu of cash, so that the latter may know, by returning these in payment of the goods for which he really exchanges his skins, how fast his funds decrease. The Indian then looks round upon the bales of cloth, powder-horns, guns, blankets, knives, etcetera, with which the shop is filled, and after a good while makes up his mind to have a small blanket. This being given him, the trader tells him that the price is six castors; the purchaser hands back six of his little bits of wood, and selects something else. In this way he goes on till all his wooden cash is expended; and then, packing up his goods, departs to show his treasures to his wife, and another Indian takes his place. The value of a castor is from one to two shillings. The natives generally visit the establishments of the Company twice a year -- once in October, when they bring in the produce of their autumn hunts; and again in March, when they come in with that of the great winter hunt.

The number of castors that an Indian makes in a winter hunt varies from fifty to two hundred, according to his perseverance and activity, and the part of the country in which he hunts. The largest amount I ever heard of was made by a man called Piaquata-Kiscum, who brought in furs on one occasion to the value of two hundred and sixty castors. The poor fellow was soon afterwards poisoned by his relatives, who were jealous of his superior abilities as a hunter, and envious of the favour shown him by the white men.

After the furs are collected in spring at all the different outposts, they are packed in conveniently-sized bales, and forwarded, by means of boats and canoes, to the three chief depots on the sea-coast -- namely, Fort Vancouver, at the mouth of the Columbia River, on the shores of the Pacific; York Fort, on the shores of Hudson Bay; and Moose Factory, on the shores of James Bay -- whence they are transported in the Company's ships to England. The whole country in summer is, consequently, in commotion with the passing and repassing of brigades of boats laden with bales of merchandise and furs; the still waters of the lakes and rivers are rippled by the paddle and the oar; and the long-silent echoes which have slumbered in the icy embrace of a dreary winter, are now once more awakened by the merry voice and tuneful song of the hardy voyageur.

This slight sketch of the Hudson Bay Company and of the territories occupied by them may, for the present, serve to give some idea of the nature of the service and the appearance of the country. We shall now proceed to write of the Indiana inhabiting these wild regions.

[Doubtless the reader is aware that the chartered rights of the Hudson Bay Company now (1875) no longer exist; nevertheless their operations are still conducted in the same manner as of old, so that the above description is applicable in almost all respects to the greater part of the country at the present time.]



Chapter Four.

North Americas Indians -- Their Manners And Customs -- Costume, Dwellings, Implements, Etcetera. -- A Tale Of Murder And Cannibalism -- A Night Excursion With An Indian -- A Deer Hunt.

The aborigines of North America are divided into a great number of nations or tribes, differing not only in outward appearance but also in customs and modes of life, and in some instances entertaining for each other a bitter and implacable hatred.

To describe the leading peculiarities of some of these tribes, particularly those called Crees, will be my object in the present chapter.

Some of the tribes are known by the following names: -- Crees, Seauteaux, Stone Indians, Sioux, Blackfeet, Chipewyans, Slave Indians, Crows, Flatheads, etcetera. Of these, the Crees are the quietest and most inoffensive; they inhabit the woody country surrounding Hudson Bay; dwell in tents; never go to war; and spend their time in trapping, shooting, and fishing. The Seauteaux are similar to the Crees in many respects, and inhabit the country further in the interior. The Stone Indians, Sioux, Blackfeet, Slave Indians, Crows, and Flatheads inhabit the vast plains and forests in the interior of America, on the east and west of the Rocky Mountains, and live chiefly by the produce of the chase. Their country swarms with bisons, and varieties of deer, bears, etcetera, which they hunt, shoot, snare, and kill in various ways. Some of these tribes are well supplied with horses, with which they hunt the buffalo. This is a wild, inspiriting chase, and the natives are very fond of it. They use the gun a good deal, but prefer the bow and arrow (in the use of which they are very expert) for the chase, and reserve the gun for warfare, -- many of them being constantly engaged in skirmishing with their enemies. As the Crees were the Indians with whom I had the most intercourse, I shall endeavour to describe my old friends more at length.

The personal appearance of the men of this tribe is not bad. Although they have not the bold, daring carriage of the wilder tribes, yet they have active-looking figures, intelligent countenances, and a peculiar brightness in their dark eyes, which, from a constant habit of looking around them while travelling through the woods, are seldom for a moment at rest. Their jet-black hair generally hangs in straight matted locks over their shoulders, sometimes ornamented with beads and pieces of metal, and occasionally with a few partridge feathers; but they seldom wear a hat or cap of any kind, except in winter, when they make clumsy imitations of foraging-caps with furs -- preferring, if the weather be warm, to go about without any head-dress at all; or, if it be cold, using the large hood of their capotes as a covering. They are thin, wiry men, not generally very muscular in their proportions, but yet capable of enduring great fatigue. Their average height is about five feet five inches; and one rarely meets with individuals varying much from this average, nor with deformed people, among them. The step of a Cree Indian is much longer than that of a European; owing, probably, to his being so much accustomed to walking through swamps and forests, where it is necessary to take long strides. This peculiarity becomes apparent when an Indian arrives at a fort, and walks along the hard ground inside the walls with the trader, whose short, bustling, active step contrasts oddly with the long, solemn, ostrich-like stride of the savage; which, however appropriate in the woods, is certainly strange and ungraceful on a good road.

The summer dress of the Indian is almost entirely provided for him by the Hudson Bay Company. It consists chiefly of a blue or grey cloth, or else a blanket capote reaching below the knee, made much too loose for the figure, and strapped round the waist with a scarlet or crimson worsted belt. A very coarse blue striped cotton shirt is all the underclothing they wear, holding trousers to be quite superfluous; in lieu of which they make leggins of various kinds of cloth, which reach from a few inches above the knee down to the ankle. These leggins are sometimes very tastefully decorated with bead-work, particularly those of the women, and are provided with flaps or wings on either side.

The costume, however, is slightly varied in winter. The blanket or cloth capote is then laid aside for one of smoked red-deer skin, which has very much the appearance of chamois leather. This is lined with flannel, or some other thick, warm substance, and edged with fur (more for ornament, however, than warmth) of different kinds. Fingerless mittens, with a place for the thumb, are also adopted; and shoes or moccasins of the same soft material. The moccasins are very beautiful, fitting the feet as tightly as a glove, and are tastefully ornamented with dyed porcupine quills and silk thread of various colours, at which work the women are particularly au fait. As the leather of the moccasin is very thin [see note 1], blanket and flannel socks are worn underneath -- one, two, or even four pairs, according to the degree of cold; and in proportion as these socks are increased in number, the moccasin, of course, loses its elegant appearance.

The Indian women are not so good-looking as the men. They have an awkward, slouching gait, and a downcast look -- arising, probably, from the rude treatment they experience from their husbands; for the North American Indians, like all other savages, make complete drudges of their women, obliging them to do all the laborious and dirty work, while they reserve the pleasures of the chase for themselves. Their features are sometimes good; but I never saw a really pretty woman among the Crees. Their colour, as well as that of the men, is a dingy brown, which, together with their extreme filthiness, renders them anything but attractive. They are, however, quiet, sweet-tempered, and inoffensive creatures, destitute as well of artificial manners as of stays. Their dress is a gown, made without sleeves, and very scanty in the skirt, of coarse blue or green cloth; it reaches down to a little under the knee, below which their limbs are cased in leggins beautifully ornamented. Their whole costume, however, like that of the men, is almost always hid from sight by a thick blanket, without which the Indian seldom ventures abroad. The women usually make the top of the blanket answer the purpose of a head-dress; but when they wish to appear very much to advantage, they put on a cap. It is a square piece of blue cloth, profusely decorated with different-coloured beads, and merely sewed up at the top. They wear their hair in long straggling locks, which have not the slightest tendency to curl, and occasionally in queues or pigtails behind; but in this respect, as in every other, they are very careless of their personal appearance.

These primitive children of the forest live in tents of deerskin or bark; and sometimes, where skins are scarce, of branches of trees. They are conically shaped, and are constructed thus: -- The Indian with his family (probably two wives and three or four children) arrives in his bark canoe at a pretty level spot, sheltered from the north wind, and conveniently situated on the banks of a small stream, where the fish are plentiful, and pine branches (or brush), for the floor of the tent, abundant. Here he runs his canoe ashore, and carries his goods and chattels up the bank. His first business is to cut a number of long poles, and tie three of them at the top, spreading them out in the form of a tripod. He then piles all the other poles round these, at half a foot distance from each other, and thus encloses a circle of between fifteen and twenty feet in diameter. Over the poles (if he is a good hunter, and has plenty of deer-skins) he spreads the skin tent, leaving an opening at the top for the egress of the smoke. If the tent be a birch-bark one, he has it in separate rolls, which are spread over the poles till the whole is covered. A small opening is left facing the river or lake, which serves for a doorway; and this is covered with an old blanket, a piece of deer-skin, or, in some instances, by bison-skin or buffalo robe. The floor is covered with a layer of small pine branches, which serve for carpet and mattress; and in the centre is placed the wood fire, which, when blazing brightly, gives a warmth and comfort to the slight habitation that could scarcely be believed. Here the Indian spends a few days or weeks, according to the amount of game in the vicinity, and then removes to some other place, carrying with him the covering of the tent, but leaving the poles standing, as they would be cumbrous to carry in his small canoe, and thousands may be had at every place where he may wish to land.

The Indian canoe is an exceedingly light and graceful little craft, and well adapted for travelling in through a wild country, where the rivers are obstructed by long rapids, waterfalls, and shallows. It is so light that one man can easily carry it on his shoulders over the land, when a waterfall obstructs his progress; and as it only sinks about four or six inches in the water, few places are too shallow to float it. The birch bark of which it is made is about a quarter of an inch thick; and the inside is lined with extremely thin flakes of wood, over which a number of light timbers are driven, to give strength and tightness to the machine. In this frail bark, which measures from twelve, fifteen, thirty, to forty feet long, and from two to four feet broad in the middle, a whole Indian family of eight or ten souls will travel hundreds of miles, over rivers and lakes innumerable; now floating swiftly down a foaming rapid, and anon gliding over the surface of a quiet lake, or making a portage overland when a rapid is too dangerous to descend; and, while the elders of the family assist in carrying the canoe, the youngsters run about plucking berries, and the shaggy little curs (one or two of which are possessed by every Indian family) search for food, or bask in the sun at the foot of the baby's cradle, which stands bolt upright against a tree, while the child gazes upon all these operations with serene indifference.

Not less elegant and useful than the canoe is the snowshoe, without which the Indian would be badly off indeed. It is not, as many suppose, used as a kind of skate, with which to slide over the snow, but as a machine to prevent, by its size and breadth, the wearer from sinking into the snow; which is so deep that, without the assistance of the snowshoe, no one could walk a quarter of a mile through the woods in winter without being utterly exhausted.

It is formed of two thin pieces of light wood, tied at both ends, and spread out near the middle, thus making a kind of long oval, the interior of which is filled up with network of deer-skin threads. Strength is given to the frame by placing wooden bars across; and it is fastened loosely to the foot by a slight line going over the toe. In case, however, it may be supposed that by a shoe I mean an article something the size of a man's foot, it may be as well to state that snow-shoes measure from four to six feet long, and from thirteen to twenty inches wide. Notwithstanding their great size, the extreme lightness of their materials prevents them being cumbrous; and, after a little practice, a traveller forgets that he has them on, if the weather be good for such walking. Frosty weather is the best for snow-shoe travelling, as the snow is fine and dust-like, and falls through the net-work. If the weather be warm, the wet snow renders the shoe heavy, and the lines soon begin to gall the feet. On these shoes an Indian will travel between twenty and thirty miles a day; and they often accomplish from thirty to forty when hard pressed.

The food of the Indian varies according to circumstances. Sometimes he luxuriates on deer, partridges, and fat beaver; whilst at others he is obliged to live almost entirely on fish, and not unfrequently on tripe-de-roche. This substance, however, does no more than retard his ultimate destruction by starvation; and unless he meets with something more nourishing, it cannot prevent it. When starving, the Indian will not hesitate to appease the cravings of hunger by resorting to cannibalism; and there were some old dames with whom I was myself acquainted, who had at different periods eaten several of their children. Indeed, some of them, it was said, had also eaten their husbands!

The following anecdote, related to me by my friend Carles, who spent many years of his life among the North American Indians, depicts one of the worst of these cases of cannibalism.

It was in the spring of 18 hundred and something that Mr Carles stood in the Indian Hall of one of the far-distant posts in Athabasca, conversing with a party of Chipewyan Indians, who had just arrived with furs from their winter hunting-grounds. The large fires of wood, sparkling and blazing cheerfully up the wide chimney, cast a bright light round the room, and shone upon the dusky countenances of the Chipewyans, as they sat gravely on the floor, smoking their spwagans in silence. A dark shade lowered upon every face, as if thoughts of an unpleasant nature disturbed their minds; and so it was. A deed of the most revolting description had been perpetrated by an Indian of the Cree tribe, and they were about to relate the story to Mr Carles.

After a short silence, an old Indian removed his pipe, and, looking round upon the others, as if to ask their consent to his becoming spokesman, related the particulars of the story, the substance of which I now give.

Towards the middle of winter, Wisagun, a Cree Indian, removed his encampment to another part of the country, as game was scarce in the place where he had been residing. His family consisted of a wife, a son of eight or nine years of age, and two or three children, besides several of his relations; in all, ten souls, including himself. In a few days they arrived at their new encamping ground, after having suffered a great deal of misery by the way from starvation. They were all much exhausted and worn out, but hoped, having heard of buffaloes in the vicinity, that their sufferings would soon be relieved.

Here they remained several days without finding any game, and were reduced to the necessity of devouring their moccasins and leathern coats, rendered eatable by being singed over the fire. Soon this wretched resource was also gone, and they were reduced to the greatest extremity, when a herd of buffaloes was descried far away in the prairie, on the edge of which they were encamped. All were instantly on the qui vive. Guns were loaded, snow-shoes put on, and in ten minutes the males of the hungry party set off after the herd, leaving Wisagun's wife and children with another girl in the tent. It was not long, however, before the famished party began to grow tired. Some of the weakest dropped behind; while Wisagun, with his son Natappe, gave up the chase, and returned to the encampment. They soon arrived at it, and Wisagun, peeping in between the chinks of the tent to see what the women were doing, saw his wife engaged in cutting up one of her own children, preparatory to cooking it. In a transport of passion, the Indian rushed forward and stabbed her, and also the other woman; and then, fearing the wrath of the other Indians, he fled to the woods. It may be conceived what were the feelings of the remainder of the party when they returned and found their relatives murdered. They were so much exhausted, however, by previous suffering, that they could only sit down and gaze on the mutilated bodies in despair. During the night, Wisagun and Natappe returned stealthily to the tent, and, under cover of the darkness, murdered the whole party as they lay asleep. Soon after this the two Indians were met by another party of savages, in good condition, although, from the scarcity of game, the others were starving. The former accounted for this, however, by saying that they had fallen in with a deer not long ago; but that, before this had happened, all the rest of the family had died of starvation.

It was the party who had met the two Indians wandering in the plains that now sat round the fire relating the story to Mr Carles.

The tale was still telling when the hall door slowly opened, and Wisagun, gaunt and cadaverous, the very impersonation of famine, slunk into the room, along with Natappe, and seated himself in a corner near the fire. Mr Carles soon obtained from his own lips confirmation of the horrible deed, which he excused by saying that most of his relations had died before he ate them.

In a few days after this, the party of Indians took their departure from the house, to proceed to their village in the forest; and shortly after Wisagun and Natappe also left, to rejoin their tribe. The news of their deeds, however, had preceded them, so they were received very coldly; and soon after Wisagun pitched his tent, the other Indians removed, with one accord, to another place, as though it were impossible to live happily under the shadow of the same trees. This exasperated Wisagun so much that he packed up his tent and goods, launched his canoe, and then, before starting, went up to the village, and told them it was true he had killed all his relatives; and that he was a conjurer, and had both power and inclination to conjure them to death too. He then strode down to the banks of the river, and, embarking with his son, shot out into the stream. The unhappy man had acted rashly in his wrath. There is nothing more dangerous than to threaten to kill a savage, as he will certainly endeavour to kill the person who threatens him, in order to render the execution of his purpose impossible. Wisagun and his son had no sooner departed than two men coolly took up their guns, entered a canoe, and followed them. Upon arriving at a secluded spot, one of them raised his gun and fired at Wisagun, who fell over the side of the canoe, and sank to rise no more. With the rapidity of thought, Natappe seized his father's gun, sprang ashore, and bounded up the bank; a shot was fired which went through the fleshy part of his arm, and the next moment he was behind a tree. Here he called out to the Indians, who were reloading their guns, not to kill him, and he would tell them all. After a little consideration, they agreed to spare him; he embarked with them, and was taken afterwards to the fort, where he remained many years in the Company's service.

Although instances of cannibalism are not unusual among the Indian tribes, they do not resort to it from choice, but only when urged by the irrepressible cravings of hunger.

All the Indian tribes are fond of spirits; and in former times, when the distribution of rum to the natives was found necessary to compete with other companies, the use of the "fire-water" was carried to a fearful extent. Since Sir George Simpson became governor, however, the distribution of spirits has been almost entirely given up; and this has proved a most beneficial measure for the poor Indians.

Tobacco also is consumed by them in great quantities; indeed, the pipe is seldom out of the Indian's mouth. If he is not hunting, sleeping, or eating, he is sure to be smoking. A peculiar kind of shrub is much used by them, mixed with tobacco -- partly for the purpose of making it go far, and partly because they can smoke more of it at a time with impunity.

The Indian is generally very lazy, but can endure, when requisite, great fatigue and much privation. He can go longer without eating than a European, and, from the frequent fasts he has to sustain, he becomes accustomed, without injury, to eat more at a meal than would kill a white man. The Indian children exhibit this power in a very extraordinary degree, looking sometimes wretchedly thin and miserable, and an hour or two afterwards waddling about with their little stomachs swollen almost to bursting!

When an Indian wants a wife, he goes to the fair one's father, and asks his consent. This being obtained, he informs the young lady of the circumstance, and then returns to his wigwam, whither the bride follows him, and installs herself as mistress of the house without further ceremony. Generally speaking, Indians content themselves with one wife, but it is looked upon as neither unusual nor improper to take two, or even three wives. The great point to settle is the husband's ability to support them. Thus, a bad hunter can only afford one wife, whilst a good one may have three or four.

If an old man or woman of the tribe becomes infirm, and unable to proceed with the rest when travelling, he or she, as the case may be, is left behind in a small tent made of willows, in which are placed a little firewood, some provisions, and a vessel of water. Here the unhappy wretch remains in solitude till the fuel and provisions are exhausted, and then dies. Should the tribe be in their encampment when an Indian dies, the deceased is buried, sometimes in the ground, and sometimes in a rough wooden coffin raised a few feet above it. They do not now bury guns, knives, etcetera, with their dead, as they once did, probably owing to their intercourse with white men.

The Supreme Being among the Indians is called Manitou; but He can scarcely be said to be worshipped by them, and the few ideas they have of His attributes are imperfect and erroneous. Indeed, no religious rites exist among them, unless the unmeaning mummery of the medicine tent can be looked upon as such. Of late years, however, missionaries, both of the Church of England and the Wesleyans, have exerted themselves to spread the Christian religion among these tribes, than whom few savages can be more unenlightened or morally degraded; and there is reason to believe that the light of the gospel is now beginning to shine upon them with beneficial influence.

There is no music in the soul of a Cree, and the only time they attempt it is when gambling -- of which they are passionately fond -- when they sing a kind of monotonous chant, accompanied with a noisy rattling on a tin kettle. The celebrated war-dance is now no longer in existence among this tribe. They have wisely renounced both war and its horrors long ago. Among the wilder inhabitants of the prairies, however, it is still in vogue, with all the dismal accompaniments of killing, scalping, roasting, and torturing that distinguished American warfare a hundred years ago.

The different methods by which the Indian succeeds in snaring and trapping animals are numerous. A good idea of these may be had by following an Indian in his rounds.

Suppose yourself, gentle reader, standing at the gate of one of the forts in Hudson Bay, watching a savage arranging his snow-shoes, preparatory to entering the gloomy forest. Let us walk with this Indian on a visit to his traps.

The night is very dark, as the moon is hid by thick clouds, yet it occasionally breaks out sufficiently to illumine our path to Stemaw's wigwam, and to throw the shadows of the neighbouring trees upon the pale snow, which crunches under our feet as we advance, owing to the intense cold. No wind breaks the stillness of the night, or shakes the lumps of snow off the branches of the neighbouring pines or willows; and nothing is heard save the occasional crackling of the trees as the severe frost acts upon their branches. The tent, at which we soon arrive, is pitched at the foot of an immense tree, which stands in a little hollow where the willows and pines are luxuriant enough to afford a shelter from the north wind. Just in front, a small path leads to the river, of which an extensive view is had through the opening, showing the long fantastic shadows of huge blocks and mounds of ice cast upon the white snow by the flickering moonlight. A huge chasm, filled with fallen trees and mounds of snow, yawns on the left of the tent; and the ruddy sparks of fire which issue from a hole in its top throw this and the surrounding forest into deeper gloom. The effect of this wintry scene upon the mind is melancholy in the extreme -- causing it to speed across the bleak and frozen plains, and visit again the warm fireside and happy faces in a far-distant home; and yet there is a strange romantic attraction in the wild woods that gradually brings it back again, and makes us impatient to begin our walk with the Indian. Suddenly the deer-skin robe that covers the aperture of the wigwam is raised, and a bright stream of warm light gushes out, tipping the dark-green points of the opposite trees, and mingling strangely with the paler light of the moon -- and Stemaw stands erect in front of his solitary home, to gaze a few moments on the sky and judge of the weather, as he intends to take a long walk before laying his head upon his capote for the night. He is in the usual costume of the Cree Indians: a large leathern coat, very much overlapped in front, and fastened round his waist with a scarlet belt, protects his body from the cold. A small rat-skin cap covers his head, and his legs are cased in the ordinary blue cloth leggins. Large moccasins, with two or three pair of blanket socks, clothe his feet; and fingerless mittens, made of deer-skin, complete his costume. After a few minutes passed in contemplation of the heavens, the Indian prepares himself for the walk. First he sticks a small axe in his belt, serving as a counterpoise to a large hunting-knife and fire-bag which depend from the other side. He then slips his feet through the lines of his snow-shoes, and throws the line of a small hand-sledge over his shoulder. The hand-sledge is a thin, flat slip or plank of wood, from five to six feet long by one foot broad, and is turned up at one end. It is extremely light, and Indians invariably use it when visiting their traps, for the purpose of dragging home the animals or game they may have caught. Having attached this sledge to his back, he stoops to receive his gun from his faithful squaw [see note 2], who has been watching his operations through a hole in the tent; and throwing it on his shoulder, strides off, without uttering a word, across the moonlit space in front of the tent, turns into a narrow track that leads down the dark ravine, and disappears in the shades of the forest. Soon he reaches the termination of the track (made for the purpose of reaching some good dry trees for firewood), and stepping into the deep snow with the long, regular, firm tread of one accustomed to snow-shoe walking, he winds his way rapidly through the thick stems of the surrounding trees, and turns aside the smaller branches of the bushes.

The forest is now almost dark, the foliage overhead having become so dense that the moon only penetrates through it in a few places, causing the spots on which it falls to shine with a strange phosphoric light, and rendering the surrounding masses darker by contrast. The faint outline, of an old snowshoe track, at first discernible, is now quite invisible; but still Stemaw moves forward with rapid, noiseless step, as sure of his way as if a broad beaten track lay before him. In this manner he moves on for nearly two miles, sometimes stooping to examine closely the newly-made track of some wild animal, and occasionally giving a glance at the sky through the openings in the leafy canopy above him, when a faint sound in the bushes ahead brings him to a full stop. He listens attentively, and a noise, like the rattling of a chain, is heard proceeding from the recesses of a dark, wild-looking hollow a few paces in front. Another moment, and the rattle is again distinctly heard; a slight smile of satisfaction crosses Stemaw's dark visage, for one of his traps is set in that place, and he knows that something is caught. Quickly descending the slope, he enters the bushes whence the sound proceeds, and pauses when within a yard or two of his trap, to peer through the gloom. A cloud passes off the moon, and a faint ray reveals, it may be, a beautiful black fox caught in the snare. A slight blow on the snout from Stemaw's axe-handle kills the unfortunate animal; in ten minutes more it is tied to his sledge, the trap is reset and again covered over with snow, so that it is almost impossible to tell that anything is there; and the Indian pursues his way.

The steel-trap used by the Indians is almost similar to the ordinary rat-trap of England, with this difference, that it is a little larger, is destitute of teeth, and has two springs in place of one. A chain is attached to one spring for the purpose of fixing a weight to the trap, so that the animal caught may not be able to drag it far from the place where it was set. The track in the snow enables the hunter to find his trap again. It is generally set so that the jaws, when spread out flat, are exactly on a level with the snow. The chain and weight are both hid, and a thin layer of snow spread on top of the trap. The bait (which generally consists of chips of a frozen partridge, rabbit, or fish) is then scattered around in every direction; and, with the exception of this, nothing distinguishes the spot. Foxes, beavers, wolves, lynx, and other animals are caught in this way, sometimes by a fore leg, sometimes by a hind leg, and sometimes by two legs at once, and occasionally by the nose. Of all these ways the Indians prefer catching by two legs, as there is then not the slightest possibility of the animal escaping. When foxes are caught by one leg, they often eat it off close to the trap, and escape on the other three. I have frequently seen this happen; and I once saw a fox caught which had evidently escaped in this way, as one of its legs was gone, and the stump healed up and covered again with hair. When they are caught by the nose they are almost sure to escape, unless taken out of the trap very soon after being caught, as their snouts are so sharp or wedge-like that they can pull them from between the jaws of the trap without much difficulty.

Having now described the way of using this machine, we will rejoin Stemaw, whom we left on his way to the next trap. There he goes, moving swiftly over the snow mile after mile, as if he could not feel fatigue, turning aside now and then to visit a trap, and giving a short grunt when nothing is in it, or killing the animal when caught, and tying it on the sledge. Towards midnight, however, he begins to walk more cautiously, examines the priming of his gun, and moves the axe in his belt, as if he expected to meet some enemy suddenly. The fact is, that close to where he now stands are two traps which he set in the morning close to each other for the purpose of catching one of the formidable coast wolves. These animals are so sagacious that they will scrape all round a trap, let it be ever so well set, and after eating all the bait, walk away unhurt. Indians consequently endeavour in every possible way to catch them -- and, among others, by setting two traps close together; so that, while the wolf scrapes at one, he may perhaps put his foot in the other. It is in this way that Stemaw's traps are set, and he now proceeds cautiously towards them, his gun in the hollow of his left arm. Slowly he advances, peering through the bushes, but nothing is visible; suddenly a branch crashes under his snow-shoe, and with a savage growl a large wolf bounds towards him, landing almost at his feet. A single glance, however, shows the Indian that both traps are on his legs, and that the chains prevent his further advance. He places his gun against a tree, draws his axe from the belt, and advances to kill the animal. It is an undertaking, however, of some difficulty. The fierce brute, which is larger than a Newfoundland dog, strains every nerve and sinew to break its chains; while its eyes glisten in the uncertain light, and foam curls from its blood-red mouth. Now it retreats as the Indian advances, grinning horribly as it goes; and anon, as the chains check its further retreat, it springs with fearful growl towards Stemaw, who slightly wounds it with his axe, as he jumps backward just in time to save himself from the infuriated animal, which catches in its fangs the flap of his leggin, and tears it from his limb. Again Stemaw advances, and the wolf retreats and again springs on him, but without success. At last, as the wolf glances for a moment to one side -- apparently to see if there is no way of escape -- quick as lightning the axe descends with stunning violence on its head; another blow follows; and in five minutes more Stemaw heaves the huge brute across his shoulders, and carries it to his sledge.

This, however, has turned out a more exhausting business than Stemaw expected; so he determines to encamp and rest for a few hours. Selecting a large pine, whose spreading branches cover a patch of ground free from underwood, he scrapes away the snow with his snow-shoe. Silently but busily he labours for a quarter of an hour; and then, having cleared a space seven or eight feet in diameter, and nearly four feet deep, he cuts down a number of small branches, which he strews at the bottom of the hollow, till all the snow is covered. This done, he fells two or three of the nearest trees, cuts them up into lengths of about five feet long, and piles them at the root of the tree. A light is soon applied to the pile, and up glances the ruddy flame, crackling among the branches overhead, and sending thousands of bright sparks into the air. No one who has not seen it can have the least idea of the change that takes place in the appearance of the woods at night when a large fire is suddenly lighted. Before, all was cold, silent, chilling, gloomy, and desolate, and the pale snow looked unearthly in the dark. Now, a bright ruddy glow falls upon the thick stems of the trees, and penetrates through the branches overhead, tipping those nearest the fire with a ruby tinge, the mere sight of which warms one. The white snow changes to a beautiful pink, whilst the stems of the trees, bright and clearly visible near at hand, become more and more indistinct in the distance, till they are lost in the black background. The darkness, however, need not be seen from the encampment; for, when the Indian lies down, he will be surrounded by the snow walls, which sparkle in the firelight as if set with diamonds. These do not melt, as might be expected. The frost is much too intense for that, and nothing melts except the snow quite close to the fire. Stemaw has now concluded his arrangements: a small piece of dried deer's meat warms before the blaze; and, meanwhile, he spreads his green blanket on the ground, and fills a stone calumet (or pipe with a wooden stem) with tobacco, mixed with a kind of weed prepared by himself. The white smoke from this soon mingles with the thicker volumes from the fire, which curl up through the branches into the sky, now shrouding him in their wreaths, and then, as the bright flame obtains the mastery, leaving his dark face and coal-black eyes shining in the warm light. No one enjoys a pipe more than an Indian; and Stemaw's tranquil visage, wreathed in tobacco smoke, as he reclines at full length under the spreading branches of the pine, and allows the white vapour to pass slowly out of his mouth and nose, certainly gives one an excellent idea of savage enjoyment.

Leaving him here, then, to solace himself with a pipe preparatory to resting his wearied limbs for the night, we will change the hour, and conduct the reader to a different scene.

It is now day. The upper edge of the sun has just risen, red and frosty-looking, in the east, and countless myriads of icy particles glitter on every tree and bush in its red rays; while the white tops of the snow-drifts, which dot the surface of the small lake at which we have just arrived, are tipped with the same rosy hue. The lake is of considerable breadth, and the woods on its opposite shore are barely visible. An unbroken coat of pure white snow covers its entire surface, whilst here and there a small islet, covered with luxuriant evergreens, attracts the eye, and breaks the sameness of the scene. At the extreme left of the lake, where the points of a few bulrushes and sedgy plants appear above the snow, are seen a number of small earthy mounds, in the immediate vicinity of which the trees and bushes are cut and barked in many places, while some of them are nearly cut down. This is a colony of beavers. In the warm months of summer and autumn, this spot is a lively, stirring place, as the beavers are then employed nibbling down trees and bushes, for the purpose of repairing their dams, and supplying their storehouses with food. The bark of willows is their chief food, and all the bushes in the vicinity are more or less cut through by these persevering little animals. Their dams, however (which are made for the purpose of securing to themselves a constant sufficiency of water), are made with large trees; and stumps will be found, if you choose to look for them, as thick as a man's leg, which the beavers have entirely nibbled through, and dragged by their united efforts many yards from where they grew.

Now, however, no sign of animal life is to be seen, as the beavers keep within doors all winter; yet I venture to state that there are many now asleep under the snow before us. It is not, reader, merely for the purpose of showing you the outside of a beaver-lodge that I have brought you such a distance from human habitations. Be patient, and you shall soon see more. Do you observe that small black speck moving over the white surface of the lake, far away on the horizon? It looks like a crow, but the forward motion is much too steady and constant for that. As it approaches, it assumes the form of a man; and at last the figure of Stemaw, dragging his empty sleigh behind him (for he has left his wolf and foxes in the last night's encampment, to be taken up when returning home), becomes clearly distinguishable through the dreamy haze of the cold wintry morning. He arrives at the beaver-lodges, and, I warrant, will soon play havoc among the inmates.

His first proceeding is to cut down several stakes, which he points at the ends. These are driven, after he has cut away a good deal of ice from around the beaver-lodge, into the ground between it and the shore. This is to prevent the beaver from running along the passage they always have from their lodges to the shore, where their storehouse is kept, which would make it necessary to excavate the whole passage. The beaver, if there are any, being thus imprisoned in the lodge, the hunter next stakes up the opening into the storehouse on shore, and so imprisons those that may have fled there for shelter on hearing the noise of his axe at the other house. Things being thus arranged to his entire satisfaction, he takes an instrument called an ice-chisel -- which is a bit of steel about a foot long by one inch broad, fastened to the end of a stout pole -- wherewith he proceeds to dig through the lodge. This is by no means an easy operation; and although he covers the snow around him with great quantities of frozen mud and sticks, yet his work is not half finished. At last, however, the interior of the hut is laid bare; and the Indian, stooping down, gives a great pull, when out comes a large, fat, sleepy beaver, which he flings sprawling on the snow. Being thus unceremoniously awakened from its winter nap, the shivering animal looks languidly around, and even goes the length of grinning at Stemaw, by way of showing its teeth, for which it is rewarded with a blow on the head from the pole of the ice-chisel, which puts an end to it. In this way several more are killed, and packed on the sleigh. Stemaw then turns his face towards his encampment, where he collects the game left there; and away he goes at a tremendous pace, dashing the snow in clouds from his snow-shoes, as he hurries over the trackless wilderness to his forest home.

Near his tent, he makes a detour to visit a marten trap; where, however, he finds nothing. This trap is of the simplest construction, being composed of two logs, the one of which is supported over the other by means of a small stick, in such a manner that when the marten creeps between the two and pulls the bait, the support is removed, and the upper log falls on and crushes it to death.

In half an hour the Indian arrives at his tent, where the dark eyes of his wife are seen gazing through a chink in the covering, with an expression that denotes immense joy at the prospect of gorging for many days on fat beaver, and having wherewithal to purchase beads and a variety of ornaments from the white men, upon the occasion of her husband and herself visiting the posts of the fur-traders in the following spring.

But some of the tribes have a more sociable as well as a more productive way of conducting business, at least as regards venison; for they catch the deer in a "pound."

"Their mode of accomplishing this is to select a well-frequented deer-path, and enclose with a strong fence of twisted trees and brushwood a space about a mile in circumference, and sometimes more. The entrance of the pound is not larger than a common gate, and its inside is crowded with innumerable small hedges, in the openings of which are fixed snares of strong well-twisted thongs. One end is generally fastened to a growing tree; and as all the wood and jungle within the enclosure is left standing, its interior forms a complete labyrinth. On each side of the door a line of small trees, stuck up in the snow fifteen or twenty yards apart, form two sides of an acute angle, widening gradually from the entrance, from which they sometimes extend two or three miles. Between these rows of brushwood runs the path frequented by the deer. When all things are prepared, the Indians take their station on some eminence commanding a prospect of this path, and the moment any deer are seen going that way, the whole encampment --  men, women, and children -- steal under cover of the woods till they get behind them. They then show themselves in the open ground, and, drawing up in the form of a crescent, advance with shouts. The deer finding themselves pursued, and at the same time imagining the rows of brushy poles to be people stationed to prevent their passing on either side, run straight forward till they get into the pound. The Indians instantly close in, block up the entrance, and whilst the women and children run round the outside to prevent them from breaking or leaping the fence, the men enter with their spears and bows, and speedily dispatch such as are caught in the snares or are running loose." [see "Hearne's Journey." pages 78 to 80].

"McLean, a gentleman who spent twenty-five years in the Hudson Bay territories, assures us that on one occasion he and a party of men entrapped and slaughtered in this way a herd of three hundred deer in two hours."

I must crave the reader's pardon for this long digression, and beg him to recollect that at the end of the second chapter I left myself awaiting orders to depart for Red River, to which settlement we will now proceed.

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Note 1. Many people at home have asked me how such thin things can keep out the wet of the snow. The reader must bear in mind that the snow, for nearly seven months, is not even damp for five minutes, so constant is the frost. When it becomes wet in spring, Europeans adopt ordinary English shoes, and Indians do not mind the wet.

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Note 2. Squeiaw is the Indian for a woman. Squaw is the English corruption of the word, and is used to signify a wife.



Chapter Five.

Voyage From York Factory To Red River -- Voyage Begun -- Our Manner Of Travelling -- Encamping In The Woods -- Portaging And Shooting Wildfowl --  Whisky-Jacks -- A Storm -- Lake Winnipeg -- Arrival At Red River Settlement.

Somewhere about the beginning of September, Mr Carles, Mr and Mrs Gowley, Mr Rob, and myself set out with the Portage La Loche brigade, for the distant colony of Red River. The Portage la Loche brigade usually numbers six or seven boats, adapted for inland travelling where the navigation is obstructed by rapids, waterfalls, and cataracts, to surmount which, boats and cargo are carried overland by the crews. These carrying places are called portages; and between York Factory and Red River there are upwards of thirty-six, of various lengths. Besides these, there are innumerable rapids, up which the boats have to be pushed inch by inch with poles, for miles together; so that we had to look forward to a long and tedious voyage.

The brigade with which we left York Factory usually leaves Red River about the end of May, and proceeds to Norway House, where it receives Athabasca and Mackenzie River outfits. It then sets out for the interior; and upon arriving at Portage la Loche, the different boats land their cargoes, while the Mackenzie River boats, which came to meet them, exchange their furs for the outfits. The brigade then begins to retrace its way, and returns to Norway House, whence it proceeds to York Factory, where it arrives about the commencement of September, lands the furs, and receives part of the Red River outfit, with which it sets out for that place as soon as possible.

With this brigade, then, we started from York Factory, with a cheering song from the men in full chorus. They were in good spirits, being about to finish the long voyage, and return to their families at Red River, after an absence of nearly five months, during which time they had encountered and overcome difficulties that would have cooled the most sanguine temperament; but these hardy Canadians and half-breeds are accustomed to such voyages from the age of fifteen or sixteen, and think no more of them than other men do of ordinary work.

Mr Carles and I travelled together in the guide's boat; Mr and Mrs Gowley in another; and Mr Rob in a third by himself. We took the lead, and the others followed as they best could. Such was the order of march in which we commenced the ascent of Hayes River.

It may not be uninteresting here to describe the materiel of our voyage.

Our boat, which was the counterpart of the rest, was long, broad, and shallow, capable of carrying forty hundredweight, and nine men, besides three or four passengers, with provisions for themselves and the crew. It did not, I suppose, draw more than three feet of water when loaded, perhaps less, and was, moreover, very light for its size. The cargo consisted of bales, being the goods intended for the Red River sale-room and trading-shop. A rude mast and tattered sail lay along the seats, ready for use, should a favourable breeze spring up; but this seldom occurred, the oars being our chief dependence during the greater part of the voyage.

The provisions of the men consisted of pemmican and flour; while the passengers revelled in the enjoyment of a ham, several cured buffalo-tongues, tea, sugar, butter, and biscuit, and a little brandy and wine, wherewith to warm us in cold weather, and to cheer the crew with a dram after a day of unusual exertion. All our provisions were snugly packed in a case and basket, made expressly for the purpose.

Pemmican being a kind of food with which people in the civilised world are not generally acquainted, I may as well describe it here.

It is made by the buffalo-hunters of the Red River, Swan River, and Saskatchewan prairies; more particularly by those of Red River, where many of the colonists spend a great part of the year in pursuit of the buffalo. They make it thus: Having shot a buffalo (or bison), they cut off lumps of his flesh, and slitting it up into flakes or layers, hang it up in the sun to dry. In this state it is often made up into packs, and sent about the country to be consumed as dried meat; but when pemmican is wanted, it has to go through another process. When dry, the meat is pounded between two stones till it is broken into small pieces; these are put into a bag made of the animal's hide, with the hair on the outside, and well mixed with melted grease; the top of the bag is then sewn up, and the pemmican allowed to cool. In this state it may be eaten uncooked; but the voyageurs, who subsist on it when travelling, mix it with a little flour and water, and then boil it; in which state it is known throughout the country by the elegant name of robbiboo. Pemmican is good wholesome food, will keep fresh for a great length of time, and were it not for its unprepossessing appearance, and a good many buffalo hairs mixed with it, through the carelessness of the hunters, would be very palatable. After a time, however, one becomes accustomed to those little peculiarities.

It was late in the afternoon when we left York Factory; and after travelling a few miles up Hayes River, put ashore for the night.

We encamped upon a rough, gravelly piece of ground, as there was no better in the neighbourhood; so that my first night in the woods did not hold out the prospect of being a very agreeable one. The huge log fires, however, soon blazed cheerily up, casting a ruddy glow upon the surrounding foliage and the wild uncouth figures of the voyageurs, who, with their long dark hair hanging in luxuriant masses over their bronzed faces, sat or reclined round the fires, smoking their pipes, and chatting with as much carelessness and good-humour as if the long and arduous journey before them never once entered their minds. The tents were pitched on the most convenient spot we could find; and when supper was spread out, and a candle lighted (which, by the way, the strong blaze of our camp-fire rendered quite unnecessary), and Mr Carles, seating himself upon a pile of cloaks, blankets, and cushions, looked up with a broad grin on his cheerful, good-humoured countenance, and called me to supper, I began to think that if all travelling in Hudson Bay were like this, a voyage of discovery to the North Pole would be a mere pleasure trip! Alas! in after-years I found it was not always thus.

Supper was soon disposed of, and having warmed ourselves at the fire, and ventured a few rash prophecies on the probable weather of the morrow, we spread our blankets over an oiled cloth, and lay lovingly down together; Mr Carles to snore vociferously, and I to dream of home.

At the first blush of day I was awakened by the loud halloo of the guide, who, with a voice of a Stentor, gave vent to a "Leve! Leve! leve!" that roused the whole camp in less than two minutes. Five minutes more sufficed to finish our toilet (for, be it known, Mr Carles and I had only taken off our coats), tie up our blankets, and embark. In ten minutes we were once more pulling slowly up the current of Hayes River.

The missionaries turned out to be capital travellers, and never delayed the boats a moment; which is saying a good deal for them, considering the short space of time allowed for dressing. As for the hardy voyageurs, they slept in the same clothes in which they had wrought during the day, each with a single blanket round him, in the most convenient spot he could find. A few slept in pairs, but all reposed under the wide canopy of heaven.

Early morning is always the most disagreeable part of the traveller's day. The cold dews of the past night render the air chilly, and the gloom of departing night tends greatly to depress the spirits. As I became acquainted with this mode of travelling, I became more knowing; and, when there was not much probability of being interrupted by portages, I used to spread out my blanket in the stern of the boat, and snooze till breakfast-time. The hour for breakfast used to vary, according as we arrived late or early at an eligible spot. It was seldom earlier than seven, or later than nine o'clock.

Upon the occasion of our first breakfast in the woods, we were fortunate. The sun shone brightly on the surrounding trees and bushes; the fires blazed and crackled; pots boiled, and cooks worked busily on a green spot, at the side of a small bay or creek, in which the boats quietly floated, scarce rippling the surface of the limpid water. A little apart from the men, two white napkins marked our breakfast-place, and the busy appearance of our cook gave hopes that our fast was nearly over. The whole scene was indescribably romantic and picturesque, and worthy of delineation by a more experienced pencil than mine. Breakfast was a repetition of the supper of the preceding night; the only difference being, that we ate it by daylight, in the open air, instead of by candlelight, under the folds of our canvas tent. After it was over, we again embarked, and proceeded on our way.

The men used to row for a space of time denominated a pipe; so called from the circumstance of their taking a smoke at the end of it. Each spell lasted for nearly two hours, during which time they rowed without intermission. The smoke usually occupied five or ten minutes, after which they pulled again for two hours more; and so on. While travelling in boats, it is only allowable to put ashore for breakfast; so, about noon, we had a cold dinner in the boat: and, with appetites sharpened by exposure to the fresh air, we enjoyed it pretty well.

In a couple of days we branched off into Steel River, and began its ascent. The current here was more rapid than in Hayes River; so rapid, indeed, that, our oars being useless, we were obliged to send the men ashore with the tracking-line. Tracking, as it is called, is dreadfully harassing work. Half of the crew go ashore, and drag the boat slowly along, while the other half go to sleep. After an hour's walk, the others then take their turn; and so on, alternately, during the whole day.

The banks of the river were high, and very precipitous; so that the poor fellows had to scramble along, sometimes close to the water's edge, and sometimes high up the bank, on ledges so narrow that they could scarcely find a footing, and where they looked like flies on a wall. The banks, too, being composed of clay or mud, were very soft, rendering the work disagreeable and tiresome; but the light-hearted voyageurs seemed to be quite in their element, and laughed and joked while they toiled along, playing tricks with each other, and plunging occasionally up to the middle in mud, or to the neck in water, with as much nonchalance as if they were jumping into bed.

On the fifth day after leaving York Factory, we arrived at the Rock Portage. This is the first on the route, and it is a very short one. A perpendicular waterfall, eight or ten feet high, forms an effectual barrier to the upward progress of the boats by water; so that the only way to overcome the difficulty is to carry everything across the flat rock, from which the portage derives its name, and reload at the upper end.

Upon arriving, a novel and animating scene took place. Some of the men, jumping ashore, ran briskly to and fro with enormous burdens on their backs; whilst others hauled and pulled the heavy boats slowly up the cataract, hallooing and shouting all the time, as if they wished to drown the thundering noise of the water, which boiled and hissed furiously around the rocks on which we stood. In about an hour our boat, and one or two others, had passed the falls; and we proceeded merrily on our way, with spirits elevated in proportion to the elevation of our bodies.

It was here that I killed my first duck; and well do I remember the feeling of pride with which I contemplated the achievement. That I had shot her sitting about five yards from the muzzle of my gun, which was loaded with an enormous charge of shot, is undeniable; but this did not lessen my exultation a whit. The sparrows I used to kill in days of yore, with inexpressible delight, grew "small by degrees" and comically less before the plump inhabitant of the marshes, till they dwindled into nothing; and the joy and fuss with which I hailed the destruction of the unfortunate bird can only be compared to, and equalled by, the crowing and flurry with which a hen is accustomed to announce the production of her first egg.

During the voyage, we often disturbed large flocks of geese, and sometimes shot a few. When we chanced to come within sight of them before they saw us, the boats all put ashore; and L'Esperance, our guide, went round through the bushes, to the place where they were, and seldom failed in rendering at least one of the flock hors de combat. At first I would as soon have volunteered to shoot a lion in Africa, with a Bushman beside me, as have presumed to attempt to kill geese while L'Esperance was present -- so poor an opinion had I of my skill as a marksman; but, as I became more accustomed to seeing them killed, I waxed bolder; and at last, one day, having come in sight of a flock, I begged to be allowed to try my hand. The request was granted; L'Esperance lent me his gun, and away I went cautiously through the bushes. After a short walk, I came close to where they were swimming about in the water; and cocking my gun, I rushed furiously down the bank, breaking everything before me, and tumbling over half a dozen fallen trees in my haste, till I cleared the bushes; and then, scarcely taking time to raise the gun to my shoulder, banged right into the middle of the flock, just as they were taking wing. All rose; but they had not gone far when one began to waver a little, and finally sat down in the water again -- a sure sign of being badly wounded. Before the boats came up, however, he had swam to the opposite bank, and hid himself among the bushes; so that, much to my disappointment, I had not the pleasure of handling this new trophy of my prowess.

Upon one occasion, while sauntering along the banks of the river in search of ducks and geese, while the boats were slowly ascending against the strong current, I happened to cast my eyes across the stream, and there, to my amazement, beheld a large black bear bounding over the rocks with the ease and agility of a cat. He was not within shot, however, and I was obliged to content myself with seeing him run before me for a quarter of a mile, and then turn off into the forest.

This was truly the happiest time I ever spent in the Nor'-West. Everything was full of novelty and excitement. Rapid succeeded rapid, and portage followed portage in endless succession -- giving me abundance of opportunities to range about in search of ducks and geese, which were very numerous, while the men were dragging the boats, and carrying the goods over the portages. The weather was beautiful, and it was just the season of the year when the slight frost in the mornings and evenings renders the blazing camp-fire agreeable, and destroys those little wretches, the mosquitoes. My friend Mr Carles was a kind and indulgent companion, bearing good-naturedly with my boyish pranks, and cautioning me, of course ineffectually, against running into danger. I had just left home and the restraint of school, and was now entering upon a wild and romantic career. In short, every thing combined to render this a most agreeable and interesting voyage. I have spent many a day of amusement and excitement in the country, but on none can I look back with so much pleasure as on the time spent in this journey to Red River.

The scenery through which we passed was pretty and romantic, but there was nothing grand about it. The country generally was low and swampy; the highest ground being the banks of the river, which sometimes rose to from sixty to seventy feet. Our progress in Hill River was slow and tedious, owing to the number of rapids encountered on the way. The hill from which the river derives its name is a small, insignificant mound, and owes its importance to the flatness of the surrounding country.

Besides the larger wild-fowl, small birds of many kinds were very numerous. The most curious, and at the same time the most impudent, among the latter were the whisky-jacks. They always hovered round us at breakfast, ready to snap up anything that came within their reach --  advancing sometimes to within a yard or two of our feet, and looking at us with a very comical expression of countenance. One of the men told me that he had often caught them in his hand, with a piece of pemmican for a bait; so one morning after breakfast I went a little to one side of our camp, and covering my face with leaves, extended my hand with a few crumbs in the open palm. In five minutes a whisky-jack jumped upon a branch over my head, and after reconnoitring a minute or so, lit upon my hand, and began to breakfast forthwith. You may be sure the trap was not long in going off; and the screeching that Mr Jack set up on finding my fingers firmly closed upon his toes was tremendous. I never saw a more passionate little creature in my life: it screamed, struggled, and bit unceasingly, until I let it go; and even then it lighted on a tree close by, and looked at me as impudently as ever. The same day I observed that when the men were ashore the whisky-jacks used to eat out of the pemmican bags left in the boats; so I lay down close to one, under cover of a buffalo-skin, and in three minutes had made prisoner of another of these little inhabitants of the forest. They are of a bluish-grey colour, and nearly the size of a blackbird; but they are such a bundle of feathers that when plucked they do not look much larger than a sparrow. They live apparently on animal food (at least, they are very fond of it), and are not considered very agreeable eating.

We advanced very slowly up Hill River. Sometimes, after a day of the most toilsome exertions, during which the men were constantly pushing the boats up long rapids, with poles, at a very slow pace, we found ourselves only four or five miles ahead of the last night's encampment. As we ascended higher up the country, however, travelling became more easy. Sometimes small lakes and tranquil rivers allowed us to use the oars -- and even the sails, when a puff of fair wind arose. Occasionally we were sweeping rapidly across the placid water; anon buffeting with, and advancing against, the foaming current of a powerful river, whose raging torrent seemed to bid defiance to our further progress: now dragging boats and cargoes over rocks, and through the deep shades of the forest, when a waterfall checked us on our way; and again dashing across a lake with favouring breeze; and sometimes, though rarely, were wind-bound on a small islet or point of land.

Our progress was slow, but full of interest, novelty, and amusement. My fellow-travellers seemed to enjoy the voyage very much; and even Mrs Gowley, to whom hardships were new, liked it exceedingly.

On our way we passed Oxford House -- a small outpost of York Factory district. It is built on the brow of a grassy hill, which rises gradually from the margin of Oxford Lake. Like most of the posts in the country, it is composed of a collection of wooden houses, built in the form of a square, and surrounded by tall stockades, pointed at the tops. These, however, are more for ornament than defence. A small flag-staff towers above the buildings; from which, upon the occasion of an arrival, a little red Hudson Bay Company's flag waves its folds in the gentle current of an evening breeze. There were only two or three men at the place; and not a human being, save one or two wandering Indians, was to be found within hundreds of miles of this desolate spot. After a stay here of about half an hour, we proceeded on our way.

Few things are more beautiful or delightful than crossing a lake in the woods on a lovely morning at sunrise. The brilliant sun, rising in a flood of light, pierces through the thin haze of morning, converting the countless myriads of dewdrops that hang on tree and bush into sparkling diamonds, and burnishing the motionless flood of water, till a new and mighty firmament is reflected in the wave; as if Nature, rising early from her couch, paused to gaze with admiration on her resplendent image reflected in the depths of her own matchless mirror. The profound stillness, too, broken only by the measured sweep of the oars, fills the soul with awe; whilst a tranquil but unbounded happiness steals over the heart of the traveller as he gazes out upon the distant horizon, broken here and there by small verdant islets, floating as it were in air. He wanders back in thought to far-distant climes; or wishes, mayhap, that it were possible to dwell in scenes like this with those he loves for ever.

As the day advances, the scene, though slightly changed, is still most beautiful. The increasing heat, dispelling the mists, reveals in all its beauty the deep blue sky speckled with thin fleecy clouds, and, imparting a genial warmth to the body, creates a sympathetic glow in the soul. Flocks of snow-white gulls sail in graceful evolutions round the boats, dipping lightly in the water as if to kiss their reflected images; and, rising suddenly in long rapid flights, mount in circles up high above the tranquil world into the azure sky, till small white specks alone are visible in the distance. Up, up they rise on sportive wing, till the straining eye can no longer distinguish them, and they are gone! Ducks, too, whir past in rapid flight, steering wide of the boats, and again bending in long graceful curves into their course. The sweet, plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will rings along the shore; and the faint answer of his mate floats over the lake, mellowed by distance to a long tiny note. The air is motionless as the water; and the enraptured eye gazes in dreamy enjoyment on all that is lovely and peaceful in nature.

These are the pleasures of travelling in the wilderness. Let us change the picture.

The sun no longer shines upon the tranquil scene. Dark, heavy clouds obscure the sky; a suffocating heat depresses the spirits and enervates the frame; sharp, short gusts of wind now ruffle the inky waters, and the floating islands sink into insignificance as the deceptive haze which elevated them flies before the approaching storm. The ducks are gone, and the plaintive notes of the whip-poor-will are hushed as the increasing breeze rustles the leafy drapery of the forest. The gulls wheel round still, but in more rapid and uncertain flight, accompanying their motions with shrill and mournful cries, like the dismal wailings of the spirit of the storm. A few drops of rain patter on the boats, or plump like stones into the water, and the distant melancholy growl of thunder swells upon the coming gale. Uneasy glances are cast, ever and anon, towards clouds and shore, and grumbling sentences are uttered by the men. Suddenly a hissing sound is heard, a loud clap of thunder growls overhead, and the gale, dashing the white spray wildly before it, rushes down upon the boats.

"A terre! a terre!" shout the men. The boats are turned towards the shore, and the bending oars creak and groan as they pull swiftly on. Hiss! whir! the gale bursts forth, dashing clouds of spray into the air, twisting and curling the foaming water in its fury. The thunder crashes with fearful noise, and the lightning gleams in fitful lurid streaks across the inky sky. Presently the shore is gained, amid a deluge of rain which saturates everything with water in a few minutes. The tents are pitched, but the fires will scarcely burn, and are at last allowed to go out. The men seek shelter under the oiled cloths of the boats; while the travellers, rolled up in damp blankets, with the rain oozing through the tents upon their couches, gaze mournfully upon the dismal scene, and ponder sadly on the shortness of the step between happiness and misery.

Nearly eighteen days after we left York Factory we arrived in safety at the depot of Norway House. This fort is built at the mouth of a small and sluggish stream, known by the name of Jack River. The houses are ranged in the form of a square; none of them exceed one story in height, and most of them are whitewashed. The ground on which it stands is rocky; and a small garden, composed chiefly of sand, juts out from the stockades like a strange excrescence. A large, rugged mass of rocks rises up between the fort and Playgreen Lake, which stretches out to the horizon on the other side of them. On the top of these rocks stands a flagstaff, as a beacon to guide the traveller; for Norway House is so ingeniously hid in a hollow that it cannot be seen from the lake till the boat almost touches the wharf. On the left side of the building extends a flat grassy park or green, upon which during the summer months there is often a picturesque and interesting scene. Spread out to dry in the sun may be seen the snowy tent of the chief factor, lately arrived. A little further off, on the rising ground, stands a dark and almost imperceptible wigwam, the small wreath of white smoke issuing from the top proving that it is inhabited. On the river bank three or four boats and a north canoe are hauled up; and just above them a number of sunburned voyageurs and a few Indians amuse themselves with various games, or recline upon the grass, basking in the sunshine. Behind the fort stretches the thick forest, its outline broken here and there by cuttings of firewood or small clearings for farming.

Such was Norway House in 1841. The rocks were crowded when we arrived, and we received a hearty welcome from Mr Russ -- the chief factor in charge -- and his amiable family. As it was too late to proceed any further that day, we determined to remain here all night.

From the rocks before mentioned, on which the flagstaff stands, we had a fine view of Playgreen Lake. There was nothing striking or bold in the scene, the country being low and swampy, and no hills rose on the horizon or cast their shadows on the lake; but it was pleasing and tranquil, and enlivened by one or two boats sailing about on the water.

We spent an agreeable evening; and early on the following morning started again on our journey, having received an agreeable addition to our party in the person of Miss Jessie Russ, second daughter of Mr Russ, from whom we had just parted.

On the evening of the first day after our departure from Norway House, we encamped on the shores of Lake Winnipeg. This immense body of fresh water is about three hundred miles long by about fifty broad. The shores are generally flat and uninteresting, and the water shallow; yet here and there a few pretty spots may be seen at the head of a small bay or inlet, where the ground is a little more elevated and fertile.

Nothing particular occurred during our voyage along the shores of the lake, except that we hoisted our sails oftener to a favourable breeze, and had a good deal more night travelling than heretofore. In about five days after leaving Norway House we arrived at the mouth of Red River; and a very swampy, sedgy, flat-looking mouth it was, covered with tall bulrushes and swarming with water-fowl. The banks, too, were low and swampy; but as we ascended they gradually became more woody and elevated, till we arrived at the Stone Fort -- twenty miles up the river --  where they were tolerably high.

A few miles below this we passed an Indian settlement, the cultivated fields and white houses of which, with the church spire in the midst, quite refreshed our eyes, after being so long accustomed to the shades of the primeval forest.

The Stone Fort is a substantial fortification, surrounded by high walls and flanked with bastions, and has a fine appearance from the river.

Here my friend and fellow-traveller, Mr Carles, hearing of his wife's illness, left us, and proceeded up the settlement on horseback. The missionaries also disembarked, and I was left alone, to be rowed slowly to Fort Garry, nearly twenty miles further up the river.

The river banks were lined all the way along with the houses and farms of the colonists, which had a thriving, cleanly appearance; and from the quantity of live stock in the farmyards, the number of pigs along the banks, and the healthy appearance of the children who ran out of the cottages to gaze upon us as we passed, I inferred that the settlers generally were well-to-do in the world. The houses of some of the more wealthy inhabitants were very handsome-looking buildings, particularly that of Mr McAllum, where in a few hours I landed. This gentleman was the superintendent of the Red River Academy, where the children of the wealthier colonists and those of the gentlemen belonging to the Hudson Bay Company are instructed in the various branches of English literature, and made to comprehend how the world was convulsed in days of yore by the mighty deeds of the heroes of ancient Greece and Rome.

Here I was hospitably treated to an excellent breakfast, and then proceeded on foot with Mr Carles -- who rejoined me here -- to Fort Garry, which lay about two miles distant. Upon arriving I was introduced to Mr Finlayson, the chief factor in charge, who received me very kindly, and introduced me to my fellow-clerks in the office. Thus terminated my first inland journey.



Chapter Six.

Red River Settlement -- Origin Of The Colony -- Opposition Times And Anecdotes -- The Flood Of 1826 -- Climate -- Being Broken-In -- Mr. Simpson, The Arctic Discoverer -- The Mackenzie River Brigade.

Red River Settlement is, to use a high-flown expression, an oasis in the desert, and may be likened to a spot upon the moon or a solitary ship upon the ocean. In plain English, it is an isolated settlement on the borders of one of the vast prairies of North America. It is situated partly on the banks of Red River, and partly on the banks of a smaller stream called the Assinaboine, in latitude 50 degrees, and extends upwards of fifty miles along the banks of these two streams. The country around it is a vast treeless prairie, upon which scarcely a shrub is to be seen; but a thick coat of grass covers it throughout its entire extent, with the exception of a few spots where the hollowness of the ground has collected a little moisture, or the meandering of some small stream or rivulet enriches the soil, and covers its banks with verdant shrubs and trees.

The banks of the Red and Assinaboine Rivers are covered with a thick belt of woodland -- which does not, however, extend far back into the plains. It is composed of oak, poplar, willows, etcetera, the first of which is much used for fire-wood by the settlers. The larger timber in the adjacent woods is thus being rapidly thinned.

The settlers are a mixture of French Canadians, Scotchmen, and Indians. The first of these occupy the upper part of the settlement, the second live near the middle, and the Indians inhabit a village at its lower extremity.

There are four Protestant churches: the upper, middle, and lower churches, and one at the Indian settlement. There are also two Roman Catholic chapels, some priests, and a Roman Catholic bishop resident in the colony, besides one or two schools; the principal being, as before mentioned, under the superintendence of Mr McAllum, who has since been ordained by the Bishop of Montreal, during that prelate's visit to Red River [see note 1].

For the preservation of the peace, and the punishment of evil-doers, a Recorder and body of magistrates are provided, who assemble every quarter at Fort Garry, the seat of the court-house, for the purpose of redressing wrongs, punishing crimes, giving good advice, and eating an excellent dinner at the Company's table. There was once, also, a body of policemen; but, strange to say, they were chosen from among the most turbulent of the settlers, and were never expected to be on duty except when a riot took place: the policemen themselves generally being the ringleaders on those occasions, it may be supposed they did not materially assist in quelling disturbances.

The Scotch and Indian settlers cultivate wheat, barley, and Indian corn in abundance; for which the only market is that afforded by the Company, the more wealthy settlers, and retired chief factors. This market, however, is a poor one, and in years of plenty the settlers find it difficult to dispose of their surplus produce. Wild fruits of various descriptions are abundant, and the gardens are well stocked with vegetables. The settlers have plenty of sheep, pigs, poultry, and horned cattle; and there is scarcely a man in the place who does not drive to church on Sundays in his own cariole.

Red River is a populous settlement; the census taken in 1843 proved it to contain upwards of 5,000 souls, and since then it has been rapidly increasing.

There is a paper currency in the settlement, which obviates the necessity of having coin afloat. English pence and halfpence, however, are plentiful. The lowest paper note is one shilling sterling, the next five shillings, and the highest twenty shillings. The Canadian settlers and half-breeds are employed, during the greater part of the year, in travelling with the Company's boats and in buffalo-hunting. The Scotch settlers are chiefly farmers, tradesmen, and merchants.

The rivers, which are crossed in wooden canoes, in the absence of bridges, are well stocked with fish, the principal kinds being goldeyes, sturgeon, and catfish. Of these, I think the goldeyes the best; at any rate, they are the most numerous. The wild animals inhabiting the woods and prairies are much the same as in the other parts of North America --  namely, wolves, foxes, brown and black bears, martens, minks, musquash, rabbits, etcetera; while the woods are filled with game, the marshes and ponds with ducks, geese, swans, cranes, and a host of other water-fowl.

Red River was first settled upon by the fur-traders, who established a trading-post many years ago on its banks; but it did not assume the character of a colony till 1811, when Lord Selkirk sent out a number of emigrants to form a settlement in the wild regions of the North-West. Norwegians, Danes, Scotch, and Irish composed the motley crew; but the great bulk of the colonists then, as at the present time, consisted of Scotchmen and Canadians. Unlike other settlements in a wild country inhabited by Indians, the infant colony had few difficulties to contend with at the outset. The Indians were friendly, and had become accustomed to white men, from their previous contact for many years with the servants of the Hudson Bay Company; so, with the exception of one or two broils among themselves and other fur-traders, the colonists plodded peacefully along. On one occasion, however, the Hudson Bay Company and the North-West Company, who were long at enmity with each other, had a sharp skirmish, in which Mr Semple, then Governor of the Hudson Bay Company, was killed, and a number of his men were killed and wounded.

The whole affair originated very foolishly. A body of men had been observed from the walls of Fort Garry, travelling past the fort; and as Governor Semple wished to ascertain their intentions, he sallied forth with a few men to intercept them, and demand their object. The North-West party, on seeing a body of men coming towards them from the fort, halted till they came up; and Cuthbert Grant, who was in command, asked what they wanted. Governor Semple required to know where they were going. Being answered in a surly manner, an altercation took place between the two parties (of which the North-West was the stronger); in the middle of which a shot was unfortunately fired by one of the Hudson Bay party. It was never known who fired this shot, and many believe that it was discharged accidentally; at any rate, no one was injured by it. The moment the report was heard, a volley was fired by the North-Westers upon the Hudson Bay party, which killed a few, and wounded many; among the latter was Governor Semple. Cuthbert Grant did his utmost to keep back the fierce half-castes under his command, but without avail; and at last, seeing that this was impossible, he stood over the wounded Semple, and endeavoured to defend him. In this he succeeded for some time; but a shot from behind at last took effect in the unfortunate governor's body, and killed him. After this, the remainder of his party fled to the fort, and the victorious half-breeds pursued their way.

During the time that these two companies opposed each other, the country was in a state of constant turmoil and excitement. Personal conflicts with fists between the men -- and, not unfrequently, the gentlemen -- of the opposing parties were of the commonest occurrence, and frequently more deadly weapons were resorted to. Spirits were distributed among the wretched natives to a dreadful extent, and the scenes that sometimes ensued were disgusting in the extreme. Amid all this, however, stratagem was more frequently resorted to than open violence by the two companies, in their endeavours to prevent each other from procuring furs from the Indians. Men were constantly kept on the lookout for parties of natives returning from hunting expeditions; and those who could arrive first at the encampment always carried off the furs. The Indians did not care which company got them -- "first come, first served," was the order of the day; and both were equally welcome, provided they brought plenty of fire-water.

Although the individuals of the two companies were thus almost always at enmity, at the forts, strange to say, they often acted in the most friendly manner to each other; and (except when furs were in question) more agreeable or friendly neighbours seldom came together than the Hudson Bay and North-West Companies, when they planted their forts (which they often did) within two hundred yards of each other in the wilds of North America. The clerks and labourers of the opposing establishments constantly visited each other; and during the Christmas and New-Year's holidays parties and balls were given without number. Dances, however, were not confined entirely to the holidays; but whenever one was given at an unusual time, it was generally for the purpose of drawing the attention of the entertained party from some movement of their entertainers.

Thus, upon one occasion the Hudson Bay Company's lookout reported that he had discovered the tracks of Indians in the snow, and that he thought they had just returned from a hunting expedition. No sooner was this heard than a grand ball was given to the North-West Company, Great preparations were made; the men, dressed in their newest capotes and gaudiest hat-cords, visited each other, and nothing was thought of or talked of but the ball. The evening came, and with it the guests; and soon might be heard within the fort sounds of merriment and revelry, as they danced, in lively measures, to a Scottish reel, played by some native fiddler upon a violin of his own construction. Without the gates, however, a very different scene met the eye. Down in a hollow, where the lofty trees and dense underwood threw a shadow on the ground, a knot of men might be seen, muffled in their leathern coats and fur caps, hurrying to and fro with bundles on their backs and snow-shoes under their arms; packing and tying them firmly on trains of dog-sledges, which stood, with the dogs ready harnessed, in the shadow of the bushes. The men whispered eagerly and hurriedly to each other as they packed their goods, while others held the dogs, and patted them to keep them quiet; evidently showing that, whatever was their object, expedition and secrecy were necessary. Soon all was in readiness: the bells, which usually tinkled on the dogs' necks, were unhooked and packed in the sledges; an active-looking man sprang forward and set off at a round trot over the snow, and a single crack of the whip sent four sledges, each with a train of four or five dogs, after him, while two other men brought up the rear. For a time the muffled sound of the sledges was heard as they slid over the snow, while now and then the whine of a dog broke upon the ear, as the impatient drivers urged them along. Gradually these sounds died away, and nothing was heard but the faint echoes of music and mirth, which floated on the frosty night-wind, giving token that the revellers still kept up the dance, and were ignorant of the departure of the trains.

Late on the following day the Nor'-West scouts reported the party of Indians, and soon a set of sleighs departed from the fort with loudly-ringing bells. After a long day's march of forty miles, they reached the encampment, where they found all the Indians dead drunk, and not a skin, not even the remnant of a musquash, left to repay them for their trouble! Then it was that they discovered the ruse of the ball, and vowed to have their revenge.

Opportunity was not long wanting. Soon after this occurrence, one of their parties met a Hudson Bay train on its way to trade with the Indians, of whom they also were in search. They exchanged compliments with each other, and, as the day was very cold, proposed lighting a fire and taking a dram together. Soon five or six goodly trees yielded to their vigorous blows, and fell crashing to the ground; and in a few minutes one of the party, lighting a sulphur match with his flint and steel, set fire to a huge pile of logs, which crackled and burned furiously, sending up clouds of sparks into the wintry sky, and casting a warm tinge upon the anew and the surrounding trees. The canteen was quickly produced, and they told their stories and adventures while the liquor mounted to their brains. The Nor'-Westers, however, after a little time, spilled their grog on the snow, unperceived by the others, so that they kept tolerably sober, while their rivals became very much elevated; and at last they began boasting of their superior powers of drinking, and, as a proof, each of them swallowed a large bumper. The Hudson Bay party, who were nearly dead drunk by this time, of course followed their example, and almost instantly fell in a heavy sleep on the snow. In ten minutes more they were tied firmly upon their sledges, and the dogs being turned homewards, away they went straight for the Hudson Bay Fort, where they soon after arrived, the men still sound asleep; while the Nor'-Westers started for the Indian camp, and this time, at least, had the furs all to themselves.

Such were the scenes that took place thirty years ago in the northern wildernesses of America. Since then, the two companies have joined, retaining the name of the richer and more powerful of the two -- the "Hudson Bay Company." Spirits were still imported after the junction; but of late years they have been dispensed with throughout the country, except at the colony of Red River, and the few posts where opposition is carried on by the American fur-companies; so that now the poor savage no longer grovels in the dust of his native wilderness under the influence of the white man's fire-water, and the stranger who travels through those wild romantic regions no longer beholds the humiliating scenes or hears of the frightful crimes which were seen and heard of too often in former days, and which always have been, and always must be, prevalent wherever spirituous liquors, the great curse of mankind, are plentiful, and particularly where, as in that country, the wild inhabitants fear no laws, human or divine.

In the year 1826, Red River overflowed its banks, and flooded the whole settlement, obliging the settlers to forsake their houses, and drive their horses and cattle to the trifling eminences in the immediate vicinity. These eminences wore few and very small, so that during the flood they presented a curious appearance, being crowded with men, women, and children, horses, cattle, sheep, and poultry. The houses, being made of wood, and only built on the ground, not sunk into it, were carried away by dozens, and great numbers of horses and cattle were drowned. During the time it lasted, the settlers sailed and paddled among their houses in boats and canoes; and they now point out, among the waving grass and verdant bushes, the spot where they dwelt in their tents, or paddled about the deep waters in their canoes, in the "year of the flood." This way of speaking has a strangely antediluvian sound. The hale, middle-aged colonist will tell you, with a ludicrously grave countenance, that his house stood on such a spot, or such and such an event happened, "a year before the flood."

Fort Garry, the principal establishment of the Hudson Bay Company, stands on the banks of the Assinaboine River, about two hundred yards from its junction with Red River. It is a square stone building, with bastions pierced for cannon at the corners. The principal dwelling-houses, stores, and offices are built within the walls, and the stables at a small distance from the fort. The situation is pretty and quiet; but the surrounding country is too flat for the lover of the grand and picturesque. Just in front of the gate runs, or rather glides, the peaceful Assinaboine, where, on a fine day in autumn, may be seen thousands of goldeyes playing in its limpid waters.

On the left extends the woodland fringing the river, with here and there a clump of smaller trees and willows surrounding the swamps formed by the melting snows of spring, where flocks of wild-ducks and noisy plover give animation to the scene, while through the openings in the forest are seen glimpses of the rolling prairie. Down in the hollow, where the stables stand, are always to be seen a few horses and cows, feeding or lazily chewing their cud in the rich pasturage, giving an air of repose to the scene, which contrasts forcibly with the view of the wide plains that roll out like a vast green sea from the back of the fort, studded here and there with little islets and hillocks, around which may be seen hovering a watchful hawk or solitary raven.

The climate of Red River is salubrious and agreeable. Winter commences about the month of November, and spring generally begins in April. Although the winter is very long, and extremely cold (the thermometer usually varying between ten and thirty degrees below zero), yet, from its being always dry frost, it is much more agreeable than people accustomed to the damp thawy weather of Great Britain might suppose.

Winter is here the liveliest season of the year. It is then that the wild, demi-savage colonist leads the blushing half-breed girl to the altar, and the country about his house rings with the music of the sleigh bells, as his friends assemble to congratulate the happy pair, and dance for three successive days. It is at this season the hardy voyageurs rest from their toils, and, circling round the blazing fire, recount many a tale of danger, and paint many a wild romantic scene of their long and tedious voyages among the lakes and rapids of the interior; while their wives and children gaze with breathless interest upon their swarthy, sunburned faces, lighted up with animation as they recall the scenes of other days, or, with low and solemn voice, relate the death of a friend and fellow voyageur who perished among the foaming cataracts of the wilderness.

During the summer months there are often very severe thunderstorms, accompanied with tremendous showers of hail, which do great mischief to the crops and houses. The hailstones are of an enormous size -- upwards of an inch in diameter; and on two or three occasions they broke all the windows in Fort Garry that were exposed to the storm.

Generally speaking, however, the weather is serene and calm, particularly in autumn, and during the delicious season peculiar to America called the Indian summer, which precedes the commencement of winter.

The scenery of Red River, as I said before, is neither grand nor picturesque; yet, when the sun shines brightly on the waving grass and glitters on the silver stream, and when the distant and varied cries of wild-fowl break in plaintive cadence on the ear, one experiences a sweet exulting happiness, akin to the feelings of the sailor when he gazes forth at early morning on the polished surface of the sleeping sea.

Such is Red River, and such the scenes on which I gazed in wonder, as I rode by the side of my friend and fellow-clerk, McKenny, on the evening of my arrival at my new home. Mr McKenny was mounted on his handsome horse "Colonel," while I cantered by his side on a horse that afterwards bore me over many a mile of prairie land. It is not every day that one has an opportunity of describing a horse like the one I then rode, so the reader will be pleased to have a little patience while I draw his portrait. In the first place, then, his name was "Taureau." He was of a moderate height, of a brown colour, and had the general outlines of a horse, when viewed as that animal might be supposed to appear if reflected from the depths of a bad looking-glass. His chief peculiarity was the great height of his hind-quarters, In youth they had outgrown the fore-quarters, so that, upon a level road, you had all the advantages of riding down-hill. He cantered delightfully, trotted badly, walked slowly, and upon all and every occasion evinced a resolute pig-headedness, and a strong disinclination to accommodate his will to that of his rider. He was decidedly porcine in his disposition, very plebeian in his manners, and doubtless also in his sentiments.

Such was the Bucephalus upon which I took my first ride over the Red River prairie; now swaying to and fro on his back as we galloped over the ground; anon stotting, in the manner of a recruit in a cavalry regiment as yet unaccustomed to the saddle, when he trotted on the beaten track; and occasionally, to the immense delight of McKenny, seizing tight hold of the saddle, as an uncertain waver in my body reminded me of Sir Isaac Newton's law of gravitation, and that any rash departure on my part from my understanding would infallibly lay me prostrate on the ground.

Soon after my arrival I underwent the operation which my horse had undergone before me -- namely, that of being broken-in -- the only difference being that he was broken-in to the saddle and I to the desk. It is needless to describe the agonies I endured while sitting, hour after hour, on a long-legged stool, my limbs quivering for want of their accustomed exercise, while the twittering of birds, barking of dogs, lowing of cows, and neighing of horses seemed to invite me to join them in the woods. Often, as my weary pen scratched slowly over the paper, their voices seemed to change to hoarse derisive laughter, as if they thought the little misshapen frogs croaking and whistling in the marshes freer far than their proud masters, who coop themselves up in smoky houses the livelong day, and call themselves the free, unshackled "lords of the creation."

I soon became accustomed to these minor miseries of human life, and ere long could sit: -- 

"From morn till night To scratch and write Upon a three-legged stool; Nor mourn the joys Of truant boys Who stay away from school."

There is a proverb which says, "It is a poor heart that never rejoices." Now, taking it for granted that the proverb speaks truth, and not wishing by our disregard of it to be thought poor-hearted, we -- that is, McKenny and I -- were in the habit of rejoicing our spirits occasionally --  not in the usual way, by drinking brandy and water (though we did sometimes, when nobody knew it, indulge in a glass of beer, with the red-hot poker thrust into it), but by shouldering our guns and sallying forth to shoot the partridges, or rather grouse, which abound in the woods of Red River. On these occasions McKenny and I used to range the forest in company, enlivening our walk with converse, sometimes light and cheerful, often philosophically deep, or thinking of the "light of other days." We seldom went out without bringing home a few brace of grey grouse, which were exceedingly tame -- so tame, indeed, that sometimes they did not take wing until two or three shots had been fired. On one occasion, after walking about for half an hour without getting a shot, we started a covey of seven, which alighted upon a tree close at hand. We instantly fired at the two lowest, and brought them down, while the others only stretched out their long necks, as if to see what had happened to their comrades, but did not fly away. Two more were soon shot; and while we were reloading our guns, the other three flew off to a neighbouring tree. In a few minutes more they followed their companions, and we had bagged the whole seven. This is by no means an uncommon exploit when the birds are tame; and though poor sport, yet it helps to fill your larder with somewhat better fare than it would often contain without such assistance. The only thing that we had to avoid was, aiming at the birds on the higher branches, as the noise they make in falling frightens those below. The experienced sportsman always begins with the lowest bird; and if they sit after the first shot, he is almost sure of the rest.

Shooting, however, was not our only amusement. Sometimes, on a fine evening, we used to saddle our horses and canter over the prairie till Red River and the fort were scarcely visible in the horizon; or, following the cart road along the settlement, we called upon our friends and acquaintances, returning the polite "Bonjour" of the French settler as he trotted past us on his shaggy pony, or smiling at the pretty half-caste girls as they passed along the road. These same girls, by the way, are generally very pretty; they make excellent wives, and are uncommonly thrifty. With beads, and brightly-coloured porcupines' quills, and silk, they work the most beautiful devices on the moccasins, leggins, and leathern coats worn by the inhabitants; and during the long winter months they spin and weave an excellent kind of cloth from the wool produced by the sheep of the settlement, mixed with that of the buffalo, brought from the prairies by the hunters.

About the middle of autumn the body of Mr Thomas Simpson, the unfortunate discoverer, who, in company with Mr Dease, attempted to discover the Nor'-West Passage, was brought to the settlement for burial. Poor Mr Simpson had set out with a party of Red River half-breeds, for the purpose of crossing the plains to St. Louis, and proceeding thence through the United States to England. Soon after his departure, however, several of the party returned to the settlement, stating that Mr Simpson had, in a fit of insanity, killed two of his men, and then shot himself, and that they had buried him on the spot where he fell. This story, of course, created a great sensation in the colony; and as all the party gave the same account of the affair upon investigation, it was believed by many that he had committed suicide. A few, however, thought that he had been murdered, and had shot the two men in self-defence. In the autumn of 1841 the matter was ordered to be further inquired into; and, accordingly, Dr Bunn was sent to the place where Mr Simpson's body had been interred, for the purpose of raising and examining it. Decomposition, however, had proceeded too far; so the body was conveyed to the colony for burial, and Dr Bunn returned without having discovered anything that could throw light on the melancholy subject.

I did not know Mr Simpson personally, but, from the report of those who did, it appears that, though a clever and honourable man, he was of rather a haughty disposition, and in consequence was very much disliked by the half-breeds of Red River. I therefore think, with many of Mr Simpson's friends and former companions, that he did not kill himself, and that this was only a false report of his murderers. Besides, it is not probable that a man who had just succeeded in making important additions to our geographical knowledge, and who might reasonably expect honour and remuneration upon returning to his native land, would, without any known or apparent cause, first commit murder and then suicide. By his melancholy death the Hudson Bay Company lost a faithful servant, and the world an intelligent and enterprising man.

Winter, according to its ancient custom, passed away; and spring, not with its genial gales and scented flowers, but with burning sun and melting snow, changed the face of nature, and broke the icy covering of Red River. Duffle coats vanished, and a few of the half-breed settlers doffed their fur caps and donned the "bonnet rouge," while the more hardy and savage contented themselves with the bonnet noir, in the shape of their own thick black hair. Carioles still continued to run, but it was merely from the force of habit, and it was evident they would soon give up in despair. Sportsmen began to think of ducks and geese, farmers of ploughs and wheat, and voyageurs to dream of rapid streams and waterfalls, and of distant voyages in light canoes.

Immediately upon the ice in the lakes and rivers breaking up, we made arrangements for dispatching the Mackenzie River brigade -- which is always the first that leaves the colony -- for the purpose of conveying goods to Mackenzie River, and carrying furs to the sea-coast.

Choosing the men for this long and arduous voyage was an interesting scene. L'Esperance, the old guide, who had many a day guided this brigade through the lakes and rivers of the interior, made his appearance at the fort a day or two before the time fixed for starting; and at his heels followed a large band of wild, careless, happy-looking half-breeds. Having collected in front of the office door, Mr McKenny went out with a book and pencil in his hand, and told L'Esperance to begin. The guide went a little apart from the rest, accompanied by the steersmen of the boats (seven or eight in number), and then, scanning the group of dark athletic men who stood smiling before him, called out, "Pierre!" A tall, Herculean man answered to the call, and, stepping out from among the rest, stood beside his friend the guide. After this one of the steersmen chose another man; and so on, till the crews of all the boats were completed. Their names were then marked down in a book, and they all proceeded to the trading-room, for the purpose of taking "advances," in the shape of shirts, trousers, bonnets, caps, tobacco, knives, capotes, and all the other things necessary for a long, rough journey.

On the day appointed for starting, the boats, to the number of six or seven, were loaded with goods for the interior; and the voyageurs, dressed in their new clothes, embarked, after shaking hands with, and in many cases embracing, their comrades on the land; and then, shipping their oars, they shot from the bank and rowed swiftly down Red River, singing one of their beautiful boat-songs, which was every now and then interrupted by several of the number hallooing a loud farewell, as they passed here and there the cottages of friends.

With this brigade I also bade adieu to Red River, and, after a pleasant voyage of a few days, landed at Norway House, while the boats pursued their way.

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Red River Settlement is now (1875) very much changed, as, no doubt, the reader is aware, and the foregoing description is in many respects inapplicable.

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Note 1. The reader must bear in remembrance that this chapter was written in 1847.



Chapter Seven.

Norway House -- Adventure With A Bear -- Indian Feast -- The Portage Brigade --  The Clerks' House -- Catching A Buffalo -- Goldeye Fishing -- Rasping A Rock.

Norway House, as we have before mentioned, is built upon the shores of Playgreen Lake, close to Jack River, and distant about twenty miles from Lake Winnipeg. At its right-hand corner rises a huge abrupt rock, from whose summit, where stands a flagstaff, a fine view of Playgreen Lake and the surrounding country is obtained. On this rock a number of people were assembled to witness our arrival, and among them Mr Russ, who sauntered down to the wharf to meet us as we stepped ashore.

A few days after my arrival, the Council "resolved" that I should winter at Norway House; so next day, in accordance with the resolution of that august assembly, I took up my quarters in the clerks' room, and took possession of the books and papers.

It is an author's privilege, I believe, to jump from place to place and annihilate time at pleasure. I avail myself of it to pass over the autumn -- during which I hunted, fished, and paddled in canoes to the Indian village at Rossville a hundred times -- and jump at once into the middle of winter.

Norway House no longer boasts the bustle and excitement of the summer season. No boats arrive, no groups of ladies and gentlemen assemble on the rocks to gaze at the sparkling waters. A placid stillness reigns around, except in the immediate vicinity of the fort, where a few axe-men chop the winter firewood, or start with trains of dog-sledges for the lakes, to bring home loads of white-fish and venison. Mr Russ is reading the "Penny Cyclopaedia" in the Hall (as the winter mess-room is called), and I am writing in the dingy little office in the shade, which looks pigstyish in appearance without, but is warm and snug within. Alongside of me sits Mr Cumming, a tall, bald-headed, sweet-tempered man of forty-five, who has spent the greater part of his life among the bears and Indians of Hudson Bay, and is now on a Christmas visit at Norway House. He has just arrived from his post a few hundred miles off, whence he walked on snowshoes, and is now engaged in taking off his moccasins and blanket socks, which he spreads out carefully below the stove to dry.

We do not continue long, however, at our different occupations. Mr Evans, the Wesleyan missionary, is to give a feast to the Indians at Rossville, and afterwards to examine the little children who attend the village school. To this feast we are invited; so in the afternoon Mr Cumming and I put on our moose-skin coats and snow-shoes, and set off for the village, about two miles distant from the fort.

By the way Mr Cumming related an adventure he had had while travelling through the country; and as it may serve to show the dangers sometimes encountered by those who wander through the wilds of North America, I will give it here in his own words.

Mr. Cumming's Adventure With A Bear.

"It was about the beginning of winter," said he, "that I set off on snow-shoes, accompanied by an Indian, to a small lake to fetch fish caught in the autumn, and which then lay frozen in a little house built of logs, to protect them for winter use. The lake was about ten miles off; and as the road was pretty level and not much covered with underwood, we took a train of dogs with us, and set off before daybreak, intending to return again before dark; and as the day was clear and cold, we went cheerily along without interruption, except an occasional fall when a branch caught our snow-shoes, or a stoppage to clear the traces when the dogs got entangled among the trees. We had proceeded about six miles, and the first grey streaks of day lit up the eastern horizon, when the Indian who walked in advance paused, and appeared to examine some footprints in the snow. After a few minutes of close observation he rose, and said that a bear had passed not long before, and could not be far off, and asked permission to follow it. I told him he might do so, and said I would drive the dogs in his track, as the bear had gone in the direction of the fish-house. The Indian threw his gun over his shoulder, and was soon lost in the forest. For a quarter of an hour I plodded on behind the dogs, now urging them along, as they flagged and panted in the deep snow, and occasionally listening for a shot from my Indian's gun. At last he fired, and almost immediately after fired again; for you must know that some Indians can load so fast that two shots from their single barrel sound almost like the discharge in succession of the two shots from a double-barrelled gun. Shortly after, I heard another shot; and then, as all became silent, I concluded he had killed the bear, and that I should soon find him cutting it up. Just as I thought this, a fierce growl alarmed me; so, seizing a pistol which I always carried with me, I hastened forward. As I came nearer, I heard a man's voice mingled with the growls of a bear; and upon arriving at the foot of a small mound, my Indian's voice, apostrophising death, became distinctly audible. 'Come, Death!' said he, in a contemptuous tone; 'you have got me at last, but the Indian does not fear you!' A loud angry growl from the bear, as he saw me rushing up the hill, stopped him; and the unfortunate man turned his eyes upon me with an imploring look. He was lying on his back, while the bear (a black one) stood over him, holding one of his arms in its mouth. In rushing up the mound I unfortunately stumbled, and filled my pistol with snow; so that when the bear left the Indian and rushed towards me it missed fire, and I had only left me the poor, almost hopeless, chance, of stunning the savage animal with a blow of the butt-end. Just as he was rearing on his hind legs, my eye fell upon the Indian's axe, which fortunately lay at my feet; and seizing it, I brought it down with all my strength on the bear's head, just at the moment that he fell upon me, and we rolled down the hill together. Upon recovering myself, I found that the blow of the axe had killed him instantly, and that I was uninjured. Not so the Indian: the whole calf of his left leg was bitten off, and his body lacerated dreadfully in various places. He was quite sensible, however, though very faint, and spoke to me when I stooped to examine his wounds. In a short time I had tied them up; and placing him on the sledge with part of the bear's carcass, which I intended to dine upon, we returned immediately to the fort. The poor Indian got better slowly, but he never recovered the perfect use of his leg, and now hobbles about the fort, cutting firewood, or paddling about the lake in search of ducks and geese in his bark canoe."

Mr Cumming concluded his story just as we arrived at the little bay, at the edge of which the Indian village of Rossville is built. From the spot where we stood the body of the village did not appear to much advantage; but the parsonage and church, which stood on a small mound, their white walls in strong contrast to the background of dark trees, had a fine picturesque effect. There were about twenty houses in the village, inhabited entirely by Indians, most of whom were young and middle-aged men. They spend their time in farming during the summer, and are successful in raising potatoes and a few other vegetables for their own use. In winter they go into the woods to hunt fur-bearing animals, and also deer; but they never remain long absent from their homes. Mr Evans resided among them, and taught them and their children writing and arithmetic, besides instructing them in the principles of Christianity. They often assembled in the school-house for prayer and sacred music, and attended divine service regularly in the church every Sunday. Mr Evans, who was a good musician, had taught them to sing in parts; and it has a wonderfully pleasing effect upon a stranger to hear these dingy sons and daughters of the wilderness raising their melodious voices in harmony in praise of the Christian's God.

Upon our arrival at the village, we were ushered into Mr Evans' neat cottage, from the windows of which is a fine view of Playgreen Lake, studded with small islands, stretching out to the horizon on the right, and a boundless wilderness of trees on the left. Here were collected the ladies and gentlemen of Norway House, and a number of indescribable personages, apparently engaged in mystic preparations for the approaching feast. It was with something like awe that I entered the schoolroom, and beheld two long rows of tables covered with puddings, pies, tarts, stews, hashes, and vegetables of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions, smoking thereon. I feared for the Indians, although they can stand a great deal in the way of repletion; moderation being, of course, out of the question, with such abundance of good things placed before them. A large shell was sounded after the manner of a bugle, and all the Indians of the village walked into the room and seated themselves, the women on one side of the long tables, and the men on the other. Mr Evans stood at the head, and asked a blessing; and then commenced a work of demolition, the like of which has not been seen since the foundation of the world! The pies had strong crusts, but the knives were stronger; the paste was hard and the interior tough, but Indian teeth were harder and Indian jaws tougher; the dishes were gigantic, but the stomachs were capacious, so that ere long numerous skeletons and empty dishes alone graced the board. One old woman, of a dark-brown complexion, with glittering black eyes and awfully long teeth, set up in the wholesale line, and demolished the viands so rapidly, that those who sat beside her, fearing a dearth in the land, began to look angry. Fortunately, however, she gave in suddenly, while in the middle of a venison pasty, and reclining languidly backward, with a sweetly contented expression of countenance, while her breath came thickly through her half-opened mouth, she gently fell asleep -- and thereby, much to her chagrin, lost the tea and cakes which were served out soon afterwards by way of dessert. When the seniors had finished, the juveniles were admitted en masse, and they soon cleared away the remnants of the dinner.

The dress of the Indians upon this occasion was generally blue cloth capotes with hoods, scarlet or blue cloth leggins, quill-worked moccasins, and no caps. Some of them were dressed very funnily; and one or two of the oldest appeared in blue surtouts, which were very ill made, and much too large for the wearers. The ladies had short gowns without plaits, cloth leggins of various colours highly ornamented with beads, cotton handkerchiefs on their necks, and sometimes also on their heads. The boys and girls were just their seniors in miniature.

After the youngsters had finished dinner, the schoolroom was cleared by the guests; benches were ranged along the entire room, excepting the upper end, where a table, with two large candlesticks at either end, served as a stage for the young actors. When all was arranged, the elder Indians seated themselves on the benches, while the boys and girls ranged themselves along the wall behind the table. Mr Evans then began by causing a little boy about four years old to recite a long comical piece of prose in English. Having been well drilled for weeks beforehand, he did it in the most laughable style. Then came forward four little girls, who kept up an animated philosophical discussion as to the difference of the days in the moon and on the earth. Then a bigger boy made a long speech in the Seauteaux language, at which the Indians laughed immensely, and with which the white people present (who did not understand a word of it) appeared to be greatly delighted, and laughed loudly too. Then the whole of the little band, upon a sign being given by Mr Evans, burst at once into a really beautiful hymn, which was quite unexpected, and consequently all the more gratifying. This concluded the examination, if I may so call it; and after a short prayer the Indians departed to their homes, highly delighted with their entertainment. Such was the Christmas feast at Rossville, and many a laugh it afforded us that night as we returned home across the frozen lake by the pale moonlight.

Norway House is perhaps one of the best posts in the Indian country. The climate is dry and salubrious; and although (like nearly all the other parts of the country) extremely cold in winter, it is very different from the damp, chilling cold of that season in Great Britain. The country around is swampy and rocky, and covered with dense forests. Many of the Company's posts are but ill provided with the necessaries of life, and entirely destitute of luxuries. Norway house, however, is favoured in this respect. We always had fresh meat of some kind or other; sometimes beef, mutton, or venison, and occasionally buffalo meat, was sent us from the Swan River district. Of tea, sugar, butter, and bread we had more than enough; and besides the produce of our garden in the way of vegetables, the river and lake contributed white-fish, sturgeon, and pike, or jack-fish, in abundance. The pike is not a delicate fish, and the sturgeon is extremely coarse, but the white-fish is the most delicate and delicious I ever ate. I am not aware of their existence in any part of the Old World, but the North American lakes abound with them. It is generally the size of a good salmon trout, of a bright silvery colour, and tastes a little like salmon. Many hundreds of fur-traders live almost entirely on white-fish, particularly at those far northern posts where flour, sugar, and tea cannot be had in great quantities, and where deer are scarce. At these posts the Indians are sometimes reduced to cannibalism, and the Company's people have, on more than one occasion, been obliged to eat their beaver-skins! The beaver-skin is thick and oily, so that, when the fur is burned off, and the skin well boiled, it makes a kind of soup that will at least keep one alive. Starvation is quite common among the Indians of those distant regions; and the scraped rocks, divested of their covering of tripe-de-roche (which resembles dried-up seaweed), have a sad meaning and melancholy appearance to the traveller who journeys through the wilds and solitudes of Rupert's Land.

Norway House is also an agreeable and interesting place, from its being in a manner the gate to the only route to Hudson Bay, so that during the spring and summer months all the brigades of boats and canoes from every part of the northern department must necessarily pass it on their way to York Factory with furs: and as they all return in the autumn, and some of the gentlemen leave their wives and families for a few weeks till they return to the interior, it is at this sunny season of the year quite gay and bustling; and the clerks' house, in which I lived, was often filled with a strange and noisy collection of human beings, who rested here a while ere they started for the shores of Hudson Bay, for the distant region of Mackenzie River, or the still more distant land of Oregon.

During winter our principal amusement was white-partridge shooting. This bird is a species of ptarmigan, and is pure white, with the exception of the tips of the wings and tail. They were very numerous during the winter, and formed an agreeable dish at our mess-table. I also enjoyed a little skating at the beginning of the winter; but the falling snow soon put an end to this amusement.

Spring, beautiful spring! returned again to cheer us in our solitude, and to open into life the waters and streams of Hudson Bay. Great will be the difference between the reader's idea of that season in that place and the reality. Spring, with its fresh green leaves and opening flowers, its emerald fields and shady groves, filled with sounds of melody! No, reader; that is not the spring we depict: not quite so beautiful, though far more prized by those who spend a monotonous winter of more than six months in solitude. The sun shines brightly in a cloudless sky, lighting up the pure white fields and plains with dazzling brilliancy. The gushing waters of a thousand rills, formed by the melting snow, break sweetly on the ear, like the well-remembered voice of a long-absent friend. The whistling wings of wild-fowl, as they ever and anon desert the pools of water now open in the lake and hurry over the forest-trees, accord well with the shrill cry of the yellow-leg and curlew, and with the general wildness of the scene; while the reviving frogs chirrup gladly in the swamps to see the breaking up of winter and welcome back the spring. This is the spring I write of; and to have a correct idea of the beauties and the sweetness of this spring, you must first spend a winter in Hudson Bay.

As I said, then, spring returned. The ice melted, floated off, and vanished. Jack River flowed gently on its way, as if it had never gone to sleep; and the lake rolled and tumbled on its shores, as if to congratulate them on the happy change. Soon the boats began to arrive. First came the "Portage Brigade," in charge of L'Esperance. There were seven or eight boats; and ere long as many fires burned on the green beside the fort, with a merry, careless band of wild-looking Canadian and half-breed voyageurs round each. And a more picturesque set of fellows I never saw. They were all dressed out in new light-blue capotes and corduroy trousers, which they tied at the knee with beadwork garters. Moose-skin moccasins cased their feet, and their brawny, sunburned necks were bare. A scarlet belt encircled the waist of each; and while some wore hats with gaudy feathers, others had their heads adorned with caps and bonnets, surrounded with gold and silver tinsel hat-cords. A few, however, despising coats, travelled in blue and white striped shirts, and trusted to their thickly-matted hair to guard them from the rain and sun. They were truly a wild yet handsome set of men; and no one, when gazing on their happy faces as they lay or stood in careless attitudes round the fires, puffing clouds of smoke from their ever-burning pipes, would have believed that these men had left their wives and families but the week before, to start on a five months' voyage of the most harassing description, fraught with the dangers of the boiling cataracts and foaming rapids of the interior.

They stopped at Norway House on their way, to receive the outfit of goods for the Indian trade of Athabasca (one of the interior districts); and were then to start for Portage la Loche, a place where the whole cargoes are carried on the men's shoulders overland for twelve miles to the head-waters of another river, where the traders from the northern posts come to meet them, and, taking the goods, give in exchange the "returns" in furs of the district.

Next came old Mr Mottle, with his brigade of five boats from Isle a la Crosse, one of the interior districts; and soon another set of camp-fires burned on the green, and the clerks' house received another occupant. After them came the Red River brigades in quick succession: careful, funny, uproarious Mr Mott, on his way to York for goods expected by the ship (for you must know Mr Mott keeps a store in Red River, and is a man of some importance in the colony); and grasping, comical, close-fisted Mr Macdear; and quiet Mr Sink -- all passing onwards to the sea, rendering Norway House quite lively for a time, and then leaving it silent. But not for long, as the Saskatchewan brigade, under the charge of chief trader Harrit and young Mr Polly, suddenly arrived, and filled the whole country with noise and uproar. The Saskatchewan brigade is the largest and most noisy that halts at Norway House. It generally numbers from fifteen to twenty boats, filled with the wildest men in the service. They come from the prairies and Rocky Mountains, and are consequently brimful of stories of the buffalo hunt, attacks upon grizzly bears, and wild Indians -- some of them interesting and true enough, but most of them either tremendous exaggerations, or altogether inventions of their own wild fancies. Soon after, the light canoes arrived from Canada, and in them an assortment of raw material for the service in the shape of four or five green young men.

The clerks' house now became crammed. The quiet, elderly folks, who had continued to fret at its noisy occupants, fled in despair to another house, and thereby left room for the newcomers -- or greenhorns, as they were elegantly styled by their more knowing fellow-clerks. Now, indeed, the corner of the fort in which we lived was avoided by all quiet people as if it were smitten with the plague; while the loud laugh, uproarious song, and sounds of the screeching flute or scraping fiddle, issued from the open doors and windows, frightening away the very mosquitoes, and making roof and rafters ring. Suddenly a dead silence would ensue; and then it was conjectured by the knowing ones of the place that Mr Polly was coming out strong for the benefit of the new arrivals. Mr Polly had a pleasant way of getting the green ones round him, and, by detailing some of the wild scenes and incidents of his voyages in the Saskatchewan, of leading them on from truth to exaggeration, and from that to fanciful composition, wherein he would detail, with painful minuteness, all the horrors of Indian warfare, and the improbability of any one who entered those dreadful regions ever returning alive.

Norway House was now indeed in full blow, and many a happy hour did I spend upon one of the clerks' beds -- every inch of which was generally occupied -- listening to the story or the song. The young men there assembled had arrived from the distant quarters of America, and some of them even from England. Some were in the prime of manhood, and had spent many years in the Indian country; some were beginning to scrape the down from their still soft chins; while others were boys of fourteen, who had just left home, and were listening for the first time, open-mouthed, to their seniors' description of life in the wilderness.

Alas, how soon were those happy, careless young fellows to separate, and how little probability was there of their ever meeting again! A sort of friendship had sprung up among three of us. Many a happy hour had we spent in rambling among the groves and woods of Norway House: now ranging about in search of wild pigeons, anon splashing and tumbling in the clear waters of the lake, or rowing over its surface in a light canoe; while our inexperienced voices filled the woods with snatches of the wild yet plaintive songs of the voyageurs, which we had just begun to learn. Often had we lain on our little pallet in Bachelors' Hall, recounting to each other our adventures in the wild woods, or recalling the days of our childhood, and making promises of keeping up a steady correspondence through all our separations, difficulties, and dangers.

A year passed away, and at last I got a letter from one of my friends, dated from the Arctic regions, near the mouth of Mackenzie River; the other wrote to me from among the snow-clad caps of the Rocky Mountains; while I addressed them from the swampy, ice-begirt shores of Hudson Bay.

In the Saskatchewan brigade two young bisons were conveyed to York Factory for the purpose of being shipped for England in the Prince Rupert. They were a couple of the wildest little wretches I ever saw, and were a source of great annoyance to the men during the voyage. The way they were taken was odd enough, and I shall here describe it.

In the Saskatchewan the chief food both of white men and Indians is buffalo meat, so that parties are constantly sent out to hunt the buffalo. They generally chase them on horseback -- the country being mostly prairie land -- and when they get close enough, shoot them with guns. The Indians, however, shoot them oftener with the bow and arrow, as they prefer keeping their powder and shot for warfare. They are very expert with the bow, which is short and strong, and can easily send an arrow quite through a buffalo at twenty yards off. One of these parties, then, was ordered to procure two calves alive, if possible, and lead them to the Company's establishment. This they succeeded in doing in the following manner. Upon meeting with a herd, they all set off full gallop in chase. Away went the startled animals at a round trot, which soon increased to a gallop as the horse men neared them, and a shot or two told that they were coming within range. Soon the shots became more numerous, and here and there a black spot on the prairie told where a buffalo had fallen. No slackening of the pace occurred, however, as each hunter, upon killing an animal, merely threw down his cap or mitten to mark it as his own, and continued in pursuit of the herd, loading his gun as he galloped along. The buffalo-hunters, by the way, are very expert at loading and firing quickly while going at full gallop. They carry two or three bullets in their mouths, which they spit into the muzzles of their guns after dropping in a little powder, and instead of ramming it down with a rod, merely hit the butt-end of the gun on the pommel of their saddles; and in this way fire a great many shots in quick succession. This, however, is a dangerous mode of shooting, as the ball sometimes sticks half-way down the barrel and bursts the gun, carrying away a finger, and occasionally a hand.

In this way they soon killed as many buffaloes as they could carry in their carts, and one of the hunters set off in chase of a calf. In a short time he edged one away from the rest, and then, getting between it and the herd, ran straight against it with his horse and knocked it down. The frightened little animal jumped up again and set off with redoubled speed; but another butt from the horse again sent it sprawling. Again it rose, and was again knocked down, and in this way was at last fairly tired out; when the hunter, jumping suddenly from his horse, threw a rope round its neck, and drove it before him to the encampment, and soon after brought it to the fort. It was as wild as ever when I saw it at Norway House, and seemed to have as much distaste to its thraldom as the day it was taken.

As the summer advanced the heat increased, and the mosquitoes became perfectly insupportable. Nothing could save one from the attacks of these little torments. Almost all other insects went to rest with the sun: sand-flies, which bite viciously during the day, went to sleep at night; the large bull-dog, whose bite is terrible, slumbered in the evening; but the mosquito, the long-legged, determined, vicious, persevering mosquito, whose ceaseless hum dwells for ever on the ear, never went to sleep. Day and night the painful, tender little pimples on our necks and behind our ears were being constantly retouched by these villainous flies, it was useless killing thousands of them --  millions supplied their place. The only thing, in fact, that can protect one during the night (nothing can during the day) is a net of gauze hung over the bed; but as this was looked upon by the young men as somewhat effeminate, it was seldom resorted to. The best thing for their destruction, we found, was to fill our rooms with smoke, either by burning damp moss or by letting off large puffs of gunpowder, and then throwing the doors and windows open to allow them to fly out. This, however, did not put them all out; so we generally spent an hour or so before going to bed in hunting them with candles. Even this did not entirely destroy them; and often might our friends, by looking telescopically through the keyhole, have seen us wandering during the late hours of the night in our shirts looking for mosquitoes, like unhappy ghosts doomed to search perpetually for something they can never find. The intense, suffocating heat also added greatly to our discomfort.

In fine weather I used to visit my friend Mr Evans at Rossville, where I had always a hearty welcome. I remember on one occasion being obliged to beg the loan of a canoe from an Indian, and having a romantic paddle across part of Playgreen Lake. I had been offered a passage in a boat which was going to Rossville, but was not to return. Having nothing particular to do, however, at the time, I determined to take my chance of finding a return conveyance of some kind or other. In due time I arrived at the parsonage, where I spent a pleasant afternoon in sauntering about the village, and in admiring the rapidity and ease with which the Indian children could read and write the Indian language by means of a syllable alphabet invented by their clergyman. The same gentleman afterwards made a set of leaden types with no other instrument than a penknife, and printed a great many hymns in the Indian language.

In the evening I began to think of returning to the fort; but no boat or canoe could be found small enough to be paddled by one man, and as no one seemed inclined to go with me, I began to fear that I should have to remain all night. At last a young Indian told me he had a hunting canoe, which I might have if I chose to venture across the lake in it, but it was very small. I instantly accepted his offer; and, bidding adieu to my friends at the parsonage, followed him down to a small creek overshaded by tall trees, where, concealed among the reeds and bushes, lay the canoe. It could not, I should think, have measured more than three yards in length, by eighteen inches in breadth at the middle, whence it tapered at either end to a thin edge. It was made of birch bark scarcely a quarter of an inch thick; and its weight may be imagined when I say that the Indian lifted it from the ground with one hand and placed it in the water, at the same time handing me a small light paddle. I stepped in with great care, and the frail bark trembled with my weight as I seated myself, and pushed out into the lake. The sun had just set, and his expiring rays cast a glare upon the overhanging clouds in the west, whilst the shades of night gathered thickly over the eastern horizon. Not a breath of wind disturbed the glassy smoothness of the water, in which every golden-tinted cloud was mirrored with a fidelity that rendered it difficult to say which was image and which reality. The little bark darted through the water with the greatest ease, and as I passed among the deepening shadows of the lofty pines, and across the gilded waters of the bay, a wild enthusiasm seized me; I strained with all my strength upon the paddle, and the sparkling drops flew in showers behind me as the little canoe flew over the water more like a phantom than a reality -- when suddenly I missed my stroke; my whole weight was thrown on one side, the water gurgled over the gunwale of the canoe, and my heart leaped to my mouth, as I looked for an instant into the dark water. It was only for a moment; in another instant the canoe righted, and I paddled the remainder of the way in a much more gentle manner -- enthusiasm gone, and a most wholesome degree of timidity pervading my entire frame. It was dark when I reached the fort, and upon landing I took the canoe under my arm and carried it up the bank with nearly as much ease as if it had been a camp-stool.

When the day was warm and the sun bright -- when the sky was clear and the water blue -- when the air was motionless, and the noise of arrivals and departures had ceased -- when work was at a stand, and we enjoyed the felicity of having nothing to do, Mr Russ and I used to saunter down to the water's edge to have an hour or two's fishing. The fish we fished for were goldeyes, and the manner of our fishing was this: -- 

Pausing occasionally as we walked along, one of us might be observed to bend in a watchful manner over the grass, and, gradually assuming the position of a quadruped, fall plump upon his hands and knees. Having achieved this feat, he would rise with a grasshopper between his finger and thumb; a tin box being then held open by the other, the unlucky insect was carefully introduced to the interior, and the lid closed sharply -- some such remark attending each capture as that "That one was safe," or, "There went another;" and the mystery of the whole proceeding being explained by the fact that these same incarcerated grasshoppers were intended to form the bait with which we trusted to beguile the unwary goldeyes to their fate.

Having arrived at the edge of the place where we usually fished, each drew from a cleft in the rock a stout branch of a tree, around the end of which was wound a bit of twine with a large hook attached to it. This we unwound quickly, and after impaling a live grasshopper upon the barbs of our respective hooks, dropped them into the water, and gazed intently at the lines. Mr Russ, who was a great lover of angling, now began to get excited, and made several violent pulls at the line, under the impression that something had bitten. Suddenly his rod, stout as it was, bent with the immense muscular force applied to it, and a small goldeye, about three or four inches long, flashed like an electric spark from the water, and fell with bursting force on the rocks behind, at the very feet of a small Indian boy, who sat, nearly in a state of nature, watching our movements from among the bushes. The little captive was of a bright silvery colour, with a golden eye, and is an excellent fish for breakfast. The truth of the proverb, "It never rains but it pours," was soon verified by the immense number of goldeyes of every size, from one foot to four inches, which we showered into the bushes behind us. Two or three dozen were caught in a few minutes, and at last we began to get quite exhausted; and Mr Russ proposed going up to the house for his new fly-rod, by way of diversifying the sport, and rendering it more scientific.

Down he came again in a few minutes, with a splendidly varnished, extremely slim rod, with an invisible line and an aerial fly. This instrument was soon put up; and Mr Russ, letting out six fathoms of line, stood erect, and making a splendid heave, caught the Indian boy by the hair! This was an embarrassing commencement; but being an easy, good-natured man, he only frowned the boy out of countenance, and shortened his line. The next cast was more successful; the line swept gracefully through the air, and fell in a series of elegant circles within a few feet of the rock on which he stood. Goldeyes, however, are not particular; and ere he could draw the line straight, a very large one darted at the fly, and swallowed it. The rod bent into a beautiful oval as Mr Russ made a futile attempt to whip the fish over his head, according to custom, and the line straightened with fearful rigidity as the fish began to pull for its life. The fisher became energetic, and the fish impatient, but there was no prospect of its ever being landed; till at last, having got his rod inextricably entangled among the neighbouring bushes, he let it fall, and most unscientifically hauled the fish out by the line, exclaiming, in the bitterness of his heart, "that rods were contemptible childish things, and that a stout branch of a tree was the rod for him." This last essay seemed to have frightened all the rest away, for not another bite did we get after that.

Towards the beginning of June 1843, orders arrived from headquarters, appointing me to spend the approaching winter at York Factory, the place where I had first pressed American soil. It is impossible to describe the joy with which I received the news. Whether it was my extreme fondness for travelling, or the mere love of change, I cannot tell, but it had certainly the effect of affording me immense delight, and I set about making preparation for the journey immediately. The arrival of the canoes from Canada was to be the signal for my departure, and I looked forward to their appearance with great impatience.

In a few days the canoes arrived; and on the 4th of June, 1843, I started, in company with several other gentlemen, in two north canoes. These light, graceful craft were about thirty-six feet long, by from five to six broad, and were capable of containing eight men and three passengers. They were made entirely of birch bark, and gaudily painted on the bow and stern. In these fairy-like boats, then, we swept swiftly over Playgreen Lake, the bright vermilion paddles glancing in the sunshine, and the woods echoing to the lively tune of A la claire fontaine, sung by the two crews in full chorus. We soon left Norway House far behind us, and ere long were rapidly descending the streams that flow through the forests of the interior into Hudson Bay.

While running one of the numerous rapids with which these rivers abound, our canoe struck upon a rock, which tore a large hole in its side. Fortunately the accident happened close to the shore, and nearly at the usual breakfasting hour; so that while some of the men repaired the damages, which they did in half an hour, we employed ourselves agreeably in demolishing a huge ham, several slices of bread, and a cup or two of strong tea.

This was the only event worth relating that happened to us during the voyage; and as canoe-travelling is enlarged upon in another chapter, we will jump at once to the termination of our journey.



Chapter Eight.

York Factory -- Winter Amusements -- Intense Cold -- The Seasons -- "Skylarking" -- Sporting In The Woods And Marshes -- Trading With Indians -- Christmas Doings -- Breaking-Up Of The Ice In Spring.

Are you ambitious, reader, of dwelling in a "pleasant cot in a tranquil spot, with a distant view of the changing sea?" If so, do not go to York Factory. Not that it is such an unpleasant place -- for I spent two years very happily there -- but simply (to give a poetical reason, and explain its character in one sentence) because it is a monstrous blot on a swampy spot, with a partial view of the frozen sea!

First impressions are generally incorrect; and I have little doubt that your first impression is, that a "monstrous blot on a swampy spot" cannot by any possibility be an agreeable place. To dispel this impression, and at the same time to enlighten you with regard to a variety of facts with which you are probably unacquainted, I shall describe York Factory as graphically as may be. An outline of its general appearance has been already given in a former chapter, so I will now proceed to particularise the buildings. The principal edifice is the "general store," where the goods, to the amount of two years' outfit for the whole northern department, are stored. On each side of this is a long, low whitewashed house, with green edgings, in one of which visitors and temporary residents during the summer are quartered. The other is the summer mess-room. Four roomy fur-stores stand at right angles to these houses, thus forming three sides of the front square. Behind these stands a row of smaller buildings for the labourers and tradesmen; and on the right hand is the dwelling-house of the gentleman in charge, and adjoining it the clerks' house; while on the left are the provision-store and Indian trading-shop. A few insignificant buildings, such as the oil-store and lumber-house, intrude themselves here and there; and on the right a tall ungainly outlook rises in the air, affording the inhabitants an extensive view of their wild domains; and just beside it stands the ice-house. This latter building is filled every spring with blocks of solid ice of about three feet square, which do not melt during the short but intensely hot summer. The inhabitants are thus enabled to lay up a store of fresh meat for summer use, which lasts them till about the commencement of winter. The lower stratum of ice in this house never melts; nor, indeed, does the soil of the surrounding country, which only thaws to the depth of a few feet, the subsoil being perpetually frozen.

The climate of York Factory is very bad in the warm months of the year, but during the winter the intensity of the cold renders it healthy. Summer is very short; and the whole three seasons of spring, summer, and autumn are included in the months of June, July, August, and September --  the rest being winter.

During part of summer the heat is extreme, and millions of flies, mosquitoes, etcetera, render the country unbearable. Fortunately, however, the cold soon extirpates them. Scarcely anything in the way of vegetables can be raised in the small spot of ground called by courtesy a garden. Potatoes one year, for a wonder, attained the size of walnuts; and sometimes a cabbage and a turnip are prevailed upon to grow. Yet the woods are filled with a great variety of wild berries, among which the cranberry and swampberry are considered the best. Black and red currants, as well as gooseberries, are plentiful; but the first are bitter, and the last small. The swampberry is in shape something like the raspberry, of a light yellow colour, and grows on a low bush, almost close to the ground. They make excellent preserves, and, together with cranberries, are made into tarts for the mess during winter.

In the month of September there are generally a couple of weeks or so of extremely fine weather, which is called the Indian summer; after which winter, with frost, cold, and snow, sets in with rapidity. For a few weeks in October there is sometimes a little warm weather (or rather, I should say, a little thawy, weather); but after that, until the following April, the thermometer seldom rises to the freezing-point. In the depth of winter it falls from 30 to 40, 45, and even 50 degrees below zero of Fahrenheit. This intense cold, however, is not so much felt as one might suppose, as during its continuance the air is perfectly calm. Were the slightest breath of wind to arise when the thermometer stands so low, no man could show his face to it for a moment. Forty degrees below zero, and quite calm, is infinitely preferable to fifteen degrees below, or thereabouts, with a strong breeze of wind. Spirit of wine is, of course, the only liquid that can be used in the thermometers, as mercury, were it exposed to such cold, would remain frozen nearly half the winter. Spirit never froze in any cold ever experienced at York Factory, unless when very much adulterated with water; and even then the spirit would remain liquid in the centre of the mass [see note 1].

To resist this intense cold the inhabitants dress, not in furs, as is generally supposed, but in coats and trousers made of smoked deer-skins; the only piece of fur in their costume being the cap. The houses are built of wood, with double windows and doors. They are heated by means of large iron stoves, fed with wood; yet so intense is the cold, that I have seen the stove in places red-hot, and a basin of water in the room frozen nearly solid. The average cold, I should think, is about 15 or 16 degrees below zero, or 48 degrees of frost. The country around is a complete swamp, but the extreme shortness of the warm weather, and the consequent length of winter, fortunately prevent the rapid decomposition of vegetable matter. Another cause of the unhealthiness of the climate during summer is the prevalence of dense fogs, which come off the bay and enshroud the country; and also the liability of the weather to sudden and extreme changes.

Summer may be said to commence in July, the preceding month being a fight between summer and winter, which cannot claim the slightest title to the name of spring. As August advances the heat becomes great; but about the commencement of September Nature wears a more pleasing aspect, which lasts till the middle of October. It is then clear and beautiful, just cold enough to kill all the mosquitoes, and render brisk exercise agreeable. About this time, too, the young ducks begin to fly south, affording excellent sport among the marshes. A week or so after this winter commences, with light falls of snow occasionally, and hard frost during the night. Flocks of snow-birds (the harbingers of cold in autumn, and heat in spring) begin to appear, and soon the whirring wings of the white partridge may be heard among the snow-encompassed willows. The first thaw generally takes place in April; and May is characterised by melting snow, disruption of ice, and the arrival of the first flocks of wild-fowl.

The country around the fort is one immense level swamp, thickly covered with willows, and dotted here and there with a few clumps of pine-trees. The only large timber in the vicinity grows on the banks of Hayes and Nelson Rivers, and consists chiefly of spruce fir. The swampy nature of the ground has rendered it necessary to raise the houses in the fort several feet in the air upon blocks of wood; and the squares are intersected by elevated wooden platforms, which form the only promenade the inhabitants have during the summer, as no one can venture fifty yards beyond the gates without wetting his feet. Nothing bearing the most distant resemblance to a hillock exists in the land. Nelson River is a broad stream, which discharges itself into Hudson Bay, near the mouth of Hayes River, between which lies a belt of swamp and willows, known by the name of the Point of Marsh. Here may be found, during the spring and autumn, millions of ducks, geese, and plover, and during the summer billions of mosquitoes. There are a great many strange plants and shrubs in this marsh, which forms a wide field of research and pleasure to the botanist and the sportsman; but the lover of beautiful scenery and the florist will find little to please the eye or imagination, as Nature has here put on her plainest garb, and flowers there are none.

Of the feathered tribes there are the large and small grey Canada goose, the laughing goose (so called from the resemblance of its cry to laughter), and the wavie or white goose. The latter are not very numerous. There are great numbers of wild ducks, pintails, widgeons, divers, sawbills, black ducks, and teal; but the prince of ducks (the canvas-back) is not there. In spring and autumn the whole country becomes musical with the wild cries and shrill whistle of immense hosts of plover of all kinds -- long legs, short legs, black legs, and yellow legs -- sandpipers and snipe, which are assisted in their noisy concerts by myriads of frogs. The latter are really the best songsters in Hudson Bay [see note 2]. Bitterns are also found in the marshes; and sometimes, though rarely, a solitary crane finds its way to the coast. In the woods, and among the dry places around, there are a few grey grouse and wood partridges, a great many hawks, and owls of all sizes --  from the gigantic white owl, which measures five feet across the back and wings, to the small grey owl, not much bigger than a man's hand.

In winter the woods and frozen swamps are filled with ptarmigan -- or, as they are called by the trappers, white partridges. They are not very palatable; but, nevertheless, they form a pretty constant dish at the winter mess-table of York Factory, and afford excellent sport to the inhabitants. There are also great varieties of small birds, among which the most interesting are the snow-birds, or snow-flakes, which pay the country a flying visit at the commencement and termination of winter.

Such is York Fort, the great depot and gate to the wild regions surrounding Hudson Bay. Having described its appearance and general characteristics, I shall proceed to introduce the reader to my future companions, and describe our amusements and sports among the marshes.

Bachelors' Hall.

On the -- of June, 1843, I landed the second time on the wharf of York Fort, and betook myself to Bachelors' Hall, where Mr Grave, whom I met by the way, told me to take up my quarters. As I approached the door of the well-remembered house, the most tremendous uproar that ever was heard proceeded from within its dingy walls; so I jumped the paling that stood in front of the windows, and took a peep at the interior before introducing myself.

The scene that met my eye was ludicrous in the extreme. Mounted on a chair, behind a bedroom door, stood my friend Crusty, with a large pail of water in his arms, which he raised cautiously to the top of the door, for the purpose of tilting it over upon two fellow-clerks who stood below, engaged in a wrestling match, little dreaming of the cataract that was soon to fall on their devoted heads; at the door of a room opposite stood the doctor, grinning from ear to ear at the thought of sending a thick stream of water in Crusty's face from a large syringe which he held in his hands; while near the stove sat the jolly skipper, looking as grave as possible under the circumstances.

The practical joke was just approaching to a climax when I looked in. The combatants neared the door behind which Crusty was ensconced. The pail was raised, and the syringe pointed, when the hall door opened, and Mr Grave walked in! The sudden change that ensued could not have been more rapidly effected had Mr Grave been a magician. The doctor thrust the syringe into his pocket, into which a great deal of the water escaped and dripped from the skirts of his coat as he walked slowly across the room and began to examine, with a wonderful degree of earnestness, the edge of an amputating knife that lay upon his dressing-table. The two wrestlers sprang with one accord into their own room, where they hid their flushed faces behind the door. Certain smothered sounds near the stove proclaimed the skipper to be revelling in an excruciating fit of suppressed laughter; while poor Crusty, who slipped his foot in rapidly descending from his chair, lay sprawling in an ocean of water, which he had upset upon himself in his fall.

Mr Grave merely went to Mr Wilson's room to ask a few questions, and then departed as if he had seen nothing; but a peculiar twist in the corners of his mouth, and a comical twinkle in his eye, showed that, although he said nothing, he had a pretty good guess that his "young men" had been engaged in mischief!

Such were the companions to whom I introduced myself shortly after; and, while they went off to the office, I amused myself in looking round the rooms in which I was to spend the approaching winter.

The house was only one story high, and the greater part of the interior formed a large hall, from which several doors led into the sleeping apartments of the clerks. The whole was built of wood; and few houses could be found wherein so little attention was paid to ornament or luxury. The walls were originally painted white, but this, from long exposure to the influence of a large stove, had changed to a dirty yellow. No carpet covered the floor; nevertheless, its yellow planks had a cheerful appearance; and gazing at the numerous knots with which it was covered often afforded me a dreamy kind of amusement when I had nothing better to do. A large oblong iron box, on four crooked legs, with a funnel running from it through the roof, stood exactly in the middle of the room; this was a stove, but the empty wood-box in the corner showed that its services were not required at that time. And truly they were not; for it was the height of summer, and the whole room was filled with mosquitoes and bull-dog flies, which kept up a perpetual hum night and day. The only furniture that graced the room consisted of two small unpainted deal tables without tablecloths, five whole wooden chairs, and a broken one -- which latter, being light and handy, was occasionally used as a missile by the young men when they happened to quarrel. Several guns and fishing-rods stood in the corners of the hall, but their dirty appearance proclaimed that sporting, at that time, was not the order of the day. The tables were covered with a miscellaneous collection of articles; and from a number of pipes reposing on little odoriferous heaps of cut tobacco, I inferred that my future companions were great smokers. Two or three books, a pair of broken foils, a battered mask, and several surgical instruments, over which a huge mortar and pestle presided, completed the catalogue.

The different sleeping apartments around were not only interesting to contemplate, but also extremely characteristic of the pursuits of their different tenants. The first I entered was very small -- just large enough to contain a bed, a table, and a chest, leaving little room for the occupant to move about in; and yet, from the appearance of things, he did move about in it to some purpose, as the table was strewn with a number of saws, files, bits of ivory and wood, and in a corner a small vice held the head of a cane in its iron jaws. These were mixed with a number of Indian account-books and an inkstand, so that I concluded I had stumbled on the bedroom of my friend Mr Wilson, the postmaster.

The quadrant-case and sea-chest in the next room proved it to be the skipper's, without the additional testimony of the oiled-cloth coat and sou'-wester hanging from a peg in the wall.

The doctor's room was filled with dreadful-looking instruments, suggestive of operations, amputations, bleeding wounds, and human agony; while the accountant's was equally characterised by methodical neatness, and the junior clerks' by utter and chaotic confusion. None of these bedrooms were carpeted; none of them boasted of a chair -- the trunks and boxes of the persons to whom they belonged answering instead; and none of the beds were graced with curtains. Notwithstanding this emptiness, however, they had a somewhat furnished appearance, from the number of greatcoats, leather capotes, fur caps, worsted sashes, guns, rifles, shot-belts, snow-shoes, and powder-horns with which the walls were profusely decorated. The ceilings of the rooms, moreover, were very low -- so much that by standing on tiptoe I could touch them with my hand; and the window in each was only about three feet high by two and a half broad, so that, upon the whole, the house was rather snug than otherwise.

Such was the habitation in which I dwelt; such were the companions with whom I associated at York Factory.

As the season advanced the days became shorter, the nights more frosty, and soon a few flakes of snow fell, indicating the approach of winter. About the beginning of October the cold, damp, snowy weather that usually precedes winter set in; and shortly afterwards Hayes River was full of drifting ice, and the whole country covered with snow. A week or so after this the river was completely frozen over; and Hudson Bay itself, as far as the eye could reach, was covered with a coat of ice. We now settled down into our winter habits. Double windows were fitted in, and double doors also. Extra blankets were put upon the beds; the iron stove kept constantly alight; and, in fact, every preparation was made to mitigate the severity of the winter.

The water froze every night in our basins, although the stove was kept at nearly a red heat all day, and pretty warm all night; and our out-of-door costume was changed from jackets and shooting-coats to thick leather capotes, fur caps, duffle socks, and moccasins.

Soon after this, white partridges showed themselves; and one fine clear, frosty morning, after breakfast, I made my first essay to kill some, in company with my fellow-clerk and room-mate Crusty, and the worthy skipper.

The manner of dressing ourselves to resist the cold was curious. I will describe Crusty, as a type of the rest. After donning a pair of deer-skin trousers, he proceeded to put on three pair of blanket socks, and over these a pair of moose-skin moccasins. Then a pair of blue cloth leggins were hauled over his trousers, partly to keep the snow from sticking to them, and partly for warmth. After this he put on a leather capote edged with fur. This coat was very warm, being lined with flannel, and overlapped very much in front. It was fastened with a scarlet worsted belt round the waist, and with a loop at the throat. A pair of thick mittens made of deer-skin hung round his shoulders by a worsted cord; and his neck was wrapped in a huge shawl, above whose mighty folds his good-humoured visage beamed like the sun on the edge of a fog-bank. A fur cap with ear-pieces completed his costume. Having finished his toilet, and tucked a pair of snow-shoes, five feet long, under one arm, and a double-barrelled fowling-piece under the other, Crusty waxed extremely impatient, and proceeded systematically to aggravate the unfortunate skipper (who was always very slow, poor man, except on board ship), addressing sundry remarks to the stove upon the slowness of seafaring men in general, and skippers in particular. In a few minutes the skipper appeared in a similar costume, with a monstrously long gun over his shoulder, and under his arm a pair of snow-shoes gaudily painted by himself; which snow-shoes he used to admire amazingly, and often gave it as his opinion that they were "slap-up, tossed-off-to-the-nines" snow-shoes!

In this guise, then, we departed on our ramble. The sun shone brightly in the cold blue sky, giving a warm appearance to the scene, although no sensible warmth proceeded from it, so cold was the air. Countless millions of icy particles covered every bush and tree, glittering tremulously in its rays like diamonds -- psha! that hackneyed simile: diamonds of the purest water never shone like these evanescent little gems of nature. The air was biting cold, obliging us to walk briskly along to keep our blood in circulation; and the breath flew thick and white from our mouths and nostrils, like clouds of steam, and, condensing on our hair and the breasts of our coats, gave us the appearance of being powdered with fine snow. Crusty's red countenance assumed a redder hue by contrast, and he cut a very comical figure when his bushy whiskers changed from their natural auburn hue to a pure white, under the influence of this icy covering. The skipper, who all this while had been floundering slowly among the deep snow, through which his short legs were but ill calculated to carry him, suddenly wheeled round, and presented to our view the phenomenon of a very red, warm face, and an extremely livid cold nose thereunto affixed. We instantly apprised him of the fact that his nose was frozen, which he would scarcely believe for some time; however, he was soon convinced, and after a few minutes' hard rubbing it was restored to its usual temperature.

We had hitherto been walking through the thick woods near the river's bank; but finding no white partridges there, we stretched out into the frozen swamps, which now presented large fields and plains of compact snow, studded here and there with clumps and thickets of willows. Among these we soon discovered fresh tracks of birds in the snow, whereat the skipper became excited (the sport being quite new to him), and expressed his belief, in a hoarse whisper, that they were not far off. He even went the length of endeavouring to walk on tiptoe, but being unable, from the weight of his snow-shoes, to accomplish this, he only tripped himself, and falling with a stunning crash through a large dried-up bush, buried his head, shoulders, and gun in the snow. Whir-r-r! went the alarmed birds -- crack! bang! went Crusty's gun, and down came two partridges; while the unfortunate skipper, scarce taking time to clear his eyes from snow, in his anxiety to get a shot, started up, aimed at the birds, and blew the top of a willow, which stood a couple of feet before him, into a thousand atoms. The partridges were very tame, and only flew to a neighbouring clump of bushes, where they alighted. Meanwhile Crusty picked up his birds, and while reloading his gun complimented the skipper upon the beautiful manner in which he pointed. To this he answered not, but raising his gun, let drive at a solitary bird which, either from fear or astonishment, had remained behind the rest, and escaped detection until now, owing to its resemblance to the surrounding snow. He fortunately succeeded in hitting this time, and bagged it with great exultation. Our next essay was even more successful. The skipper fired at one which he saw sitting near him, killed it, -- and also two more which he had not seen, but which had happened to be in a line with the shot; and Crusty and I killed a brace each when they took wing.

During the whole day we wandered about the woods, sometimes killing a few ptarmigan, and occasionally a kind of grouse, which are called by the people of the country wood-partridges. Whilst sauntering slowly along in the afternoon, a rabbit darted across our path; the skipper fired at it without even putting the gun to his shoulder, and to his utter astonishment killed it. After this we turned to retrace our steps, thinking that, as our game bags were pretty nearly full, we had done enough for one day. Our sport was not done, however; we came suddenly upon a large flock of ptarmigan, so tame that they would not fly, but merely ran from us a little way at the noise of each shot. The firing that now commenced was quite terrific. Crusty fired till both barrels of his gun were stopped up; the skipper fired till his powder and shot were done; and I fired till -- I skinned my tongue! Lest any one should feel surprised at the last statement, I may as well explain how this happened. The cold had become so intense, and my hands so benumbed with loading, that the thumb at last obstinately refused to open the spring of my powder-flask. A partridge was sitting impudently before me, so that, in the fear of losing the shot, I thought of trying to open it with my teeth. In the execution of this plan, I put the brass handle to my mouth, and my tongue happening to come in contact with it, stuck fast thereto -- or, in other words, was frozen to it. Upon discovering this, I instantly pulled the flask away, and with it a piece of skin about the size of a sixpence. Having achieved this little feat, we once more bent our steps homeward.

During our walk the day had darkened, and the sky insensibly become overcast. Solitary flakes of snow fell here and there around us, and a low moaning sound, as of distant wind, came mournfully down through the sombre trees, and, eddying round their trunks in little gusts, gently moved the branches, and died away in the distance. With an uneasy glance at these undoubted signs of an approaching storm, we hastened towards the fort as fast as our loads permitted us, but had little hope of reaching it before the first burst of the gale. Nature had laid aside her sparkling jewels, and was now dressed in her simple robe of white. Dark leaden clouds rose on the northern horizon, and the distant howling of the cold, cold wind struck mournfully on our ears, as it rushed fresh and bitterly piercing from the Arctic seas, tearing madly over the frozen plains, and driving clouds of hail and snow before it. Whew! how it dashed along -- scouring wildly over the ground, as if maddened by the slight resistance offered to it by the swaying bushes, and hurrying impetuously forward to seek a more worthy object on which to spend its bitter fury! Whew! how it curled around our limbs, catching up mountains of snow into the air, and dashing them into impalpable dust against our wretched faces. Oh! it was bitterly, bitterly cold. Notwithstanding our thick wrappings, we felt as if clothed in gauze; while our faces seemed to collapse and wrinkle up as we turned them from the wind and hid them in our mittens. One or two flocks of ptarmigan, scared by the storm, flew swiftly past us, and sought shelter in the neighbouring forest. We quickly followed their example, and availing ourselves of the partial shelter of the trees, made the best of our way back to the fort, where we arrived just as it was getting dark, and entered the warm precincts of Bachelors' Hall like three animated marble statues, so completely were we covered from head to foot with snow.

It was curious to observe the change that took place in the appearance of our guns after we entered the warm room. The barrels, and every bit of metal upon them, instantly became white, like ground glass! This phenomenon was caused by the condensation and freezing of the moist atmosphere of the room upon the cold iron. Any piece of metal, when brought suddenly out of such intense cold into a warm room, will in this way become covered with a pure white coating of hoar-frost. It does not remain long in this state, however, as the warmth of the room soon heats the metal and melts the ice. Thus, in about ten minutes our guns assumed three different appearances: when we entered the house, they were clear, polished, and dry; in five minutes they were white as snow; and in five more, dripping wet!

On the following morning a small party of Indians arrived with furs, and Mr Wilson went with them to the trading-room, whither I accompanied him.

The trading-room -- or, as it is frequently called, the Indian-shop -- was much like what is called a store in the United States. It contained every imaginable commodity likely to be needed by Indians. On various shelves were piled bales of cloth of all colours, capotes, blankets, caps, etcetera; and in smaller divisions were placed files, scalping-knives, gun-screws, flints, balls of twine, fire-steels, canoe-awls, and glass beads of all colours, sizes, and descriptions. Drawers in the counter contained needles, pins, scissors, thimbles, fish-hooks, and vermilion for painting canoes and faces. The floor was strewn with a variety of copper and tin kettles, from half a pint to a gallon; and on a stand in the furthest corner of the room stood about a dozen trading guns, and beside them a keg of powder and a box of shot.

Upon our entrance into this room trade began. First of all, an old Indian laid a pack of furs upon the counter, which Mr Wilson counted and valued. Having done this, he marked the amount opposite the old man's name in his "Indian book," and then handed him a number of small pieces of wood. The use of these pieces of wood is explained in the third chapter. The Indian then began to look about him, opening his eyes gradually, as he endeavoured to find out which of the many things before him he would like to have. Sympathising with his eyes, his mouth slowly opened also; and having remained in this state for some time, the former looked at Mr Wilson, and the latter pronounced ahcoup (blanket). Having received the blanket, he paid the requisite number of bits of wood for it, and became abstracted again. In this way he bought a gun, several yards of cloth, a few beads, etcetera, till all his sticks were gone, and he made way for another. The Indians were uncommonly slow, however, and Mr Wilson and I returned to the house in a couple of hours, with very cold toes and fingers, and exceedingly blue noses.

During winter we breakfasted usually at nine o'clock; then sat down to the desk till one, when we dined. After dinner we resumed our pens till six, when we had tea; and then wrote again till eight; after which we either amused ourselves with books (of which we had a few), kicked up a row, or, putting on our snow-shoes, went off to pay a moonlight visit to our traps. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, however, we did no work, and generally spent these days in shooting.

It is only at the few principal establishments of the Company, where the accounts of the country are collected annually, to be forwarded to the Hudson Bay House in London, that so much writing is necessary.

As the Christmas holidays approached, we prepared for the amusements of that joyous season. On the morning before Christmas, a gentleman, who had spent the first part of the winter all alone at his outpost, arrived to pass the holidays at York Factory. We were greatly delighted to have a new face to look at, having seen no one but ourselves since the ship left for England, nearly four months before.

Our visitor had travelled in a dog cariole. This machine is very narrow, just broad enough to admit one person. It is a wooden frame covered with deer-skin parchment, painted gaudily, and is generally drawn by four Esquimaux dogs [see note 3]. Dogs are invaluable in the Arctic regions, where horses are utterly useless, owing to the depth of snow which covers the earth for so large a portion of the year. The comparatively light weight of the dogs enables them to walk without sinking much; and even when the snow is so soft as to be incapable of supporting them, they are still able to sprawl along more easily than any other species of quadruped could do. Four are usually attached to a sledge, which they haul with great vigour; being followed by a driver on snow-shoes, whose severe lash is brought to bear so powerfully on the backs of the poor animals, should any of them be observed to slacken their pace, that they are continually regarding him with deprecatory glances as they run along. Should the lash give a flourish, there is generally a short yelp from the pack; and should it descend amongst them with a vigorous crack, the vociferous yelling that results is perfectly terrific. These drivers are sometimes very cruel; and when a pack of dogs have had a fight, and got their traces hopelessly ravelled (as is often the case), they have been known to fall on their knees in their passion, seize one of the poor dogs by the nose with their teeth, and almost bite it off. Dogs are also used for dragging carioles, which vehicles are used by gentlemen in the Company's service who are either too old or too lazy to walk on snow-shoes. The cariole is in form not unlike a slipper bath, both in shape and size. It is lined with buffalo robes, in the midst of a bundle of which the occupant reclines luxuriously, while the dogs drag him slowly through the soft snow, and among the trees and bushes of the forest, or scamper with him over the hard-beaten surface of a lake or river; while the machine is prevented from capsizing by a voyageur who walks behind on snow-shoes, holding on to a line attached to the back part of the cariole. The weather during winter is so cold that it is often a matter of the greatest difficulty for the traveller to keep his toes from freezing, despite the buffalo robes; and sometimes, when the dogs start fresh in the morning, with a good breakfast, a bright, clear, frosty day, and a long expanse of comparatively open country before them, where the snow from exposure has become quite hard, away they go with a loud yelp, upsetting the driver in the bolt, who rises to heap undeserved and very improper epithets upon the poor brutes, who, careering over the ground at the rate of eleven miles an hour, swing the miserable cariole over the snow, tear it through the bushes, bang it first on one side, then on the other, against stumps and trees, yelling all the while, partly with frantic glee at the thought of having bolted, and partly with fearful anticipation of the tremendous welting that is to come; until at last the cariole gets jammed hard and fast among the trees of the forest, or plunges down the steep bank of a river head over heels till they reach the foot -- a horrible and struggling compound of dogs, traveller, traces, parchment, buffalo robes, blankets, and snow!

Christmas morning dawned, and I opened my eyes to behold the sun flashing brightly on the window, in its endeavours to make a forcible entry into my room, through the thick hoar-frost which covered the panes. Presently I became aware of a gentle breathing near me, and, turning my eyes slowly round, I beheld my companion Crusty standing on tiptoe, with a tremendous grin on his countenance, and a huge pillow in his hands, which was in the very act of descending upon my devoted head. To collapse into the smallest possible compass, and present the most invulnerable part of my body to the blow, was the work of an instant, when down came the pillow, bang! "Hooroo! hurroo! hurroo! a merry Christmas to you, you rascal!" shouted Crusty. Bang! bang! went the pillow. "Turn out of that, you lazy lump of plethoric somnolescence," whack! -- and, twirling the ill-used pillow round his head, my facetious friend rushed from the room, to bestow upon the other occupants of the hall a similar salutation. Upon recovering from the effects of my pommelling, I sprang from bed and donned my clothes with all speed, and then went to pay my friend Mr Wilson the compliments of the season. In passing through the hall for this purpose, I discovered Crusty struggling in the arms of the skipper, who, having wrested the pillow from him, was now endeavouring to throttle him partially. I gently shut and fastened the door of their room, purposing to detain them there till very nearly too late for breakfast, and then sat down with Mr Wilson to discuss our intended proceedings during the day. These were --  firstly, that we should go and pay a ceremonious visit to the men; secondly, that we should breakfast; thirdly, that we should go out to shoot partridges; fourthly, that we should return to dinner at five; and fifthly, that we should give a ball in Bachelors' Hall in the evening, to which were to be invited all the men at the fort, and all the Indians, men, women, and children, inhabiting the country for thirty miles round. As the latter, however, did not amount to above twenty, we did not fear that more would come than our hall was calculated to accommodate. In pursuance, then, of these resolutions, I cleaned my gun, freed my prisoners just as the breakfast-bell was ringing, and shortly afterwards went out to shoot. I will not drag the reader after me, but merely say that we all returned about dusk, with game-bags full, and appetites ravenous.

Our Christmas dinner was a good one, in a substantial point of view; and a very pleasant one, in a social point of view. We ate it in the winter mess-room; and really (for Hudson Bay) this was quite a snug and highly decorated apartment. True, there was no carpet on the floor, and the chairs were home-made; but then the table was mahogany, and the walls were hung round with several large engravings in bird's-eye maple frames. The stove, too, was brightly polished with black lead, and the painting of the room had been executed with a view to striking dumb those innocent individuals who had spent the greater part of their lives at outposts, and were, consequently, accustomed to domiciles and furniture of the simplest and most unornamental description. On the present grand occasion the mess-room was illuminated by an argand lamp, and the table covered with a snow-white cloth, whereon reposed a platter containing a beautiful, fat, plump wild-goose, which had a sort of come-eat-me-up-quick-else-I'll-melt expression about it that was painfully delicious. Opposite to this smoked a huge roast of beef, to procure which one of our most useless draught oxen had been sacrificed. This, with a dozen of white partridges, and a large piece of salt pork, composed our dinner. But the greatest rarities on the board were two large decanters of port wine, and two smaller ones of Madeira. These were flanked by tumblers and glasses; and truly, upon the whole, our dinner made a goodly show.

"Come away, gentlemen," said Mr Grave, as we entered the room and approached the stove where he stood, smiling with that benign expression of countenance peculiar to stout, good-natured gentlemen at this season, and at this particular hour. "Your walk must have sharpened your appetites; sit down, sit down. This way, doctor -- sit near me; find a place, Mr Ballantyne, beside your friend Crusty there; take the foot, Mr Wilson;" and amid a shower of such phrases we seated ourselves and began.

At the top of the table sat Mr Grave, indistinctly visible through the steam that rose from the wild-goose before him. On his right and left sat the doctor and the accountant; and down from them sat the skipper, four clerks, and Mr Wilson, whose honest face beamed with philanthropic smiles at the foot of the table. Loud were the mirth and fun that reigned on this eventful day within the walls of the highly decorated room at York Factory. Bland was the expression of Mr Grave's face when he asked each of the young clerks to drink wine with him in succession; and great was the confidence which thereby inspired the said clerks, prompting them to the perpetration of several rash and unparalleled pieces of presumption -- such as drinking wine with each other (an act of free-will on their part almost unprecedented), and indulging in sundry sly pieces of covert humour, such as handing the vinegar to each other when the salt was requested, and becoming profusely apologetic upon discovering their mistake. But the wildest storm is often succeeded by the greatest calm, and the most hilarious mirth by the most solemn gravity. In the midst of our fun Mr Grave proposed a toast. Each filled a bumper, and silence reigned around while he raised his glass and said, "Let us drink to absent friends." We each whispered, "Absent friends," and set our glasses down in silence, while our minds flew back to the scenes of former days, and we mingled again in spirit with our dear, dear friends at home. How different the mirth of the loved ones there, circling round the winter hearth, from that of the men seated round the Christmas table in the Nor'-West wilderness I question very much if this toast was ever drunk with a more thorough appreciation of its melancholy import than upon the present memorable occasion. Our sad feelings, however, were speedily put to flight, and our gravity routed, when the skipper, with characteristic modesty, proposed, "The ladies;" which toast we drank with a hearty good-will, although, indeed, the former included them, inasmuch as they also were absent friends -- the only one within two hundred and fifty miles of us being Mr Grave's wife.

What a magical effect ladies have upon the male sex, to be sure! Although hundreds of miles distant from an unmarried specimen of the species, upon the mere mention of their name there was instantly a perceptible alteration for the better in the looks of the whole party. Mr Wilson unconsciously arranged his hair a little more becomingly, as if his ladye-love were actually looking at him; and the skipper afterwards confessed that his heart had bounded suddenly out of his breast, across the snowy billows of the Atlantic, and come smash down on the wharf at Plymouth Dock, where he had seen the last wave of Nancy's checked cotton neckerchief as he left the shores of Old England.

Just as we had reached the above climax, the sound of a fiddle struck upon our ears, and reminded us that our guests who had been invited to the ball were ready; so, emptying our glasses, we left the dining-room, and adjourned to the hall.

Here a scene of the oddest description presented itself. The room was lit up by means of a number of tallow candles, stuck in tin sconces round the walls. On benches and chairs sat the Orkneymen and Canadian half-breeds of the establishment, in their Sunday jackets and capotes; while here and there the dark visage of an Indian peered out from among their white ones. But round the stove -- which had been removed to one side to leave space for the dancers -- the strangest group was collected. Squatting down on the floor, in every ungraceful attitude imaginable, sat about a dozen Indian women, dressed in printed calico gowns, the chief peculiarity of which was the immense size of the balloon-shaped sleeves, and the extreme scantiness, both in length and width, of the skirts. Coloured handkerchiefs covered their heads, and ornamented moccasins decorated their feet; besides which, each one wore a blanket in the form of a shawl, which they put off before standing up to dance. They were chatting and talking to each other with great volubility, occasionally casting a glance behind them, where at least half a dozen infants stood bolt upright in their tight-laced cradles. On a chair, in a corner near the stove, sat a young, good-looking Indian, with a fiddle of his own making beside him. This was our Paganini; and beside him sat an Indian boy with a kettle-drum, on which he tapped occasionally, as if anxious that the ball should begin.

All this flashed upon our eyes; but we had not much time for contemplating it, as, the moment we entered, the women simultaneously rose, and coming modestly forward to Mr Wilson, who was the senior of the party, saluted him, one after another! I had been told that this was a custom of the ladies on Christmas Day, and was consequently not quite unprepared to go through the ordeal. But when I looked at the superhuman ugliness of some of the old ones -- when I gazed at the immense, and in some cases toothless, chasms that were pressed to my senior's lips, and that gradually, like a hideous nightmare, approached towards me -- and when I reflected that these same mouths might have, in former days, demolished a few children -- my courage forsook me, and I entertained for a moment the idea of bolting. The doctor seemed to labour under the same disinclination as myself; for when they advanced to him, he refused to bend his head, and, being upwards of six feet high, they of course were obliged to pass him. They looked, however, so much disappointed at this, and withal so very modest, that I really felt for them, and prepared to submit to my fate with the best grace possible. A horrible old hag advanced towards me, the perfect embodiment of a nightmare, with a fearful grin on her countenance. I shut my eyes. Suddenly a bright idea flashed across my mind: I stooped down, with apparent goodwill, to salute her; but just as our lips were about to meet, I slightly jerked up my head, and she kissed my chin. Oh, happy thought! They were all quite satisfied, and attributed the accident, no doubt, to their own clumsiness -- or to mine!

This ceremony over, we each chose partners, the fiddle struck up, and the ball began. Scotch reels were the only dances known by the majority of the guests, so we confined ourselves entirely to them.

The Indian women afforded us a good deal of amusement during the evening. Of all ungraceful beings, they are the most ungraceful; and of all accomplishments, dancing is the one in which they shine least. There is no rapid motion of the feet, no lively expression of the countenance; but with a slow, regular, up-and-down motion, they stalk through the figure with extreme gravity. They seemed to enjoy it amazingly, however, and scarcely allowed the poor fiddler a moment's rest during the whole evening.

Between eleven and twelve o'clock our two tables were put together, and spread with several towels; thus forming a pretty respectable supper-table, which would have been perfect, had not the one part been three inches higher than the other. On it was placed a huge dish of cold venison, and a monstrous iron kettle of tea. This, with sugar, bread, and a lump of salt butter, completed the entertainment to which the Indians sat down. They enjoyed it very much -- at least, so I judged from the rapid manner in which the viands disappeared, and the incessant chattering and giggling kept up at intervals. After all were satisfied, the guests departed in a state of great happiness; particularly the ladies, who tied up the remnants of their supper in their handkerchiefs, and carried them away.

Before concluding the description of our Christmas doings, I may as well mention a circumstance which resulted from the effects of the ball, as it shows in a curious manner the severity of the climate at York Factory. In consequence of the breathing of so many people in so small a room for such a length of time, the walls had become quite damp, and ere the guests departed moisture was trickling down in many places. During the night this moisture was frozen, and on rising the following morning I found, to my astonishment, that Bachelors' Hall was apparently converted into a palace of crystal. The walls and ceiling were thickly coated with beautiful minute crystalline flowers, not sticking flat upon them, but projecting outwards in various directions, thus giving the whole apartment a cheerful, light appearance, quite indescribable. The moment our stove was heated, however, the crystals became fluid, and ere long evaporated, leaving the walls exposed in all their original dinginess.

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Winter passed away; but not slowly, or by degrees. A winter of so long duration could not be expected to give up its dominion without a struggle. In October it began, and in November its empire was established. During December, January, February, March, and April it reigned unmolested, in steadfast bitterness; enclosing in its icy bands, and retaining in torpid frigidity, the whole inanimate and vegetable creation. But in May its powerful enemy, caloric, made a decided attack upon the empire, and dealt hoary Winter a stunning blow.

About the beginning of April a slight thaw occurred, the first that had taken place since the commencement of winter; but this was speedily succeeded by hard frost, which continued till the second week in May, when thaw set in so steadily that in a few days the appearance of the country entirely changed.

On the 12th of May, Hayes River, which had been covered for nearly eight months with a coat of ice upwards of six feet thick, gave way before the floods occasioned by the melting snow; and all the inmates of the fort rushed out to the banks upon hearing the news that the river was going. On reaching the gate, the sublimity of the spectacle that met our gaze can scarcely be imagined. The noble river, here nearly two miles broad, was entirely covered with huge blocks and jagged lumps of ice, rolling and dashing against each other in chaotic confusion, as the swelling floods heaved them up and swept them with irresistible force towards Hudson Bay. In one place, where the masses were too closely packed to admit of violent collision, they ground against each other with a slow but powerful motion that curled their hard edges up like paper, till the smaller lumps, unable to bear the pressure, were ground to powder, and with a loud crash the rest hurried on to renew the struggle elsewhere, while the ice above, whirling swiftly round in the clear space thus formed, as if delighted at its sudden release, hurried onwards. In another place, where it was not so closely packed, a huge lump suddenly grounded on a shallow; and in a moment the rolling masses, which were hurrying towards the sea with the velocity of a cataract, were precipitated against it with a noise like thunder, and the tremendous pressure from above forcing block upon block with a loud hissing noise, raised, as if by magic, an icy castle in the air, which, ere its pinnacles had pointed for a second to the sky, fell with stunning violence into the boiling flood from whence it rose. In a short time afterwards the mouth of the river became so full of ice that it stuck there, and in less than an hour the water rose ten or fifteen feet, nearly to a level with the top of the bank. In this state it continued for a week; and then, about the end of May, the whole floated quietly out to sea, and the cheerful river gurgled along its bed with many a curling eddy and watery dimple rippling its placid face, as if it smiled to think of having overcome its powerful enemy, and at length burst its prison walls.

Although the river was free, many a sign of winter yet remained around our forest home. The islands in the middle of the stream were covered with masses of ice, many of which were piled up to a height of twenty or thirty feet. All along the banks, too, it was strewn thickly; while in the woods snow still lay in many places several feet deep. In time, however, these last evidences of the mighty power of winter gave way before the warm embraces of spring. Bushes and trees began to bud, gushing rills to flow, frogs to whistle in the swamp, and ducks to sport upon the river, while the hoarse cry of the wild-goose, the whistling wings of teal, and all the other sounds and cries of the long-absent inhabitants of the marshes, gave life and animation to the scene.

Often has nature been described as falling asleep in the arms of winter, and awaking at the touch of spring; but nowhere is this simile so strikingly illustrated as in these hyperborean climes, where, for eight long, silent months, nature falls into a slumber so deep and unbroken that death seems a fitter simile than sleep, and then bursts into a life so bright, so joyous, so teeming with animal and vegetable vitality, and, especially when contrasted with her previous torpidity, so noisy, that awakening from sleep gives no adequate idea of the change.

Now was the time that our guns were cleaned with peculiar care, and regarded with a sort of brotherly affection. Not that we despised the sports of winter, but we infinitely preferred those of spring.

Young Crusty and I were inseparable companions; we had slept in the same room, hunted over the same ground, and scribbled at the same desk during the whole winter, and now we purchased a small hunting canoe from an Indian, for the purpose of roaming about together in spring. Our excursions were always amusing; and, as a description of one of them may perhaps prove interesting to the reader, I shall narrate: -- 

A Canoe Excursion On The Shores Of Hudson Bay.

It is needless to say that the day we chose was fine; that the sun shone brightly; that the curling eddies of the river smiled sweetly; that the jagged pinnacles of the blocks of ice along shore which had not yet melted sparkled brilliantly; that the fresh green foliage of the trees contrasted oddly with these white masses; that Crusty and I shouldered our canoe between us, after having placed our guns, etcetera, in it, and walked lightly down to the river bank under our burden. It is needless, I say, to describe all this minutely, as it would be unnecessary waste of pen, ink, and paper. It is sufficient to say that we were soon out in the middle of the stream, floating gently down the current towards the Point of Marsh, which was to be the scene of our exploits.

The day was indeed beautiful, and so very calm and still that the glassy water reflected every little cloud in the sky; and on the seaward horizon everything was quivering and magically turned upside down --  islands, trees, icebergs, and all! A solitary gull, which stood not far off upon a stone, looked so preposterously huge from the same atmospherical cause, that I would have laughed immoderately, had I had energy to do so; but I was too much wrapped in placid enjoyment of the scene to give way to boisterous mirth. The air was so calm that the plaintive cries of thousands of wildfowl which covered the Point of Marsh struck faintly on our ears. "Ah!" thought I -- But I need not say what I thought. I grasped my powder-flask and shook it; it was full --  crammed full! I felt my shot-belt; it was fat, very fat, bursting with shot! Our two guns lay side by side, vying in brightness; their flints quite new and sharp, and standing up in a lively wide-awake sort of way, as much as to say, "If you do not let me go, I'll go bang off by myself!" Happiness is sometimes too strong to be enjoyed quietly; and Crusty and I, feeling that we could keep it down no longer, burst simultaneously into a yell that rent the air, and, seizing the paddles, made our light canoe spring over the water, while we vented our feelings in a lively song, which reaching the astonished ears of the afore-mentioned preposterously large gull, caused its precipitate departure.

In half an hour we reached the point; dragged the canoe above high-water mark; shouldered our guns, and, with long strides, proceeded over the swamp in search of game.

We had little doubt of having good sport, for the whole point away to the horizon was teeming with ducks and plover. We had scarcely gone a hundred yards ere a large widgeon rose from behind a bush, and Crusty, who was in advance, brought it down. As we plodded on, the faint cry of a wild-goose caused us to squat down suddenly behind a neighbouring bush, from which retreat we gazed round to see where our friends were. Another cry from behind attracted our attention; and far away on the horizon we saw a large flock of geese flying in a mathematically correct triangle. Now, although far out of shot, and almost out of sight, we did not despair of getting one of these birds; for, by imitating their cry, there was a possibility of attracting them towards us. Geese often answer to a call in this way, if well imitated; particularly in spring, as they imagine that their friends have found a good feeding-place, and wish them to alight. Knowing this, Crusty and I continued in our squatting position -- utterly unmindful, in the excitement of the moment, of the fact that the water of the swamp lay in the same proximity to our persons as a chair does when we sit down on it -- and commenced to yell and scream vociferously in imitation of geese; for which, doubtless, many people unacquainted with our purpose would have taken us. At first our call seemed to make no impression on them; but gradually they bent into a curve, and, sweeping round in a long circle, came nearer to us, while we continued to shout at the top of our voices. How they ever mistook our bad imitation of the cry for the voices of real geese, I cannot tell -- probably they thought we had colds or sore throats; at any rate they came nearer and nearer, screaming to us in return, till at last they ceased to flap their wings, and sailed slowly over the bush behind which we were ensconced, with their long necks stretched straight out, and their heads a little to one side, looking down for their friends. Upon discovering their mistake, and beholding two human beings instead of geese within a few yards of them, the sensation created among them was tremendous, and the racket they kicked up in trying to fly from us was terrific; but it was too late. The moment we saw that they had discovered us, our guns poured forth their contents, and two out of the flock fell with a lumbering smash upon the ground, while a third went off wounded, and, after wavering in its flight for a little, sank slowly to the ground.

Having bagged our game, we proceeded, and ere long filled our bags with ducks, geese, and plover. Towards the afternoon we arrived at a tent belonging to an old Indian called Morris. With this dingy gentleman we agreed to dine, and accordingly bent our steps towards his habitation. Here we found the old Indian and his wife squatting down on the floor and wreathed in smoke, partly from the wood-fire which burned in the middle of the tent, and partly from the tobacco-pipes stuck in their respective mouths. Old Morris was engaged in preparing a kettle of pea-soup, in which were boiled several plover and a large white owl; which latter, when lifted out of the pot, looked so very like a skinned baby that we could scarcely believe they were not guilty of cannibalism. His wife was engaged in ornamenting a pair of moccasins with dyed quills. On our entrance, the old man removed his pipe, and cast an inquiring glance into the soup-kettle; this apparently gave him immense satisfaction, as he turned to us with a smiling countenance, and remarked (for he could speak capital English, having spent the most of his life near York Factory) that "duck plenty, but he too hold to shoot much; obliged to heat howl." This we agreed was uncommonly hard, and after presenting him with several ducks and a goose, proposed an inspection of the contents of the kettle, which being agreed to, we demolished nearly half of the soup, and left him and his wife to "heat" the "howl."

After resting an hour with this hospitable fellow, we departed, to prepare our encampment ere it became dark, as we intended passing the night in the swamps, under our canoe. Near the tent we passed a fox-trap set on the top of a pole, and, on inquiring, found that this was the machine in which old Morris caught his "howls." The white owl is a very large and beautiful bird, sometimes nearly as large as a swan. I shot one which measured five feet three inches across the wings, when expanded. They are in the habit of alighting upon the tops of blighted trees, and poles of any kind, which happen to stand conspicuously apart from the forest trees -- for the purpose, probably, of watching for mice and little birds, on which they prey. Taking advantage of this habit, the Indian plants his trap on the top of a bare tree, so that when the owl alights it is generally caught by the legs.

Our walk back to the place where we had left the canoe was very exhausting, as we had nearly tired ourselves out before thinking of returning. This is very often the case with eager sportsmen, as they follow the game till quite exhausted, and only then it strikes them that they have got as long a walk back as they had in going out. I recollect this happening once to myself. I had walked so far away into the forest after wild-fowl, that I forgot time and distance in the ardour of the pursuit, and only thought of returning when quite knocked up. The walk back was truly wretched. I was obliged to rest every ten minutes, as, besides being tired, I became faint from hunger. On the way I stumbled on the nest of a plover, with one egg in it. This was a great acquisition; so seating myself on a stone, I made my dinner of it raw. Being very small, it did not do me much good, but it inspired me with courage; and, making a last effort, I reached the encampment in a very unenviable state of exhaustion.

After an hour's walk, Crusty and I arrived at the place where we left the canoe.

Our first care was to select a dry spot whereon to sleep, which was not an easy matter in such a swampy place. We found one at last, however, under the shelter of a small willow bush. Thither we dragged the canoe, and turned it bottom up, intending to creep in below it when we retired to rest. After a long search on the sea-shore, we found a sufficiency of driftwood to make a fire, which we carried up to the encampment, and placed in a heap in front of the canoe. This was soon kindled by means of a flint and steel, and the forked flames began in a few minutes to rise and leap around the branches, throwing the swampy point into deeper shadow, making the sea look cold and black, and the ice upon its surface ghost-like. The interior of our inverted canoe looked really quite cheerful and snug, under the influence of the fire's rosy light. And when we had spread our blankets under it, plucked and cleaned two of the fattest ducks, and stuck them on sticks before the blaze to roast, we agreed that there were worse things in nature than an encampment in the swamps.

Ere long the night became pitchy dark; but although we could see nothing, yet ever and anon the whistling wings of ducks became audible, as they passed in flocks overhead. So often did they pass in this way, that at last I was tempted to try to get a shot at them, notwithstanding the apparent hopelessness of such an attempt. Seizing my gun, and leaving strict injunctions with Crusty to attend to the roasting of my widgeon, I sallied forth, and, after getting beyond the light of the fire, endeavoured to peer through the gloom. Nothing was to be seen, however. Flocks of ducks were passing quite near, for I heard their wings whizzing as they flew, but they were quite invisible; so at last, becoming tired of standing up to my knees in water, I pointed my gun at random at the next flock that passed, and fired. After the shot, I listened intently for a few seconds, and the next moment a splash in the water apprised me that the shot had taken effect. After a long search I found the bird, and returned to my friend Crusty, whom I threw into a state of consternation by pitching the dead duck into his lap as he sat winking and rubbing his hands before the warm blaze.

Supper in these out-of-the-way regions is never long in the eating, and on the present occasion we finished it very quickly, being both hungry and fatigued. That over, we heaped fresh logs upon the fire, wrapped our green blankets round us, and nestling close together, as much underneath our canoe as possible, courted the drowsy god. In this courtship I was unsuccessful for some time, and lay gazing on the flickering flames of the watch-fire, which illuminated the grass of the marsh a little distance round, and listening, in a sort of dreamy felicity, to the occasional cry of a wakeful plover, or starting suddenly at the flapping wings of a huge owl, which, attracted by the light of our fire, wheeled slowly round, gazing on us in a kind of solemn astonishment, till, scared by the sounds that proceeded from Crusty's nasal organ, it flew with a scream into the dark night air; and again all was silent save the protracted, solemn, sweeping boom of the distant waves, as they rolled at long intervals upon the sea-shore. During the night we were awakened by a shower of rain falling upon our feet and as much of our legs as the canoe was incapable of protecting. Pulling them up more under shelter, at the expense of exposing our knees and elbows -- for the canoe could not completely cover us -- we each gave a mournful grunt, and dropped off again.

Morning broke with unclouded splendour, and we rose from our grassy couch with alacrity to resume our sport; but I will not again drag my patient reader through the Point of Marsh.

In the afternoon, having spent our ammunition, we launched our light canoe, and after an hour's paddle up the river, arrived, laden with game and splashed with mud, at York Factory.

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Note 1. Quicksilver easily freezes; and it has frequently been run into a bullet mould, exposed to the cold air till frozen, and in this state rammed down a gun barrel, and fired through a thick plank.

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Note 2. The thousands of frogs that fill the swamps of America whistle or chirp so exactly like little birds, that many people, upon hearing them for the first time, have mistaken them for the feathered songsters of the groves. Their only fault is that they scarcely ever cease singing.

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Note 3. The traveller sits, or rather lies in it, wrapped in buffalo robes; while the dogs are urged forward by a man who walks behind, and prevents the machine from upsetting, which it is very liable to do, from the inequalities of the ground over which it sometimes passes.



Chapter Nine.

Voyage From York Factory To Norway House In A Small Indian Canoe --  Departure -- Life In The Woods -- Difficulties Of Canoe Navigation -- Outwit The Mosquitoes -- "Leve! Leve! Leve!" -- Music In The Pot And On The Organ.

On the afternoon of the 20th of June 1845, I sat in my room at York Fort, musing on the probability of my being dispatched to some other part of the Company's wide dominions.

The season approached when changes from one part of the country to another might be expected, and boats began to arrive from the interior. Two years of fun and frolic had I spent on the coast, and I was beginning to wish to be sent once more upon my travels, particularly as the busy season was about to commence, and the hot weather to set in.

As I sat cogitating, my brother scribblers called me to join them in a short promenade upon the wharf, preparatory to resuming our pens. Just as we reached it, a small Indian canoe from the interior swept round the point above the factory, and came rapidly forward, the sparkling water foaming past her sharp bow as she made towards the landing.

At almost any time an arrival causes a great deal of interest in this out-of-the-way place; but an arrival of this sort -- for the canoe was evidently an express -- threw us into a fever of excitement, which was greatly increased when we found that it contained dispatches from headquarters; and many speculative remarks passed among us as we hurried up to our hall, there to wait in anxious expectation for a letter or an order to appear instanter before Mr Grave. Our patience was severely tried, however, and we began to think there was no news at all, when Gibeault, the butler, turned the corner, and came towards our door. We immediately rushed towards it in breathless expectation, and a row of eager faces appeared as he walked slowly up and said, "Mr Grave wishes to see Mr Ballantyne immediately." On hearing this I assumed an appearance of calm indifference I was far from feeling, put on my cap, and obeyed the order.

Upon entering Mr Grave's presence, he received me with a benign, patronising air, and requested me to be seated. He then went on to inform me that letters had just arrived, requesting that I might be sent off immediately to Norway House, where I should be enlightened as to my ultimate destination. This piece of news I received with mingled surprise and delight, at the same time exclaiming "Indeed!" with peculiar emphasis; and then, becoming suddenly aware of the impropriety of the expression, I endeavoured to follow it up with a look of sorrow at the prospect of leaving my friends, combined with resignation to the will of the Honourable Hudson Bay Company, in which attempt I failed most signally. After receiving orders to prepare for an immediate start, I rushed out in a state of high excitement, to acquaint my comrades with my good fortune. On entering the hall, I found them as anxious to know where I was destined to vegetate next winter, as they before had been to learn who was going off. Having satisfied them on this point, or rather told them as much as I knew myself regarding it, I proceeded to pack up.

It happened just at this time that a brigade of inland boats was on the eve of starting for the distant regions of the interior; and as the little canoe, destined to carry myself, was much too small to take such an unwieldy article as my "cassette," I gladly availed myself of the opportunity to forward it by the boats, as they would have to pass Norway House en route. It would be endless to detail how I spent the next three days: how I never appeared in public without walking very fast, as if pressed with a superhuman amount of business; how I rummaged about here and there, seeing that everything was prepared; looking vastly important, and thinking I was immensely busy, when in reality I was doing next to nothing. I shall, therefore, without further preface, proceed to describe my travelling equipments.

The canoe in which I and two Indians were to travel from York Factory to Norway House, a distance of nearly three hundred miles, measured between five and six yards long, by two feet and a half broad in the middle, tapering from thence to nothing at each end. It was made of birch bark, and could with great ease be carried by one man. In this we were to embark, with ten days' provisions for three men, three blankets, three small bundles, and a little travelling-case belonging to myself; besides three paddles wherewith to propel us forward, a tin kettle for cooking, and an iron one for boiling water. Our craft being too small to permit my taking the usual allowance of what are called luxuries, I determined to take pot-luck with my men, so that our existence for the next eight or ten days was to depend upon the nutritive properties contained in a few pounds of pemmican, a little biscuit, one pound of butter, and a very small quantity of tea and sugar. With all this, in addition to ourselves, we calculated upon being pretty deeply laden.

My men were of the tribe called Swampy Crees -- and truly, to judge merely from appearance, they would have been the very last I should have picked out to travel with; for one was old, apparently upwards of fifty, and the other, though young, was a cripple. Nevertheless, they were good, hard-working men, as I afterwards experienced. I did not take a tent with me, our craft requiring to be as light as possible, but I rolled up a mosquito-net in my blanket, that being a light affair of gauze, capable of compression into very small compass. Such were our equipments; and on the 23rd of June we started for the interior.

A melancholy feeling came over me as I turned and looked for the last time upon York Factory, where I had spent so many happy days with the young men who now stood waving their handkerchiefs from the wharf. Mr Grave, too, stood among them, and as I looked on his benevolent, manly countenance, I felt that I should ever remember with gratitude his kindness to me while we resided together on the shores of Hudson Bay. A few minutes more, and the fort was hid from my sight for ever.

My disposition is not a sorrowful one; I never did and never could remain long in a melancholy mood, which will account for the state of feeling I enjoyed half an hour after losing sight of my late home. The day was fine, and I began to anticipate a pleasant journey, and to speculate as to what part of the country I might be sent to. The whole wide continent of North America was now open to the excursive flights of my imagination, as there was a possibility of my being sent to any one of the numerous stations in the extensive territories of the Hudson Bay Company. Sometimes I fancied myself ranging through the wild district of Mackenzie River, admiring the scenery described by Franklin and Back in their travels of discovery; and anon, as the tales of my companions occurred to me, I was bounding over the prairies of the Saskatchewan in chase of the buffalo, or descending the rapid waters of the Columbia to the Pacific Ocean. Again my fancy wandered, and I imagined myself hunting the grizzly bear in the woods of Athabasca -- when a heavy lurch of the canoe awakened me to the fact that I was only ascending the sluggish waters of Hayes River.

The banks of the river were covered with huge blocks of ice, and scarcely a leaf had as yet made its appearance. Not a bird was to be seen, except a few crows and whisky-jacks, which chattered among the branches of the trees; and Nature appeared as if undecided whether or not she should take another nap, ere she bedecked herself in the garments of spring. My Indians paddled slowly against the stream, and I lay back, with a leg cocked over each gunwale, watching the sombre pines as they dropped slowly astern. On our way we passed two landslips which encroached a good deal on the river, each forming a small rapid round its base. The trees with which they had formerly been clothed were now scattered about in chaotic confusion, leafless, and covered with mud; some more than half buried, and others standing with their roots in the air. There is a tradition among the natives that a whole camp of Indians was overwhelmed in the falling of these slips.

A good deal of danger is incurred in passing up these rivers, owing to the number of small landslips which occur annually. The banks, being principally composed of sandy clay, are loosened, and rendered almost fluid in many places, upon the melting of the snow in spring; and the ice, during the general disruption, tears away large masses of the lower part of the banks, which renders the superincumbent clay liable to slip, upon the first heavy shower of rain, with considerable force into the stream.

About sixteen miles from York Factory we ran against a stone, and tore a small hole in the bottom of our canoe. This obliged us to put ashore immediately, when I had an opportunity of watching the swiftness and dexterity of the Indians in repairing the damage. A small hole, about three inches long and one inch wide, had been torn in the bottom of the canoe, through which the water squirted with considerable rapidity. Into this hole they fitted a piece of bark, sewed it with wattape (the fibrous roots of the pine-tree), made a small fire, melted gum, and plastered the place so as to be effectually water-tight, all in about the space of an hour.

During the day we passed a brigade of boats bound for the factory; but being too far off, and in a rapid part of the river we did not hail them. About nine o'clock we put ashore for the night, having travelled nearly twenty miles. The weather was pleasantly cool, so that we were free from mosquitoes. The spot we chose for our encampment was on the edge of a high bank, being the only place within three miles where we could carry up our provisions; and even here the ascent was bad enough. But after we were up, the top proved a good spot, covered with soft moss, and well sheltered by trees and bushes. A brook of fresh water rippled at the foot of the bank, and a few decayed trees afforded us excellent firewood. Here, then, in the bosom of the wilderness, with the silvery light of the moon for our lamp, and serenaded by a solitary owl, we made our first bivouac. Supper was neatly laid out on an oil-cloth, spread before a blazing fire. A huge junk of pemmican graced the centre of our rustic table, flanked by a small pile of ship's biscuit on one side, and a lump of salt butter on the other; while a large iron kettle filled with hot water, slightly flavoured with tea-leaves, brought up the rear. Two tin pots and a tumbler performed outpost duty, and were soon smoking full of warm tea. We made an excellent supper, after which the Indians proceeded to solace themselves with a whiff, while I lay on my blanket enjoying the warmth of the fire, and admiring the apparently extreme felicity of the men, as they sat, with half-closed eyes, watching the smoke curling in snowy wreaths from their pipes, and varying their employment now and then with a pull at the tin pots, which seemed to afford them extreme satisfaction. In this manner we lay till the moon waned; and the owl having finished his overture, we rolled ourselves in our blankets, and watched the twinkling star, till sleep closed our eyelids.

Next morning, between two and three o'clock, we began to stretch our limbs, and after a few ill-humoured grunts prepared for a start. The morning was foggy when we embarked and once more began to ascend the stream. Everything was obscure and indistinct till about six o'clock, when the powerful rays of the rising sun dispelled the mist, and Nature was herself again. A good deal of ice still lined the shores; but what astonished me most was the advanced state of vegetation apparent as we proceeded inland. When we left York Factory, not a leaf had been visible; but here, though only thirty miles inland, the trees, and more particularly the bushes, were well covered with beautiful light green foliage, which appeared to me quite delightful after the patches of snow and leafless willows on the shores of Hudson Bay.

At eight o'clock we put ashore for breakfast -- which was just a repetition of the supper of the preceding night, with this exception, that we discussed it a little more hurriedly -- and then proceeded on our way.

Shortly afterwards we met a small canoe, about the size of our own, which contained a postmaster and two Indians, on their way to York Factory with a few packs of otters. After five minutes' conversation we parted, and were soon out of sight of each other. The day, which had hitherto been agreeable, now became oppressively sultry: not a breath of wind ruffled the water; and as the sun shone down with intense heat from a perfectly cloudless sky, it became almost insufferable. I tried all methods to cool myself, by lying in every position I could think of, sometimes even hanging both legs and arms over the sides of the canoe and trailing them through the water. I had a racking headache, and, to add to my misery, as the sun sank the mosquitoes rose and bit ferociously. The Indians, however, did not appear to suffer much, being accustomed, no doubt, to these little annoyances, much in the same way as eels are to being skinned.

In the afternoon we arrived at the forks of Hayes and Steel Rivers, and ascended the latter, till the increasing darkness and our quickening appetites reminded us that it was time to put ashore. We made a hearty supper, having eaten nothing since breakfast; dinner, while travelling in a light canoe, being considered quite superfluous.

Our persevering foes, the mosquitoes, now thought it high time to make their supper also, and attacked us in myriads whenever we dared to venture near the woods; so we were fain to sleep as best we could on the open beach, without any fire -- being much too warm for that. But even there they found us out, and most effectually prevented us from sleeping.

On the morning of the 25th, we arose very little refreshed by our short nap, and continued our journey. The weather was still warm, but a little more bearable, owing to a light, grateful breeze that came down the river. After breakfast -- which we took at the usual hour, and in the usual way -- while proceeding slowly up the current, we descried, on rounding a point, a brigade of boats close to the bank, on the opposite side of the river; so we embarked our man, who was tracking us up with a line (the current being too rapid for the continued use of the paddle), and crossed over to see who they were. On landing, we found it was the Norway House brigade, in charge of George Kippling, a Red River settler. He shook hands with us, and then commenced an animated discourse with my two men in the Indian language, which being perfectly unintelligible to me, I amused myself by watching the operations of the men, who were in the act of cooking breakfast.

Nothing can be more picturesque than a band of voyageurs breakfasting on the banks of a pretty river. The spot they had chosen was a little above the Burntwood Creek, on a projecting grassy point, pretty clear of underwood. Each boat's crew -- of which there were three -- had a fire to itself, and over these fires were placed gipsy-like tripods, from which huge tin kettles depended; and above them hovered three volunteer cooks, who were employed stirring their contents with persevering industry. The curling wreaths of smoke formed a black cloud among the numerous fleecy ones in the blue sky, while all around, in every imaginable attitude, sat, stood, and reclined the sunburnt, savage-looking half-breeds, chatting, laughing, and smoking in perfect happiness. They were all dressed alike, in light cloth capotes with hoods, corduroy trousers, striped shirts open in front, with cotton kerchiefs tied sailor-fashion loosely round their swarthy necks. A scarlet worsted belt strapped each man's coat tightly to his body, and Indian moccasins defended their feet. Their head-dresses were as various as fanciful --  some wore caps of coarse cloth; others coloured handkerchiefs, twisted turban-fashion round their heads; and one or two, who might be looked upon as voyageur-fops, sported tall black hats, covered so plenteously with bullion tassels and feathers as to be scarcely recognisable.

The breakfast consisted solely of pemmican and flour, boiled into the sort of thick soup dignified by the name of robbiboo. As might be expected, it is not a very delicate dish, but is, nevertheless, exceedingly nutritious; and those who have lived long in the country, particularly the Canadians, are very fond of it. I think, however, that another of their dishes, composed of the same materials, but fried instead of boiled, is much superior to it. They call it richeau; it is uncommonly rich, and very little will suffice for an ordinary man.

After staying about a quarter of an hour, chatting with Kippling about the good folk of Red River and Norway House, we took our departure, just as they commenced the first vigorous attack upon the capacious kettles of robbiboo.

Shortly after, we arrived at the mouth of Hill River, which we began to ascend. The face of the country was now greatly changed, and it was evident that here spring had long ago dethroned winter. The banks of the river were covered from top to bottom with the most luxuriant foliage, while dark clumps of spruce-fir varied and improved the landscape. In many places the banks, which appeared to be upwards of a hundred feet high, ran almost perpendicularly down to the water's edge, perfectly devoid of vegetation, except at the top, where large trees overhung the precipice, some clinging by their roots and ready to fall. In other places the bank sloped from nearly the same height, gradually, and with slight undulations, down to the stream, thickly covered with vegetation, and teeming with little birds, whose merry voices, warbling a cheerful welcome to the opening buds, greatly enhanced the pleasures of the scene.

We soon began to experience great difficulty in tracking the canoe against the rapid stream that now opposed us. From the steepness of the banks in some places, and their being clothed with thick willows in others, it became a slow and fatiguing process for the men to drag us against the strong current; and sometimes the poor Indians had to cling like flies against nearly perpendicular cliffs of slippery clay, whilst at others they tore their way through almost impervious bushes. They relieved each other by turns every hour at this work, the one steering the canoe while the other tracked; and they took no rest during the whole day, except when at breakfast. Indeed, any proposal to do so would have been received by them with great contempt, as a very improper and useless waste of time.

When the track happened to be at all passable, I used to get out and walk, to relieve them a little, as well as to stretch my cramped limbs, it being almost impossible, when there is any luggage in a small Indian canoe, to attain a comfortable position.

At sunset we put ashore for the night, on a point covered with a great number of lopsticks. These are tall pine-trees, denuded of their lower branches, a small tuft being left at the top. They are generally made to serve as landmarks; and sometimes the voyageurs make them in honour of gentlemen who happen to be travelling for the first time along the route -- and those trees are chosen which, from their being on elevated ground, are conspicuous objects. The traveller for whom they are made is always expected to acknowledge his sense of the honour conferred upon him by presenting the boat's crew with a pint of grog, either on the spot or at the first establishment they meet with. He is then considered as having paid for his footing, and may ever afterwards pass scot-free.

We soon had our encampment prepared, and the fire blazing: but hundreds of mosquitoes were, as usual, awaiting our arrival, and we found it utterly impossible to sup, so fiercely did they attack us. We at last went to leeward of the fire, and devoured it hastily in the smoke --  preferring to risk being suffocated or smoke-dried to being eaten up alive! It was certainly amusing to see us rushing into the thick smoke, bolt a few mouthfuls of pemmican, and then rush out again for fresh air; our hands swinging like the sails of a windmill round our heads, while every now and then, as a mosquito fastened on a tender part, we gave ourselves a resounding slap on the side of the head, which, had it come from the hand of another, would certainly have raised in us a most pugnacious spirit of resentment. In this manner we continued rushing out of and into the smoke till supper was finished, and then prepared for sleep. This time, however, I was determined not to be tormented; so I cut four stakes, drove them into the ground, and threw over them my gauze mosquito-net, previously making a small fire, with wet grass on it, to raise a smoke and prevent intruders from entering while I was in the act of putting it on; then, cautiously raising one end, I bolted in after the most approved harlequinian style, leaving my discomfited tormentors wondering at the audacity of a man who could snore in a state of unconcerned felicity in the very midst of the enemy's camp.

On the following morning we started at an early hour. The day was delightfully cool, and mosquitoes were scarce, so that we felt considerably comfortable as we glided quietly up the current. In this way we proceeded till after breakfast, when we came in sight of the first portage, on which we landed. In a surprisingly short time our luggage, etcetera, was pitched ashore, and the canoe carried over by the Indians, while I followed with some of the baggage; and in half an hour we were ready to start from the upper end of the portage. While carrying across the last few articles, one of the Indians killed two fish called suckers, which they boiled on the spot and devoured immediately.

Towards sunset we paddled quietly up to the "White Mud Portage," where there is a fall, of about seven or eight feet, of extreme rapidity, shooting over the edge in an arch of solid water, which falls hissing and curling into the stream below. Here we intended to encamp. As we approached the cataract, a boat suddenly appeared on the top of it, and shot with the speed of lightning into the boiling water beneath, its reckless crew shouting, pulling, laughing, and hallooing, as it swept round a small point at the foot of the fall and ran aground in a bay or hollow, where the eddying water, still covered with patches of foam after its mighty leap, floated quietly round the shore. They had scarcely landed when another boat appeared on the brink, and, hovering for an instant, as if to prepare itself for the leap, flashed through the water, and the next moment was aground beside the first. In this manner seven boats successively ran the fall, and grounded in the bay.

Upon our arriving, we found them to be a part of the Saskatchewan brigade, on its way to the common point of rendezvous, York Factory. It was in charge of two friends of mine; so I accosted them, without introducing myself, and chatted for some time about the occurrences of the voyage. They appeared a little disconcerted, however, and looked very earnestly at me two or three times. At last they confessed they had forgotten me altogether! And, indeed, it was no wonder, for the sun had burned me nearly as black as my Indian friends, while my dress consisted of a blue capote, sadly singed by the fire; a straw hat, whose shape, from exposure and bad usage, was utterly indescribable; a pair of corduroys, and Indian moccasins; which so metamorphosed me, that my friends, who perfectly recollected me the moment I mentioned my name, might have remained in ignorance to this day had I not enlightened them on the subject.

After supper one of these gentlemen offered me a share of his tent, and we turned in together, but not to sleep; for we continued gossiping till long after the noisy voices of the men had ceased to disturb the tranquillity of night.

At the first peep of day our ears were saluted with the usual unpleasant sound of "Leve! leve! leve!" issuing from the leathern throat of the guide. Now this same "Leve!" is in my ears a peculiarly harsh and disagreeable word, being associated with frosty mornings, uncomfortable beds, and getting up in the dark before half enough of sleep has been obtained. The way in which it is uttered, too, is particularly exasperating; and often, when partially awakened by a stump boring a hole in my side, have I listened with dread to hear the detested sound, and then, fancying it must surely be too early to rise, have fallen gently over on the other side, when a low muffled sound, as if some one were throwing off his blanket, would strike upon my ear, then a cough or grunt, and finally, as if from the bowels of the earth, a low and scarcely audible "Leve! leve!" would break the universal stillness --  growing rapidly louder, "Leve! leve! leve!" and louder, "Leve! leve!" till at last a final stentorian "Leve! leve! leve!" brought the hateful sound to a close, and was succeeded by a confused collection of grunts, groans, coughs, grumbles, and sneezes from the unfortunate sleepers thus rudely roused from their slumbers. The disinclination to rise, however, was soon overcome; and up we got, merry as larks, the men loading their boats, while I and my Indians carried our luggage, etcetera, over the portage.

Our troubles now commenced: the longest and most difficult part of the route lay before us, and we prepared for a day of toil. Far as the eye could reach, the river was white with boiling rapids and foaming cascades, which, though small, were much too large to ascend, and consequently we were obliged to make portages at almost every two or three hundred yards. Rapid after rapid was surmounted; yet still, as we rounded every point and curve, rapids and falls rose, in apparently endless succession, before our wearied eyes. My Indians, however, knew exactly the number they had to ascend, so they set themselves manfully to the task. I could not help admiring the dexterous way in which they guided the canoe among the rapids. Upon arriving at one, the old Indian, who always sat in the bow (this being the principal seat in canoe travelling), rose up on his knees and stretched out his neck to take a look before commencing the attempt; and then, sinking down again, seized his paddle, and pointing significantly to the chaos of boiling waters that rushed swiftly past us (thus indicating the route he intended to pursue to his partner in the stern), dashed into the stream. At first we were borne down with the speed of lightning, while the water hissed and boiled to within an inch of the gunwale, and a person unaccustomed to such navigation would have thought it folly our attempting to ascend; but a second glance would prove that our Indians had not acted rashly. In the centre of the impetuous current a large rock rose above the surface, and from its lower end a long eddy ran like the tail of a comet for about twenty yards down the river. It was just opposite this rock that we entered the rapid, and paddled for it with all our might. The current, however, as I said before, swept us down; and when we got to the middle of the stream, we just reached the extreme point of the eddy, and after a few vigorous strokes of the paddles were floating quietly in the lee of the rock. We did not stay long, however -- just long enough to look for another stone; and the old Indian soon pitched upon one a few yards higher up, but a good deal to one side; so, dipping our paddles once more, we pushed out into the stream again, and soon reached the second rock. In this way, yard by yard, did we ascend for miles, sometimes scarcely gaining a foot in a minute, and at others, as a favouring bay or curve presented a long piece of smooth water, advancing more rapidly. In fact, our progress could not be likened to anything more aptly than to the ascent of a salmon as he darts rapidly from eddy to eddy, taking advantage of every stone and hollow that he finds: and the simile may be still further carried out; for, as the salmon is sometimes driven back tail foremost in attempting to leap a fall, so were we, in a similar attempt, driven back by the overpowering force of the water.

It happened thus: We had surmounted a good many rapids, and made a few portages, when we arrived at a perpendicular fall of about two feet in height, but from the rapidity of the current it formed only a very steep shoot. Here the Indians paused to breathe, and seemed to doubt the possibility of ascent; however, after a little conversation on the subject, they determined to try it, and got out their poles for the purpose (poles being always used when the current is too strong for the paddles). We now made a dash, and turning the bow to the current, the Indians fixed their poles firmly in the ground, while the water rushed like a mill-race past us. They then pushed forward, one keeping his pole fixed, while the other refixed his a little more ahead. In this way we advanced inch by inch, and had almost got up -- the water rushing past us in a thick, black body, hissing sharply in passing the side of our canoe, which trembled like a reed before the powerful current -- when suddenly the pole of the Indian in the stern slipped; and almost before I knew what had happened, we were floating down the stream about a hundred yards below the fall. Fortunately the canoe went stern foremost, so that we got down in safety. Had it turned round even a little in its descent, it would have been rolled over and over like a cask. Our second attempt proved more successful; and after a good deal of straining and puffing we arrived at the top, where the sight of a longer stretch than usual of calm and placid water rewarded us for our exertions during the day.

In passing over a portage we met the English River brigade; and after a little conversation, we parted. The evening was deliciously cool and serene as we glided quietly up the now tranquil river. Numbers of little islets, covered to the very edge of the rippling water with luxuriant vegetation, rose like emeralds from the bosom of the broad river, shining brightly in the rays of the setting sun; sometimes so closely scattered as to veil the real size of the river, which, upon our again emerging from among them, burst upon our delighted vision a broad sheet of clear pellucid water, with beautiful fresh banks covered with foliage of every shade, from the dark and sombre pine to the light drooping willow; while near the shore a matronly-looking duck swam solemnly along, casting now and then a look of warning to a numerous family of little yellow ducklings that frisked and gambolled in very wantonness, as if they too enjoyed and appreciated the beauties of the scene. Through this terrestrial paradise we wended our way, till rapids again began to disturb the water, and a portage at last brought us to a stand. Here we found McNab, who had left York Factory three days before us with his brigade, just going to encamp; so we also brought up for the night. When supper was ready, I sent an invitation to McNab to come and sup with me, which he accepted, at the same time bringing his brother with him. The elder was a bluff, good-natured Red River settler, with whom I had become acquainted while in the colony; and we chatted of bygone times and mutual acquaintances over a cup of excellent tea, till long after the sun had gone down, leaving the blazing camp-fires to illuminate the scene.

Next morning we started at the same time with the boats; but our little canoe soon passed them in the rapids, and we saw no more of them. Our way was not now so much impeded by rapids as it had hitherto been; and by breakfast-time we had surmounted them all and arrived at the Dram-stone, where we put ashore for our morning meal. In the morning I shot a duck, being the first that had come within range since I left York Factory. Ducks were very scarce, and the few that we did see were generally accompanied by a numerous offspring not much bigger than the eggs which originally contained them. While taking breakfast we were surprised by hearing a quick rushing sound a little above us, and the next moment a light canoe came sweeping round a point and made towards us. It was one of those called "north canoes," which are calculated to carry eight men as a crew, besides three passengers. The one now before us was built much the same as an Indian canoe, but somewhat neater, and ornamented with sundry ingenious devices painted in gaudy colours on the bows and stern. It was manned by eight men and apparently one passenger, to whom I hallooed once or twice; but they took me, no doubt, for an Indian, and so passed on without taking any notice of us. As the noble bark bounded quickly forward and was hid by intervening trees, I bent a look savouring slightly of contempt upon our little Indian canoe, and proceeded to finish breakfast.

A solitary north canoe, however, passing thus in silence, can give but a faint idea of the sensation felt on seeing a brigade of them arriving at a post after a long journey. It is then that they appear in wild perfection. The voyageurs upon such occasions are dressed in their best clothes; and gaudy feathers, ribbons, and tassels stream in abundance from their caps and garters. Painted gaily, and ranged side by side, like contending chargers, the light canoes skim swiftly over the water, bounding under the vigorous and rapid strokes of the small but numerous paddles, while the powerful voyageurs strain every muscle to urge them quickly on. And while yet in the distance, the beautifully simple and lively yet plaintive paddling song, so well suited to the surrounding scenery, and so different from any other air, breaks sweetly on the ear; and one reflects, with a kind of subdued and pleasing melancholy, how far the singers are from their native land, and how many long and weary days of danger and of toil will pass before they can rest once more in their Canadian homes. How strangely, too, upon their nearer approach, is this feeling changed for one of exultation, as the deep and manly voices swell in chorus over the placid waters, while a competition arises among them who shall first arrive; and the canoes dash over the water with arrow-speed to the very edge of the wharf, where they come suddenly, and as by magic, to a pause. This is effected by each man backing water with his utmost force; after which they roll their paddles on the gunwale simultaneously, enveloping themselves in a shower of spray as they shake the dripping water from the bright vermilion blades. Truly it is an animating, inspiriting scene, the arrival of a brigade of light canoes.

Our route now lay through a number of small lakes and rivers, with scarcely any current in them; so we proceeded happily on our way with the cheering prospect of uninterrupted travelling. We had crossed Swampy Lake, and, after making one or two insignificant portages, entered Knee Lake. This body of water obtained its name from turning at a sharp angle near its centre, and stretching out in an opposite direction from its preceding course; thus forming something like a knee. Late in the evening we encamped on one of the small islands with which it is here and there dotted. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the view we had of the lake from our encampment. Not a breath of wind stirred its glassy surface, which shone in the ruddy rays of the sun setting on its bosom in the distant horizon; and I sat long upon the rocks admiring the lovely scene, while one of my Indians filled the tea-kettle, and the other was busily engaged in skinning a minx for supper. Our evening meal was further enriched by the addition of a great many small gulls' eggs, which we had found on an island during the day -- which, saving one or two that showed evident symptoms of being far advanced towards birdhood, were excellent.

On the following morning the scene was entirely changed. Dark and lowering clouds flew across the sky, and the wind blew furiously, with a melancholy moaning sound, through the trees. The lake, which the night before had been so calm and tranquil, was now of a dark leaden hue, and covered with foaming waves. However, we determined to proceed, and launched our canoe accordingly; but soon finding the wind too strong for us, we put ashore on a small island and breakfasted. As the weather moderated after breakfast, we made another attempt to advance. Numerous islets studded the lake, and on one of them we landed to collect gulls' eggs. Of these we found enough; but among them were a number of little yellow gulls, chattering vociferously, and in terrible consternation at our approach, while the old ones kept uttering the most plaintive cries overhead. The eggs were very small, being those of a small species of gull which frequents those inland lakes in great numbers. The wind again began to rise; and after a little consultation on the subject we landed, intending to spend the remainder of the day on shore.

We now, for the first time since leaving York Factory, prepared dinner, which we expected would be quite a sumptuous one, having collected a good many eggs in the morning; so we set about it with alacrity. A fire was quickly made, the tea-kettle on, and a huge pot containing upwards of a hundred eggs placed upon the fire. These we intended to boil hard and carry with us. Being very hungry, I watched the progress of dinner with much interest, while the Indians smoked in silence. While sitting thus, my attention was attracted by a loud whistling sound that greatly perplexed me, as I could not discover whence it proceeded -- I got up once or twice to see what it could be, but found nothing, although it sounded as if close beside me. At last one of the Indians rose, and, standing close to the fire, bent in a very attentive attitude over the kettle; and, after listening a little while, took up one of the eggs and broke it, when out came a young gull with a monstrous head and no feathers, squeaking and chirping in a most indefatigable manner! "So much for our dinner!" thought I, as he threw the bird into the lake, and took out a handful of eggs, which all proved to be much in the same condition. The warmth of the water put life into the little birds, which, however, was speedily destroyed when it began to boil. We did not despair, nevertheless, of finding a few good ones amongst them; so, after they were well cooked, we all sat round the kettle and commenced operations. Some were good and others slightly spoiled, while many were intersected with red veins, but the greater part contained boiled birds. The Indians were not nice, however, and we managed to make a good dinner off them after all.

In the afternoon the weather cleared up and the wind moderated, but we had scarcely got under weigh again when a thunderstorm arose and obliged us to put ashore; and there we remained for four hours sitting under a tree, while the rain poured in torrents. In the evening Nature tired of teasing us; and the sun shone brightly out as we once more resumed our paddles. To make up for lost time, we travelled until about two o'clock next morning, when we put ashore to rest a little; and, as the night was fine, we just threw our blankets over our shoulders and tumbled down on the first convenient spot we could find, without making a fire or taking any supper. We had not lain long, however, when I felt a curious chilly sensation all along my side, which effectually awakened me; and then I saw, or rather heard, that a perfect deluge of rain was descending upon our luckless heads, and that I had been reposing in the centre of a large puddle. This state of things was desperate; and as the poor Indians seemed to be as thoroughly uncomfortable as they possibly could be, I proposed to start again -- which we did, and before daylight were many a mile from our wretched encampment. As the sun rose the weather cleared up, and soon after we came to the end of Knee Lake and commenced the ascent of Trout River. Here I made a sketch of the Trout Falls while the men made a portage to avoid them. With a few Indians encamped on this portage we exchanged a little pemmican for some excellent white-fish, a great treat to us after living so long on pemmican and tea. Our biscuit had run short a few days before, and the pound of butter which we brought from York Factory had melted into oil from the excessive heat, and vanished through the bottom of the canvas bag containing it. Trout River, though short, has a pretty fair share of falls and rapids, which we continued ascending all day. The scenery was pleasing and romantic; but there was nothing of grandeur in it, the country being low, flat, and, excepting on the banks of the river, uninteresting. In the afternoon we came to the end of this short river, and arrived at Oxford House. We landed in silence, and I walked slowly up the hill, but not a soul appeared. At last, as I neared the house, I caught a glimpse of a little boy's face at the window, who no sooner saw me than his eyes opened to their widest extent, while his mouth followed their example, and he disappeared with a precipitancy that convinced me he was off to tell his mother the astounding news that somebody had arrived. The next moment I was shaking hands with my old friend Mrs Gordon and her two daughters, whom I found engaged in the interesting occupation of preparing tea. From them I learned that they were entirely alone, with only one man to take care of the post -- Mr Gordon, whom they expected back every day, having gone to Norway House.

I spent a delightful evening with this kind and hospitable family, talking of our mutual friends, and discussing the affairs of the country, till a tall box in a corner of the room attracted my attention. This I discovered to my delight was no less than a barrel-organ, on which one of the young ladies at my request played a few tunes. Now, barrel-organs, be it known, were things that I had detested from my infancy upwards; but this dislike arose principally from my having been brought up in the dear town o' Auld Reekie, where barrel-organ music is, as it were, crammed down one's throat without permission being asked or received, and even, indeed, where it is decidedly objected to. Everybody said, too, that barrel-organs were a nuisance, and of course I believed them; so that I left my home with a decided dislike to barrel-organs in general. Four years' residence, however, in the bush had rendered me much less fastidious in music, as well as in many other things; and during the two last years spent at York Factory, not a solitary note of melody had soothed my longing ear, so that it was with a species of rapture that I now ground away at the handle of this organ, which happened to be a very good one, and played in perfect tune. "God Save the Queen," "Rule Britannia," "Lord McDonald's Reel," and the "Blue Bells of Scotland" were played over and over again; and, old and threadbare though they be, to me they were replete with endearing associations, and sounded like the well-known voices of long, long absent friends. I spent indeed a delightful evening; and its pleasures were the more enhanced from the circumstance of its being the first, after a banishment of two years, which I had spent in the society of the fair sex.

Next morning was fine, though the wind blew pretty fresh, and we started before breakfast, having taken leave of the family the night before. This was the 1st of July. We had been eight days on the route, which is rather a long time for a canoe to take to reach Oxford House; but as most of the portages were now over, we calculated upon arriving at Norway House in two or three days.

In the afternoon the wind blew again, and obliged us to encamp on a small island, where we remained all day. While there, a couple of Indians visited us, and gave us an immense trout in exchange for some pemmican. This trout I neglected to measure, but I am convinced it was more than three feet long and half a foot broad: it was very good, and we made a capital dinner off it. During the day, as it was very warm, I had a delightful swim in the lake, on the lee of the island.

The wind moderated a little in the evening, and we again embarked, making up for lost time by travelling till midnight, when we put ashore and went to sleep without making a fire or taking any supper. About four o'clock we started again, and in a couple of hours came to the end of Oxford Lake, after which we travelled through a number of small swamps or reedy lakes, and stagnant rivers, among which I got so bewildered that I gave up the attempt to chronicle their names as hopeless; and indeed it was scarcely worth while, as they were so small and overgrown with bulrushes that they were no more worthy of a name in such a place as America than a dub would be in Scotland. The weather was delightfully cool, and mosquitoes not troublesome, so that we proceeded with pleasure and rapidity.

While thus threading our way through narrow channels and passages, upon turning a point we met three light canoes just on the point of putting ashore for breakfast, so I told my Indians to run ashore near them. As we approached, I saw that there were five gentlemen assembled, with whom I was acquainted, so that I was rather anxious to get ashore; but, alas! fortune had determined to play me a scurvy trick, for no sooner had my foot touched the slippery stone on which I intended to land, than down I came squash on my breast in a most humiliating manner, while my legs kept playfully waving about in the cooling element. This unfortunate accident, I saw, occasioned a strange elongation in the lateral dimensions of the mouths of the party on shore, who stood in silence admiring the scene. I knew, however, that to appear annoyed would only make matters worse; so, with a desperate effort to appear at ease, I rose, and while shaking hands with them, expressed my belief that there was nothing so conducive to health as a cold bath in the morning. After a laugh at my expense, we sat down to breakfast. One of the gentlemen gave me a letter from the Governor, and I now learned, for the first time, that I was to take a passage in one of the light canoes for Montreal. Here, then, was a termination to my imaginary rambles on the Rocky Mountains, or on the undulating prairies of the Saskatchewan; and instead of massacring buffalo and deer in the bush, I was in a short time to endeavour to render myself a respectable member of civilised society. I was delighted with the idea of the change, however, and it was with a firmer step and lighter heart that I took my leave and once more stepped into the canoe.

After passing through a succession of swamps and narrow channels, we arrived at Robinson's Portage, where we found voyageurs running about in all directions, some with goods on their backs, and others returning light to the other end of the portage. We found that they belonged to the Oxford House boats, which had just arrived at the other end of the portage, where they intended to encamp, as it was now late. Robinson's Portage is the longest on the route, being nearly a mile in length; and as all the brigades going to York Factory must pass over it twice -- in going and returning -- the track is beaten into a good broad road, and pretty firm, although it is rather uneven, and during heavy rains somewhat muddy. Over this all the boats are dragged, and launched at the upper or lower end of the portage, as the brigades may happen to be ascending or descending the stream. Then all the cargoes are in like manner carried over. Packs of furs and bales of goods are generally from 80 to 100 pounds weight each; and every man who does not wish to be considered a lazy fellow, or to be ridiculed by his companions, carries two of these pieces, as they are called, across all portages. The boats are capable of containing from seventy to ninety of these pieces, so that it will be easily conceived that a voyageur's life is anything but an easy one; indeed, it is one of constant and harassing toil, even were the trouble of ascending rapid rivers, where he is often obliged to jump into the water at a moment's notice, to lighten the boat in shallows, left entirely out of the question. This portage is made to avoid what are called the White Falls -- a succession of cataracts up which nothing but a fish could possibly ascend. After carrying over our canoe and luggage, we encamped at the upper end. The river we commenced ascending next morning was pretty broad, and after a short paddle in it we entered the Echimamis. This is a sluggish serpentine stream, about five or six yards broad, though in some places so narrow that boats scrape the banks on either side. What little current there is runs in a contrary direction to the rivers we had been ascending. Mosquitoes again attacked us as we glided down its gloomy current, and nothing but swamps, filled with immense bulrushes, were visible around. Here, in days of yore, the beaver had a flourishing colony, and numbers of their dams and cuttings were yet visible; but they have long since deserted this much-frequented waste, and one of their principal dams now serves to heighten the water, which is not deep, for the passage of brigades in dry seasons. At night, when we encamped on its low, damp banks, we were attacked by myriads of mosquitoes, so that we could only sleep by making several fires round us, the smoke from which partially protected us. About three o'clock in the morning, which was very warm, we re-embarked, and at noon arrived at the Sea Portage (why so called I know not, as it is hundreds of miles inland), which is the last on the route. This portage is very short, and is made to surmount a pretty large waterfall. Almost immediately afterwards we entered Playgreen Lake, and put ashore on a small island, to alter our attire before arriving at Norway House.

Here, with the woods for our closet, and the clear lake for our basin as well as looking-glass, we proceeded to scrub our sunburnt faces; and in half an hour, having made ourselves as respectable as circumstances would permit, we paddled swiftly over the lake. It is pretty long, and it was not until evening that I caught the first glimpse of the bright spire of the Wesleyan Church at Rossville.

We now approached the termination of our journey, for the time at least; and it was with pleasing recollections that I recognised the well-known rocks where I had so often wandered three years before. When we came in sight of the fort, it was in a state of bustle and excitement as usual, and I could perceive from the vigorous shaking of hands going forward, from the number of voyageurs collected on the landing-place, and of boats assembled at the wharf, that there had just been an arrival. Our poor little canoe was not taken any notice of as it neared the wharf, until some of the people on shore observed that there was some one in the middle of it sitting in a very lazy, indolent position, which is quite uncommon among Indians. In another minute we gained the bank, and I grasped the hand of my kind friend and former chief, Mr Russ.

We had now been travelling twelve days, and had passed over upwards of thirty portages during the voyage.

We ought to have performed this voyage in a much shorter time, as canoes proceed faster than boats, which seldom take longer to complete this voyage than we did; but this arose from our detention during high winds in several of the lakes.



Chapter Ten.

Voyage To Canada By The Great Lakes Of The Interior -- A Black Bear --  Harassing Detentions -- Another Bear -- Meet Dr. Rae, The Arctic Discoverer -- The Guide's Story -- Meet Indians -- Running The Rapid -- Lake Superior -- A Squall -- The Ottawa -- Civilised Life Again -- Sleighing In Canada.

At Norway House I remained for nearly a month with my old friend Mr Russ, who in a former part of this veracious book is described as being a very ardent and scientific fisher, extremely partial to strong rods and lines, and entertaining a powerful antipathy to slender rods and flies!

Little change had taken place in the appearance of the fort. The clerks' house was still as full, and as noisy, as when Polly told frightful stories to the greenhorns on the point of setting out for the wild countries of Mackenzie River and New Caledonia. The Indians of the village at Rossville plodded on in their usual peaceful way, under the guidance of their former pastor; and the ladies of the establishment were as blooming as ever.

One fine morning, just as Mr Russ and I were sauntering down to the river with our rods, a north canoe, full of men, swept round the point above the fort, and grounded near the wharf. Our rods were soon cast aside, and we were speedily congratulating Mr and Mrs Bain on their safe arrival. These were to be my companions on the impending voyage to Canada, and the canoe in which they had arrived was to be our conveyance.

Mr Bain was a good-natured, light-hearted Highlander, and his lady a pretty lass of twenty-three.

On the following morning all was ready; and soon after breakfast we were escorted down to the wharf by all the people in the fort, who crowded to the rocks to witness our departure.

Our men, eight in number, stood leaning on their paddles near the wharf; and, truly, a fine athletic set of fellows they were. The beautifully-shaped canoe floated lightly on the river, notwithstanding her heavy cargo, and the water rippled gently against her sides as it swept slowly past. This frail bark, on which our safety and progression depended, was made of birch bark sewed together, lined in the inside with thin laths of wood, and pitched on the seams with gum. It was about thirty-six feet long, and five broad in the middle, from whence it tapered either way to a sharp edge. It was calculated to carry from twenty to twenty-five hundredweight, with eight or nine men, besides three passengers, and provisions for nearly a month. And yet, so light was it, that two men could carry it a quarter of a mile without resting. Such was the machine in which, on the 20th August 1845, we embarked; and, after bidding our friends at Norway House adieu, departed for Canada, a distance of nearly two thousand three hundred miles through the uninhabited forests of America.

Our first day was propitious, being warm and clear; and we travelled a good distance ere the rapidly thickening shades of evening obliged us to put ashore for the night. The place on which we encamped was a flat rock which lay close to the river's bank, and behind it the thick forest formed a screen from the north wind. It looked gloomy enough on landing; but, ere long, a huge fire was kindled on the rock, our two snow-white tents pitched, and supper in course of preparation, so that things soon began to wear a gayer aspect. Supper was spread in Mr Bain's tent by one of the men, whom we appointed to the office of cook and waiter. And when we were seated on our blankets and cloaks upon the ground, and Mr Bain had stared placidly at the fire for five minutes, and then at his wife (who presided at the board) for ten, we began to feel quite jolly, and gazed with infinite satisfaction at the men, who ate their supper out of the same kettle, in the warm light of the camp-fire. Our first bed was typical of the voyage, being hard and rough, but withal much more comfortable than many others we slept upon afterwards; and we were all soon as sound asleep upon the rock in the forest as if we had been in feather-beds at home.

The beds on which a traveller in this country sleeps are various and strange. Sometimes he reposes on a pile of branches of the pine-tree; sometimes on soft downy moss; occasionally on a pebbly beach or a flat rock; and not unfrequently on rough gravel and sand. Of these the moss bed is the most agreeable, and the sandy one the worst.

Early on the following morning, long before daylight, we were roused from our slumbers to re-embark; and now our journey may be said to have commenced in earnest. Slowly and silently we stepped into the canoe, and sat down in our allotted places, while the men advanced in silence, and paddled up the quiet river in a very melancholy sort of mood. The rising sun, however, dissipated these gloomy feelings; and after breakfast, which we took on a small island near the head of Jack River, we revived at once, and started with a cheering song, in which all joined. Soon after, we rounded a point of the river, and Lake Winnipeg, calm and clear as crystal, glittering in the beams of the morning sun, lay stretched out before us to the distant and scarcely perceptible horizon. Every pleasure has its alloy, and the glorious calm, on which we felicitated ourselves not a little, was soon ruffled by a breeze, which speedily increased so much as to oblige us to encamp near Montreal Point, being too strong for us to venture across the traverse of five or six miles now before us. Here, then, we remained the rest of the day and night, rather disappointed that delay should have occurred so soon.

Next day we left our encampment early, and travelled prosperously till about noon, when the wind again increased to such a degree that we were forced to put ashore on a point, where we remained for the next two days in grumbling inactivity.

There is nothing more distressing and annoying than being wind-bound in these wild and uninhabited regions. One has no amusement except reading, or promenading about the shore of the lake. Now, although this may be very delightful to a person of a romantic disposition, it was anything but agreeable to us, as the season was pretty far advanced, and the voyage long; besides, I had no gun, having parted with mine before leaving Norway House, and no books had been brought, as we did not calculate upon being wind-bound. I was particularly disappointed at not having brought my gun, for while we lay upon the rocks one fine day, gazing gloomily on the foaming lake, a black bear was perceived walking slowly round the bottom of the bay formed by the point on which we were encamped. It was hopeless to attempt killing him, as Mr Bruin was not fool enough to permit us to attack him with axes. After this a regular course of high winds commenced, which retarded us very much, and gave us much uneasiness as well as annoyance. A good idea of the harassing nature of our voyage across Lake Winnipeg may be obtained from the following page or two of my journal, as I wrote it on the spot: -- 

Monday, 25th August. -- The wind having moderated this morning, we left the encampment at an early hour, and travelled uninterruptedly till nearly eight o'clock, when it began to blow so furiously that we were obliged to run ashore and encamp. All day the gale continued, but in the evening it moderated, and we were enabled to proceed a good way ere night closed in.

Tuesday, 26th. -- Rain fell in torrents during the night. The wind, too, was high, and we did not leave our encampment till after breakfast. We made a good day's journey, however, travelling about forty miles; and at night pitched our tents on a point of rock, the only camping-place, as our guide told us, within ten miles. No dry ground was to be found in the vicinity, so we were fain to sleep upon the flattest rock we could find, with only one blanket under us. This bed, however, was not so disagreeable as might be imagined; its principal disadvantage being that, should it happen to rain, the water, instead of sinking into the ground, forms a little pond below you, deep or shallow, according to the hollowness or flatness of the rock on which you repose.

Wednesday, 27th. -- Set out early this morning, and travelled till noon, when the wind again drove us ashore, where we remained, in no very happy humour, all day. Mr Bain and I played the flute for pastime.

Thursday, 28th. -- The persevering wind blew so hard that we remained in the encampment all day. This was indeed a dismal day; for, independently of being delayed, which is bad enough, the rain fell so heavily that it began to penetrate through our tents; and, as if not content with this, a gust of wind more violent than usual tore the fastenings of my tent out of the ground, and dashed it over my head, leaving me exposed to the pitiless pelting of the storm. Mr Bain's tent, being in a more sheltered spot, fortunately escaped.

Friday, 29th. -- The weather was much improved to-day, but it still continued to blow sufficiently to prevent our starting. As the wind moderated, however, in the evening, the men carried the baggage down to the beach, to have it in readiness for an early start on the morrow.

Saturday, 30th. -- In the morning we found that the wind had again risen, so as to prevent our leaving the encampment. This detention is really very tiresome. We have no amusement except reading a few uninteresting books, eating without appetite, and sleeping inordinately. Oh that I were possessed of the Arabian Nights' mat, which transported its owner whithersoever he listed! There is nothing for it, however, but patience; and assuredly I have a good example in poor Mrs Bain, who, though little accustomed to such work, has not given utterance to a word of complaint since we left Norway House. It is now four days since we pitched our tents on this vile point. How long we may still remain is yet to be seen.

Thursday, September 4th. -- The wind was still very strong this morning; but so impatient had we become at our repeated detentions, that, with one accord, we consented to do or die! So, after launching and loading the canoe with great difficulty, owing to the immense waves that thundered against the shore, we all embarked and pushed off. After severe exertion, and much shipping of water, we at length came to the mouth of the Winnipeg River, up which we proceeded a short distance, and arrived at Fort Alexander.

Thus had we taken fifteen days to coast along Lake Winnipeg, a journey that is usually performed in a third of that time.

Fort Alexander belongs to the Lac la Pluie district; but being a small post, neither famous for trade nor for appearance, I will not take the trouble of describing it. We only remained a couple of hours to take in provisions in the shape of a ham, a little pork, and some flour, and then re-embarking, commenced the ascent of Winnipeg River.

The travelling now before us was widely different from that of the last fifteen days. Our men could no longer rest upon their paddles when tired, as they used to do on the level waters of the lake. The river was a rapid one; and towards evening we had an earnest of the rough work in store for us, by meeting in rapid succession with three waterfalls, to surmount which we were obliged to carry the canoe and cargo over the rocks, and launch them above the falls. While the men were engaged in this laborious duty, Mr Bain and I discovered a great many plum-trees laden with excellent fruit, of which we ate as many as we conveniently could, and then filling our caps and handkerchiefs, embarked with our prize. They were a great treat to us, after our long abstinence from everything but salt food; and I believe we demolished enough to have killed a whole parish school-boys, master, usher, and all! But in voyages like these one may take great liberties with one's interior with perfect impunity.

About sunset we encamped in a picturesque spot near the top of a huge waterfall, whose thundering roar, as it mingled with the sighing of the night wind through the bushes and among the precipitous rocks around us, formed an appropriate and somewhat romantic lullaby.

On the following morning we were aroused from our slumbers at daybreak; and in ten minutes our tents were down and ourselves in the canoe, bounding merrily up the river, while the echoing woods and dells responded to the lively air of "Rose Blanche," sung by the men as we swept round point after point and curve after curve of the noble river, which displayed to our admiring gaze every variety of wild and woodland scenery -- now opening up a long vista of sloping groves of graceful trees, beautifully variegated with the tints of autumnal foliage, and sprinkled with a profusion of wildflowers; and anon surrounding us with immense cliffs and precipitous banks of the grandest and most majestic aspect, at the foot of which the black waters rushed impetuously past, and gurgling into white foam as they sped through a broken and more interrupted channel, finally sprang over a mist-shrouded clift and, after boiling madly onwards for a short space, resumed their silent, quiet course through peaceful scenery. As if to enhance the romantic wildness of the scene, upon rounding a point we came suddenly upon a large black bear, which was walking leisurely along the bank of the river. He gazed at us in surprise for a moment; and then, as if it had suddenly occurred to him that guns might be in the canoe, away he went helter-skelter up the bank, tearing up the ground in his precipitate retreat, and vanished among the bushes. Fortunately for him, there was not a gun in the canoe, else his chance of escape would have been very small indeed, as he was only fifty yards or so from us when we first discovered him.

We made ten portages of various lengths during the course of the day: none of them exceeded a quarter of a mile, while the most were merely a few yards. They were very harassing, however, being close to each other; and often we loaded, unloaded, and carried the canoe and cargo overland several times in the distance of half a mile.

On the 7th we left the encampment at an early hour, and made one short portage a few minutes after starting. After breakfast, as we paddled quietly along, we descried three canoes coming towards us, filled with Indians of the Seauteaux tribe. They gave us a few fresh ducks in exchange for some pork and tobacco, with which they were much delighted. After a short conversation between them and one of our men, who understood the language, we parted, and proceeded on our way. A little rain fell during the day, but in the afternoon the sun shone out and lighted up the scenery. The forests about this part of the river wore a much more cheerful aspect than those of the lower countries, being composed chiefly of poplar, birch, oak, and willows, whose beautiful light-green foliage had a very pleasing effect upon eyes long accustomed to the dark pines along the shores of Hudson Bay.

In the afternoon we met another canoe, in which we saw a gentleman sitting. This strange sight set us all speculating as to who it could be, for we knew that all the canoes accustomed annually to go through these wilds had long since passed. We were soon enlightened, however, on the subject. Both canoes made towards a flat rock that offered a convenient spot for landing on; and the stranger introduced himself as Dr Rae. He was on his way to York Factory, for the purpose of fitting out at that post an expedition for the survey of the small part of the North American coast left unexplored by Messrs. Dease and Simpson, which will then prove beyond a doubt whether or not there is a communication by water between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans round the north of America. Dr Rae appeared to be just the man for such an expedition. He was very muscular and active, full of animal spirits, and had a fine intellectual countenance. He was considered, by those who knew him well, to be one of the best snow-shoe walkers in the service, was also an excellent rifle-shot, and could stand an immense amount of fatigue. Poor fellow! greatly will he require to exert all his abilities and powers of endurance. He does not proceed as other expeditions have done -- namely, with large supplies of provisions and men -- but merely takes a very small supply of provisions, and ten or twelve men. These, however, are all to be of his own choosing, and will doubtless be men of great experience in travelling among the wild regions of North America. The whole expedition is fitted out at the expense of the Hudson Bay Company. The party are to depend almost entirely on their guns for provisions; and after proceeding in two open boats round the north-western shores of Hudson Bay as far as they may find it expedient or practicable, are to land, place their boats in security for the winter, and then penetrate into these unexplored regions on foot. After having done as much as possible towards the forwarding of the object of his journey, Dr Rae and his party are to spend the long dreary winter with the Esquimaux, and commence operations again early in the spring. He is of such a pushing, energetic character, however, that there is every probability he will endeavour to prosecute his discoveries during winter, if at all practicable. How long he will remain exploring among these wild regions is uncertain; but he may be two, perhaps three years. There is every reason to believe that this expedition will be successful, as it is fitted out by a Company intimately acquainted with the difficulties and dangers of the country through which it will have to pass, and the best methods of overcoming and avoiding them. Besides, the doctor himself is well accustomed to the life he will have to lead; and enters upon it, not with the vague and uncertain notions of Back and Franklin, but with a pretty correct apprehension of the probable routine of procedure, and the experience of a great many years spent in the service of the Hudson Bay Company [see note 1]. After a few minutes' conversation we parted, and pursued our respective journeys.

Towards sunset we encamped on the margin of a small lake, or expanse of the river; and soon the silence of the forest was broken by the merry voices of our men, and by the crashing of the stately trees, as they fell under the axes of the voyageurs. The sun's last rays streamed across the water in a broad red glare, as if jealous of the huge campfire, which now rose crackling among the trees, casting a ruddy glow upon our huts, and lighting up the swarthy faces of our men as they assembled round it to rest their weary limbs, and to watch the operations of the cook while he prepared their evening meal.

In less than an hour after we landed, the floor of our tent was covered with a smoking dish of fried pork, a huge ham, a monstrous teapot, and various massive slices of bread, with butter to match. To partake of these delicacies, we seated ourselves in Oriental fashion, and sipped our tea in contemplative silence, as we listened to the gentle murmur of a neighbouring brook, and gazed through the opening of our tent at the voyageurs, while they ate their supper round the fire, or, reclining at length upon the grass, smoked their pipes in silence.

Supper was soon over, and I went out to warm myself, preparatory to turning in for the night. The men had supped, and their huge forms were now stretched around the fire, enveloped in clouds of tobacco smoke, which curled in volumes from their unshaven lips. They were chatting and laughing over tales of bygone days; and just as I came up they were begging Pierre the guide to relate a tale of some sort or other. "Come, Pierre," said a tall, dark-looking fellow, whose pipe, eyes, and hair were of the same jetty hue, "tell us how that Ingin was killed on the Labrador coast by a black bear. Baptiste, here, never heard how it happened, and you know he's fond of wild stories."

"Well," returned the guide, "since you must have it, I'll do what I can; but don't be disappointed if it isn't so interesting as you would wish. It's a simple tale, and not over-long." So saying, the guide disposed himself in a more comfortable attitude, refilled his pipe, and after blowing two or three thick clouds to make sure of its keeping alight, gave, in nearly the following words, an account of: -- 

The Death Of Wapwian.

"It is now twenty years since I saw Wapwian, and during that time I have travelled far and wide in the plains and forests of America. I have hunted the buffalo with the Seauteaux, in the prairies of the Saskatchewan; I have crossed the Rocky Mountains with the Blackfeet, and killed the black bear with the Abinikies, on the coasts of Labrador; but never, among all the tribes that I have visited, have I met an Indian like Wapwian. It was not his form or his strength that I admired, though the first was graceful, and the latter immense; but his disposition was so kind, and affectionate, and noble, that all who came in contact with him loved and respected him. Yet, strange to say, he was never converted by the Roman Catholic missionaries who from time to time visited his village. He listened to them with respectful attention, but always answered that he could worship the Great Manitou better as a hunter in the forest than as a farmer in the settlements of the white men.

"Well do I remember the first time I stumbled upon the Indian village in which he lived. I had set out from Montreal with two trappers to pay a visit to the Labrador coast; we had travelled most of the way in a small Indian canoe, coasting along the northern shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and reconnoitring in the woods for portages to avoid rounding long capes and points of land, and sometimes in search of game; for we depended almost entirely upon our guns for food.

"It was upon one of the latter occasions that I went off, accompanied by one of the trappers, while the other remained to watch the canoe and prepare our encampment for the night. We were unsuccessful, and after a long walk thought of returning to our camp empty-handed, when a loud whirring sound in the bushes attracted our attention, and two partridges perched upon a tree quite near us. We shot them, and fixing them in our belts, retraced our way towards the coast with lighter hearts. Just as we emerged from the dense forest, however, on one side of an open space, a tall muscular Indian strode from among the bushes and stood before us. He was dressed in the blanket capote, cloth leggins, and scarlet cap usually worn by the Abinikies, and other tribes of the Labrador coast. A red deer-skin shot-pouch and a powder-horn hung round his neck, and at his side were a beautifully ornamented fire-bag and scalping-knife. A common gun lay in the hollow of his left arm, and a pair of ornamented moccasins covered his feet. He was, indeed, a handsome-looking fellow, as he stood scanning us rapidly with his jet-black eyes while we approached him. We accosted him, and informed him (for he understood a little French) whence we came, and our object in visiting his part of the country. He received our advances kindly, accepted a piece of tobacco that we offered him, and told us that his name was Wapwian, and that we were welcome to remain at his village -- to which he offered to conduct us -- as long as we pleased. After a little hesitation we accepted his invitation to remain a few days; the more so, as by so doing we would have an opportunity of getting some provisions to enable us to continue our journey. In half an hour we reached the brow of a small eminence, whence the curling smoke of the wigwams was visible. The tents were pitched on the shores of a small bay or inlet, guarded from the east wind by a high precipice of rugged rocks, around which hundreds of sea-fowl sailed in graceful flights. Beyond this headland stretched the majestic Gulf of St. Lawrence; while to the left the village was shaded by the spruce-fir, of which most of this part of the forest is composed. There were, in all, about a dozen tents, made of dressed deerskin; at the openings of which might be seen groups of little children playing about on the grass, or running after their mothers as they went to the neighbouring rivulet for water, or launched their canoes to examine the nets in the bay.

"Wapwian paused to gaze an instant on the scene, and then, descending the hill with rapid strides, entered the village, and dispatched a little boy for our companion in the encampment.

"We were ushered into a tent somewhat elevated above the others, and soon were reclining on a soft pile of pine branches, smoking in company with our friend Wapwian, while his pretty little squaw prepared a kettle of fish for supper.

"We spent two happy days in the village, hunting deer with our Indian friend, and assisting the squaws in their fishing operations. On the third morning we remained in the camp to dry the venison, and prepare for our departure; while Wapwian shouldered his gun, and calling to his nephew, a slim, active youth of eighteen, bade him follow with his gun, as he intended to bring back a few ducks for his white brothers.

"The two Indians proceeded for a time along the shore, and then striking off into the forest, threaded their way among the thick bushes in the direction of a chain of small lakes where wild-fowl were numerous.

"For some time they moved rapidly along under the sombre shade of the trees, casting from time to time sharp glances into the surrounding underwood. Suddenly the elder Indian paused and threw forward his gun, as a slight rustling in the bushes struck his ear. The boughs bent and crackled a few yards in advance, and a large black bear crossed the path and entered the underwood on the other side. Wapwian fired at him instantly, and a savage growl told that the shot had taken effect. The gun, however, had been loaded with small shot; and although, when he fired, the bear was only a few yards off, yet the improbability of its having wounded him badly, and the distance they had to go ere they reached the lakes, inclined him to give up the chase. While Wapwian was loading his gun, Miniquan (his nephew) had been examining the bear's track, and returned, saying that he was sure the animal must be badly wounded, for there was much blood on the track. At first the elder Indian refused to follow it; but seeing that his nephew wished very much to kill the brute, he at last consented. As the trail of the bear was much covered with blood, they found no difficulty in tracking it; and after a short walk they found him extended on his side at the foot of a large tree, apparently lifeless. Wapwian, however, was too experienced a hunter to trust himself incautiously within its reach, so he examined the priming of his gun, and then, advancing slowly to the animal, pushed it with the muzzle. In an instant the bear sprang upon him, regardless of the shot lodged in its breast, and in another moment Wapwian lay stunned and bleeding at the monster's feet. Miniquan was at first so thunderstruck, as he gazed in horror at the savage animal tearing with bloody jaws the senseless form of his uncle, that he stood rooted to the ground. It was only for a moment -- the next, his gun was at his shoulder, and after firing at, but unfortunately, in the excitement of the moment, missing the bear, he attacked it with the butt of his gun, which he soon shivered to pieces on its skull. This drew the animal for a few moments from Wapwian; and Miniquan, in hopes of leading it from the place, ran off in the direction of the village. The bear, however, soon gave up the chase, and returned again to its victim. Miniquan now saw that the only chance of saving his relative was to alarm the village; so, tightening his belt, he set off with the speed of the hunted deer in the direction of the camp. In an incredibly short time he arrived, and soon returned with the trappers and myself. Alas! alas!" said the guide with a deep sigh, "it was too late. Upon arriving at the spot, we found the bear quite dead, and the noble, generous Wapwian extended by its side, torn and lacerated in such a manner that we could scarcely recognise him. He still breathed a little, however, and appeared to know me, as I bent over him and tried to close his gaping wounds. We constructed a rude couch of branches, and conveyed him slowly to the village. No word of complaint or cry of sorrow escaped from his wife as we laid his bleeding form in her tent. She seemed to have lost the power of speech, as she sat, hour after hour, gazing in unutterable despair on the mangled form of her husband. Poor Wapwian lingered for a week in a state of unconsciousness. His skull had been fractured, and he lay almost in a state of insensibility, and never spoke, save when, in a fit of delirium, his fancy wandered back to bygone days, when he ranged the forest with a tiny bow in chase of little birds and squirrels, strode in the vigour of early manhood over frozen plains of snow, or dashed down foaming currents and mighty rivers in his light canoe. Then a shade would cross his brow as he thought, perhaps, of his recent struggle with the bear, and he would again relapse into silence.

"He recovered slightly before his death; and once he smiled, as if he recognised his wife, but he never spoke to any one. We scarcely know when his spirit fled, so calm and peaceful was his end.

"His body now reposes beneath the spreading branches of a lordly pine, near the scenes of his childhood, where he had spent his youth, and where he met his untimely end."

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The guide paused, and looked round upon his auditors. Alas! for the sympathy of man -- the half of them had gone to sleep; and Baptiste, for whose benefit the story had been related, lay, or rather sprawled, upon the turf behind the fire, his shaggy head resting on the decayed stump of an old tree, and his empty pipe hanging gracefully from his half-open mouth. A slight "humph" escaped the worthy guide as he shook the ashes from his pipe, and rolling his blanket round him, laid his head upon the ground.

Early the following morning we raised the camp and continued our journey. The scenery had now become more wild and picturesque. Large pines became numerous; and the rocky fissures, through which the river rushed in a black unbroken mass, cast a gloomy shadow upon us as we struggled to ascend. Sometimes we managed to get up these rapids with the paddles; and when the current was too powerful, with long poles, which the men fixed in the ground, and thus pushed slowly up; but when both of these failed, we resorted to the tracking line, upon which occasions four of the men went on shore and dragged us up, leaving four in the canoe to paddle and steer it. When the current was too strong for this, they used to carry parts of the cargo to the smooth water further up, and drag the canoe up light, or, taking it on their shoulders, carry it overland. We made nine or ten of these portages in two days. In the afternoon we came in view of a Roman Catholic mission station, snugly situated at the bottom of a small bay or creek; but as it was a little out of our way, and from its quiet appearance seemed deserted, we did not stop.

In the afternoon of the following day, the 9th of September, we arrived at the Company's post, called Rat Portage House, where we were hospitably entertained for a few hours by Mr McKenzie, the gentleman in charge. On the portage, over which we had to carry our canoe and baggage, a large party of Indians of both sexes and all ages were collected to witness our departure; and Mr McKenzie advised us to keep a sharp lookout, as they were much addicted to appropriating the property of others to their own private use, provided they could find an opportunity of doing so unobserved; so, while our men were running backwards and forwards, carrying the things over the rocks, Mr Bain and his lady remained at one end to guard them, and I at the other. Everything, however, was got safely across; the Indians merely stood looking on, apparently much amused with our proceedings, and nothing seemed further from their thoughts than stealing. Just as we paddled from the bank, one of our men threw them a handful of tobacco, for which there was a great scramble, and their noisy voices died away in the distance as we rounded an abrupt point of rocks, and floated out upon the glorious expanse of Lac du Bois, or, as it is more frequently called, the Lake of the Woods.

There is nothing, I think, better calculated to awaken the more solemn feelings of our nature (unless, indeed, it be the thrilling tones of sacred music) than these noble lakes, studded with innumerable islets, suddenly bursting on the traveller's view as he emerges from the sombre forest-rivers of the American wilderness. The clear unruffled water, stretching out to the horizon -- here, embracing the heavy and luxuriant foliage of a hundred wooded isles, or reflecting the wood-clad mountains on its margin, clothed in all the variegated hues of autumn; and there, glittering with dazzling brilliancy in the bright rays of the evening sun, or rippling among the reeds and rushes of some shallow bay, where hundreds of wild-fowl chatter, as they feed, with varied cry, rendering more apparent, rather than disturbing, the solemn stillness of the scene: all tends to "raise the soul from nature up to nature's God," and reminds one of the beautiful passage of Scripture, "O Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches." At the same time, when one considers how very few of the human race cast even a passing glance on the beauties of nature around, one cannot but be impressed with the truth of the lines -- 

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

At night we encamped at the furthest extremity of the lake, on a very exposed spot, whence we looked out upon the starlit scene, while our supper was spread before us in the warm light of the fire, which blazed and crackled as the men heaped log after log upon it, sending up clouds of bright sparks into the sky.

Next morning we commenced the ascent of Lac la Pluie River. This is decidedly the most beautiful river we had yet traversed -- not only on account of the luxuriant foliage of every hue with which its noble banks are covered, but chiefly from the resemblance it bears in many places to the scenery of England, recalling to mind the grassy lawns and verdant banks of Britain's streams, and transporting the beholder from the wild scenes of the western world to his native home. The trees along its banks were larger and more varied than any we had hitherto seen -- ash, poplar, cedar, red and white pines, oak, and birch being abundant, whilst flowers of gaudy hues enhanced the beauty of the scene. Towards noon our guide kept a sharp lookout for a convenient spot whereon to dine; and ere long a flat shelving rock, partly shaded by trees and partly exposed to the blaze of the sun, presented itself to view. The canoe was soon alongside of it, and kept floating about half a foot from the edge by means of two branches, the two ends of which were fastened to the bow and stern of the canoe, and the other two to the ground by means of huge stones. It is necessary to be thus careful with canoes, as the gum or pitch with which the seams are plastered breaks off in lumps, particularly in cold weather, and makes the craft leaky. A snow-white napkin was spread on the flattest part of the rock, and so arranged that, as we reclined around it, on cloaks and blankets, our bodies down to the knees were shaded by the luxuriant foliage behind us, while our feet were basking in the solar rays! Upon the napkin were presently placed, by our active waiter Gibault, three pewter plates, a decanter of port wine, and a large ham, together with a turret of salt butter, and a loaf of bread, to the demolition of which viands we devoted ourselves with great earnestness. At a short distance the men circled round a huge lump of boiled pork, each with a large slice of bread in one hand and a knife in the other, with which he porked his bread in the same way that civilised people butter theirs! Half an hour concluded our mid-day meal; and then, casting off the branches from the canoe, we were out of sight of our temporary dining-room in five minutes.

On the evening of the following day we arrived at the Company's post, Fort Frances. The fort is rather an old building, situated at the bottom of a small bay or curve in the river, near the foot of a waterfall, whose thundering roar forms a ceaseless music to the inhabitants. We found the post in charge of a chief trader, who had no other society than that of three or four labouring men; so, as may be supposed, he was delighted to see us. Our men carried the canoe, etcetera, over the portage to avoid the waterfall, and as it was then too late to proceed further that night, we accepted his pressing invitation to pass the night at the fort. There was only one spare bed in the house, but this was a matter of little moment to us after the variety of beds we had had since starting; so, spreading a buffalo robe on the floor for a mattress, I rolled myself in my blanket and tried to sleep. At first I could not manage it, owing to the unearthly stillness of a room, after being so long accustomed to the open air and the noise of rivers and cataracts, but at last succeeded, and slept soundly till morning.

Dame Fortune does not always persecute her friends; and although she had retarded us hitherto a good deal with contrary winds and rains, she kindly assisted us when we commenced crossing Lac la Pluie next morning, by raising a stiff, fair breeze. Now, be it known that a canoe, from having no keel, and a round bottom, cannot venture to hoist a sail unless the wind is directly astern -- the least bit to one side would be sure to capsize it; so that our getting the wind precisely in the proper direction at the commencement was a great piece of good fortune, inasmuch as it enabled us to cross the lake in six hours, instead of (as is generally the case) taking one, two, or three days.

In the evening we arrived, in high spirits, at a portage, on which we encamped.

Our progress now became a little more interrupted by portages and small lakes, or rather ponds, through which we sometimes passed with difficulty, owing to the shallowness of the water in many places. Soon after this we came to the Mecan River, which we prepared to ascend. In making a portage, we suddenly discovered a little Indian boy, dressed in the extreme of the Indian summer fashion -- in other words, he was in a state of perfect nakedness, with the exception of a breech-cloth; and upon casting our eyes across the river we beheld his worthy father, in a similar costume, busily employed in catching fish with a hand-net. He was really a wild, picturesque-looking fellow, notwithstanding the scantiness of his dress; and I was much interested in his proceedings. When I first saw him, he was standing upon a rock close to the edge of a foaming rapid, into the eddies of which he gazed intently, with the net raised in the air, and his muscular frame motionless, as if petrified while in the act of striking. Suddenly the net swung through the air, and his body quivered as he strained every sinew to force it quickly through the water: in a moment it came out with a beautiful white-fish, upwards of a foot long, glittering like silver as it struggled in the meshes. In the space of half an hour he had caught half a dozen in this manner, and we bought three or four of the finest for a few plugs of tobacco. His wigwam and family were close at hand; so, while our men crossed the portage, I ran up to see them.

The tent, which was made of sheets of birch bark sewed together, was pitched beneath the branches of a gigantic pine, upon the lower limbs of which hung a pair of worn-out snow-shoes, a very dirty blanket, and a short bow, with a quiver of arrows near it. At the foot of it, upon the ground, were scattered a few tin pots, several pairs of old moccasins, and a gun; while against it leaned an Indian cradle, in which a small, very brown baby, with jet-black eyes and hair, stood bolt upright, basking in the sun's rays, and bearing a comical resemblance to an Egyptian mummy. At the door of the tent a child of riper years amused itself by rolling about among the chips of wood, useless bits of deer-skin, and filth always strewn around a wigwam. On the right hand lay a pile of firewood, with an axe beside it, near which crouched a half-starved, wretched-looking nondescript dog, who commenced barking vociferously the moment he cast eyes upon me. Such was the outside. The interior, filled with smoke from the fire and Indians' pipes, was, if possible, even dirtier. Amid a large pile of rabbit-skins reclined an old woman, busily plucking the feathers from a fine duck, which she carefully preserved (the feathers, not the duck) in a bag, for the purpose of trading them with the Company at a future period. Her dress was a coat of rabbit-skins, so strangely shaped that no one could possibly tell how she ever got it off or on. This, however, was doubtless a matter of little consequence to her, as Indians seldom take the trouble of changing their clothes, or even of undressing at all. The coat was fearfully dirty, and hung upon her in a way that led me to suppose she had worn it for six months, and that it would fall off her in a few days. A pair of faded blue cloth leggins completed her costume -- her dirty shoulders, arms, and feet being quite destitute of covering; while her long black hair fell in tangled masses upon her neck, and it was evidently a long time since a comb had passed through it. On the other side sat a younger woman similarly attired, employed in mending a hand-net; and on a very much worn buffalo robe sat a young man (probably the brother of the one we had seen fishing), wrapped in a blanket, smoking his pipe in silence. A few dirty little half-naked boys lay sprawling among several packages of furs tied up in birch bark, and disputed with two or three ill-looking dogs the most commodious place whereon to lie. The fire in the middle of the tent sent up a cloud of smoke, which escaped through an aperture at the top; and from a cross-bar depended a few slices of deer-meat, undergoing the process of smoking.

I had merely time to note all this, and say, "What cheer!" to the Indians, who returned the compliment with a grunt, when the loud voice of our guide ringing through the glades of the forest informed me that the canoe was ready to proceed.

The country through which we now passed was very interesting, on account of the variety of the scenes and places through which we wound our way. At times we were paddling with difficulty against the strong current of a narrow river, which, on our turning a point of land, suddenly became a large lake; and then, after crossing this, we arrived at a portage. After passing over it, there came a series of small ponds and little creeks, through which we pushed our way with difficulty; and then arrived at another lake, and more little rivers, with numerous portages. Sometimes ludicrous accidents happened to us -- bad enough at the time, but subjects of mirth afterwards.

One cold, frosty morning (for the weather had now become cold, from the elevation of the country through which we were passing), while the canoe was going quietly over a small reedy lake or ford, I was awakened out of a nap, and told that the canoe was aground, and I must get out and walk a little way to lighten her. Hastily pulling up my trousers for I always travelled barefoot -- I sprang over the side into the water, and the canoe left me. Now, all this happened so quickly that I was scarcely awake; but the bitterly cold water, which nearly reached my knees, cleared up my faculties most effectually, and I then found that I was fifty yards from the shore, with an unknown depth of water around me, the canoe out of sight ahead of me, and Mr Bain -- who had been turned out while half asleep also -- standing with a rueful expression of countenance beside me. After feeling our way cautiously -- for the bottom was soft and muddy -- we reached the shore; and then, thinking that all was right, proceeded to walk round to join the canoe. Alas! we found the bushes so thick that they were very nearly impenetrable; and, worse than all, that they, as well as the ground, were covered with thorns, which scratched and lacerated our feet most fearfully at every step. There was nothing for it, however, but to persevere; and after a painful walk of a quarter of a mile we overtook the canoe, vowing never to leap before we looked upon any other occasion whatsoever.

In this way we proceeded -- literally over hill and dale -- in our canoe; and in the course of a few days ascended Mecan River, and traversed Cross Lake, Malign River, Sturgeon Lake, Lac du Mort, Mille Lac, besides a great number of smaller sheets of water without names, and many portages of various lengths and descriptions, till the evening of the 19th, when we ascended the beautiful little river called the Savan, and arrived at the Savan Portage.

Many years ago, in the time of the North-West Company, the echoes among these wild solitudes were far oftener and more loudly awakened than they are now. The reason of it was this. The North-West Company, having their head quarters at Montreal, and being composed chiefly of Canadian adventurers, imported their whole supplies into the country and exported all their furs out of it in north canoes, by the same route over which we now travelled. As they carried on business on a large scale, it may be supposed that the traffic was correspondingly great. No less than ten brigades, each numbering twenty canoes, used to pass through these scenes during the summer months. No one who has not experienced it can form an adequate idea of the thrilling effect the passing of these brigades must have had upon a stranger. I have seen four canoes sweep round a promontory suddenly, and burst upon my view, while at the same moment the wild romantic song of the voyageurs, as they plied their brisk paddles, struck upon my ear; and I have felt thrilling enthusiasm on witnessing such a scene. What, then, must have been the feelings of those who had spent a long, dreary winter in the wild North-West, far removed from the bustle and excitement of the civilised world, when thirty or forty of these picturesque canoes burst unexpectedly upon them, half shrouded in the spray that flew from the bright vermilion paddles; while the men, who had overcome difficulties and dangers innumerable during a long voyage through the wilderness, urged their light craft over the troubled water with the speed of the reindeer, and, with hearts joyful at the happy termination of their trials and privations, sang, with all the force of three hundred manly voices, one of their lively airs, which, rising and falling faintly in the distance as it was borne, first lightly on the breeze, and then more steadily as they approached, swelled out in the rich tones of many a mellow voice, and burst at last into a long enthusiastic shout of joy!

Alas! the forests no longer echo to such sounds. The passage of three or four canoes once or twice a year is all that breaks the stillness of the scene; and nought, save narrow pathways over the portages, and rough wooden crosses over the graves of the travellers who perished by the way, remains to mark that such things were. Of these marks, the Savan Portage, at which we had arrived, was one of the most striking. A long succession of boiling rapids and waterfalls having in days of yore obstructed the passage of the fur-traders, they had landed at the top of them, and cut a pathway through the woods, which happened at this place to be exceedingly swampy: hence the name Savan (or swampy) Portage. To render the road more passable, they had cut down trees, which they placed side by side along its whole extent -- which was about three miles -- and over this wooden platform carried their canoes and cargoes with perfect ease. After the coalition of the two companies, and the consequent carriage of the furs to England by Hudson Bay -- instead of to Canada, by the lakes and rivers of the interior -- these roads were neglected, and got out of repair; and consequently we found the logs over the portage decayed and trees fallen across them, so that our men, instead of running quickly over them, were constantly breaking through the rotten wood, sinking up to the knees in mud, and scrambling over trees and branches. We got over at last, however -- in about two hours; and after proceeding a little further, arrived at and encamped upon the Prairie Portage, by the side of a voyageur's grave, which was marked as usual with a wooden cross, on which some friendly hand had cut a rude inscription. Time had now rendered it quite illegible. This is the height of land dividing the waters which flow northward into Hudson Bay from those which flow in a southerly direction, through the great lakes, into the Atlantic Ocean.

A few pages from my journal here may serve to give a better idea of the characteristics of our voyage than could be conveyed in narrative: -- 

Saturday, 20th September. -- We crossed the Prairie Portage this morning -- a distance of between three and four miles -- and breakfasted at the upper end of it. Amused myself by sketching the view from a neighbouring hill. After crossing two more portages and a variety of small lakes, we launched our canoe on the bosom of the river Du Chien, and began, for the first time since the commencement of our journey, to descend, having passed over the height of land. We saw several grey grouse here, and in the evening one of our men caught one in a curious manner. They were extremely tame, and allowed us to approach them very closely, so Baptiste determined to catch one for supper. Cutting a long branch from a neighbouring tree, he tied a running noose on one end of it, and going quietly up to the bird, put the noose gently over its head, and pulled it off the tree. This is a common practice among the Indians, particularly when they have run short of gunpowder.

Sunday, 21st. -- Crossed Lac du Chien, and made the portage of the same name, from the top of which we had a most beautiful view of the whole country for miles round. Having crossed this portage, we proceeded down the Kamenistaquoia River, on the banks of which, after making another portage, we pitched our tents.

Monday, 22nd. -- Rain obliged us to put ashore this morning. Nothing can be more wretched than travelling in rainy weather. The men, poor fellows, do not make the least attempt to keep themselves dry; but the passengers endeavour, by means of oiled cloths, to keep out the wet; and under this they broil and suffocate, till at last they are obliged to throw off the covering. Even were this not the case, we should still be wretched, as the rain always finds its way in somewhere or other; and I have been often awakened from a nap by the cold trickling of moisture down my back, and have discovered upon moving that I was lying in a pool of water. Ashore we are generally a little more comfortable, but not much. After dinner we again started, and advanced on our journey till sunset.

Tuesday, 23rd. -- To-day we advanced very slowly, owing to the shallowness of the water, and crossed a number of portages. During the day we ran several rapids. This is very exciting work. Upon nearing the head of a large rapid, the men strain every muscle to urge the canoe forward more quickly than the water, so that it may steer better. The bowsman and steersman stand erect, guiding the frail bark through the more unbroken places in the fierce current, which hisses and foams around, as if eager to swallow us up. Now we rush with lightning force towards a rock, against which the water dashes in fury; and to an uninitiated traveller we appear to be on the point of destruction. But one vigorous stroke from the bowsman and steersman (for they always act in concert) sends the light craft at a sharp angle from the impending danger; and away we plunge again over the surging waters -- sometimes floating for an instant in a small eddy, and hovering, as it were, to choose our path; and then plunging swiftly forward again through the windings of the stream, till, having passed the whole in safety, we float in the smooth water below.

Accidents, as may be supposed, often happen; and to-day we found that there is danger as well as pleasure in running the rapids. We had got over a great part of the day in safety, and were in the act of running the first part of the Rose Rapid, when our canoe struck upon a rock, and wheeling round with its broadside to the stream, began to fill quickly. I could hear the timbers cracking beneath me under the immense pressure. Another minute, and we should have been gone; but our men, who were active fellows, and well accustomed to such dangers, sprang simultaneously over the side of the canoe, which, being thus lightened, passed over the rock, and rushed down the remainder of the rapid stern foremost ere the men could scramble in and resume their paddles. When rapids were very dangerous, most of the cargo was generally disembarked; and while one half of the crew carried it round to the still water below, the other half ran down light.

Crossed two small portages and the Mountain Portage in the afternoon; on the latter of which I went to see a waterfall, which I was told was in its vicinity. I had great difficulty in finding it at first, but its thundering roar soon guided me to a spot from which it was visible. Truly, a grander waterfall I never saw. The whole river, which was pretty broad, plunged in one broad white sheet over a precipice, higher by a few feet than the famous Falls of Niagara; and the spray from the foot sprang high into the air, bedewing the wild, precipitous crags with which the fall is encompassed, and the gloomy pines that hang about the clefts and fissures of the rocks. Fur-traders have given it the name of the Mountain Fall, from a peculiar mountain in its vicinity; but the natives call it the Kackabecka Falls. After making a sketch of it, and getting myself thoroughly wet in so doing, I returned to the canoe.

In the evening we encamped within nine miles of Fort William, having lost one of our men, who went ashore to lighten the canoe while we ran a rapid. After a good deal of trouble we found him again, but too late to admit of our proceeding to the fort that night.

Wednesday, 24th. -- Early this morning we left the encampment, and after two hours' paddling Fort William burst upon our gaze, mirrored in the limpid waters of Lake Superior -- that immense fresh-water sea, whose rocky shores and rolling billows vie with the ocean itself in grandeur and magnificence.

Fort William was once one of the chief posts in the Indian country, and, when it belonged to the North-West Company, contained a great number of men. Now, however, much of its glory has departed. Many of the buildings have been pulled down, and those that remain are very rickety-looking affairs. It is still, however, a very important fishing station, and many hundreds of beautiful white-fish, with which Lake Superior swarms, are salted there annually for the Canada markets. These white-fish are indeed excellent; and it is difficult to say whether they or the immense trout, which are also caught in abundance, have the most delicate flavour. These trout, as well as white-fish, are caught in nets; and the former sometimes measure three feet long, and are proportionately broad. The one we had to breakfast on the morning of our arrival must have been very nearly this size.

The fur-trade of the post is not very good, but the furs traded are similar to those obtained in other parts of the country.

A number of canotes de maitre, or very large canoes, are always kept in store here, for the use of the Company's travellers. These canoes are of the largest size, exceeding the north canoe in length by several feet, besides being much broader and deeper. They are used solely for the purpose of travelling on Lake Superior, being much too large and cumbersome for travelling with through the interior. They are carried by four men instead of two, like the north canoe; and, besides being capable of carrying twice as much cargo, are paddled by fourteen or sixteen men. Travellers from Canada to the interior generally change their canotes de maitre for north canoes at Fort William, before entering upon the intricate navigation through which we had already passed; while those going from the interior to Canada change the small for the large canoe. As we had few men, however, and the weather appeared settled, we determined to risk coasting round the northern shore of the lake in our north canoe.

The scenery around the fort is very pretty. In its immediate vicinity the land is flat, covered with small trees and willows, which are agreeably suggestive of partridges and other game; but in the distance rise goodly-sized mountains; and on the left hand the noble expanse of the Lake Superior, with rocky islands on its mighty bosom and abrupt hills on its shores, stretches out to the horizon. The fort is built at the mouth of the Kamenistaquoia River, and from its palisades a beautiful view of the surrounding country can be obtained.

As the men wanted rest and our canoe a little repair, we determined to remain all day at Fort William; so some of the men employed themselves re-gumming the canoe, while others spread out our blankets and tents to dry. This last was very necessary as on the journey we have little time to spare from eating and sleeping while on shore; and many a time have I, in consequence, slept in a wet blanket.

The fair lady of the gentleman in charge of the fort was the only lady at the place, and indeed the only one within a circuit of six hundred miles -- which space, being the primeval forest, was inhabited only by wild beasts and a few Indians. She was, consequently, very much delighted to meet with Mrs Bain, who, having for so many days seen no one but rough voyageurs, was equally delighted to meet her. While they went off to make the most of each other, Mr Bain and I sauntered about in the vicinity of the fort, admiring the beauty of the scenery, and paid numerous visits to a superb dairy in the fort, which overflowed with milk and cream. I rather think that we admired the dairy more than the scenery. There were a number of cows at the post, a few of which we encountered in our walk, and also a good many pigs and sheep. In the evening we returned, and at tea were introduced to a postmaster, who had been absent when we arrived. This postmaster turned out to be a first-rate player of Scotch reels on the violin. He was self-taught, and truly the sweetness and precision with which he played every note and trill of the rapid reel and strathspey might have made Neil Gow himself envious. So beautiful and inspiriting were they, that Mr Bain and our host, who were both genuine Highlanders, jumped simultaneously from their seats, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm, and danced to the lively music till the very walls shook; much to the amusement of the two ladies, who, having been both born in Canada, could not so well appreciate the music. Indeed, the musician himself looked a little astonished, being quite ignorant of the endearing recollections and associations recalled to the memory of the two Highlanders by the rapid notes of his violin. They were not, however, to be contented with one reel; so, after fruitlessly attempting to make the ladies join us, we sent over to the men's houses for the old Canadian wife of Pierre Lattinville and her two blooming daughters. They soon came, and after much coyness, blushing, and hesitation, at last stood up, and under the inspiring influence of the violin we: -- 

"Danced, till we were like to fa', The reel o' Tullochgorum!"

And did not cease till the lateness of the hour and the exhaustion of our musician compelled us to give in.

On the following morning we bade adieu to the good people at Fort William, and began our journey along the northern shore of Lake Superior, which is upwards of three hundred miles in diameter. Fortune, however, is proverbially fickle, and she did not belie her character on this particular day. The weather, when we started, was calm and clear, which pleased us much, as we had to make what is called a traverse -- that is, to cross from one point of land to another, instead of coasting round a very deep bay. The traverse which we set out to make on leaving Fort William was fourteen miles broad, which made it of some consequence our having a calm day to cross it in our little egg-shell of a canoe. Away we went, then, over the clear lake, singing "Rose Blanche" vociferously. We had already gone a few miles of the distance, when a dark cloud rose on the seaward horizon. Presently the water darkened under the influence of a stiff breeze, and in less than half an hour the waves were rolling and boiling around us like those of the Atlantic. Ahead of us lay a small island, about a mile distant; and towards this the canoe was steered, while the men urged it forward as quickly as the roughness of the sea would allow. Still the wind increased, and the island was not yet gained. Some of the waves had broken over the edge of the canoe, and she was getting filled with water; but a kind Providence permitted us to reach the island in safety, though not in comfort, as most of the men were much wet, and many of them a good deal frightened.

On landing, we pitched our tents, made a fire, and proceeded to dry ourselves, and in less than an hour were as comfortable as possible. The island on which we had encamped was a small rocky one, covered with short heathery-looking shrubs, among which we found thousands of blaeberries. On walking round to the other side of it, I discovered an Indian encamped with his family. He supplied us with a fine white-fish, for which our men gave him a little tobacco and a bit of the fresh mutton which we had brought with us from Fort William.

Three days did we remain on this island, while the wind and waves continued unceasingly to howl and lash around it, as if they wished, in their disappointment, to beat it down and swallow us up, island and all; but towards the close of the third day the gale moderated, and we ventured again to attempt the traverse. This time we succeeded, and in two hours passed Thunder Point, on the other side of which we encamped.

The next day we could only travel till breakfast-time, as the wind again increased so much as to oblige us to put ashore. We comforted ourselves, however, with the prospect of a good mutton-chop.

The fire was soon made, the kettle on, and everything in preparation, when the dreadful discovery was made that the whole of the fresh mutton had been forgotten! Words cannot paint our consternation at this discovery. Poor Mrs Bain sat in mute despair, thinking of the misery of being reduced again to salt pork; while her husband, who had hitherto stood aghast, jumped suddenly forward, and seizing a bag of fine potatoes that had been given to the men, threw it, in a transport of rage, into the lake, vowing that as we were, by their negligence, to be deprived of our mutton, they certainly should also be sufferers with us.

It was very laughable to behold the rueful countenances of the men as their beautiful, large white potatoes sank to the bottom of the clear lake, and shone brightly there, as if to tantalise them, while the rippling water caused them to quiver so much that the lake seemed to rest on a pavement of huge potatoes! None dared, however, attempt to recover one; but after a while, when Mr Bain's back was turned, a man crept cautiously down to the water's edge, and gathered as many as were within reach -- always, however, keeping an eye on his master, and stooping in an attitude that would permit of his bolting up on the slightest indication of a wrathful movement.

It would be tedious, as well as unnecessary, to recount here all the minutiae of our voyage across Lake Superior; I shall merely touch on a few of the more particular incidents.

On the 1st of October we arrived at the Pic House [see note 2], where we spent the night; and, after a rough voyage, reached Michipicoton on the 4th. Our voyage along Lake Superior was very stormy and harassing, reminding us often of Lake Winnipeg. Sometimes we were paddling along over the smooth water, and at other times lying-by, while the lake was lashed into a mass of foam and billows by a strong gale. So much detention, and the lateness of the season, rendered it necessary to take advantage of every lull and calm hour that occurred, so that we travelled a good deal during the night. This sort of travelling was very romantic.

On one occasion, after having been ashore two days, the wind moderated in the afternoon, and we determined to proceed, if possible. The sun set gloriously, giving promise of fine weather. The sky was clear and cloudless, and the lake calm. For an hour or so the men sang as they paddled, but as the shades of evening fell they ceased; and as it was getting rather chilly, I wrapped myself in my green blanket (which served me for a boat-cloak as well as a bed), and soon fell fast asleep.

How long I slept I know not; but when I awoke, the regular, rapid hiss of the paddles struck upon my ear, and upon throwing off the blanket the first thing that met my eye was the dark sky, spangled with the most gorgeous and brilliant stars I ever beheld. The whole scene, indeed, was one of the most magnificent and awful that can be imagined. On our left hand rose tremendous precipices and cliffs, around the bottom and among the caverns of which the black waters of the lake curled quietly (for a most death-like, unearthly calm prevailed), sending forth a faint hollow murmur, which ended, at long intervals, in a low melancholy cadence. Before and behind us abrupt craggy islands rose from the water, assuming every imaginable and unimaginable shape in the uncertain light; while on the right the eye ranged over the inky lake till it was lost in thick darkness. A thin, transparent night-fog added to the mystical appearance of the scene, upon which I looked with mingled feelings of wonder and awe. The only distinct sound that could be heard was the measured sound of the paddles, which the men plied in silence, as if unwilling to break the stillness of the night. Suddenly the guide uttered in a hoarse whisper, "A terre!" startling the sleepy men, and rendering the succeeding silence still more impressive.

The canoe glided noiselessly through a maze of narrow passages among the tall cliffs, and grounded on a stony beach. Everything was then carried up, and the tents pitched in the dark, as no wood could be conveniently found for the purpose of making a fire; and without taking any supper, or even breaking the solemn silence of the night, we spread our beds as we best could upon the round stones (some of which were larger than a man's fist), and sank into repose. About a couple of hours afterwards we were roused by the anxious guide, and told to embark again. In this way we travelled at night or by day, as the weather permitted -- and even, upon one or two occasions, both night and day -- till the 12th of October, when we arrived at the Sault de Ste. Marie, which is situated at the termination of Lake Superior, just as our provisions were exhausted.

We had thus taken eighteen days to coast the lake. This was very slow going indeed, the usual time for coasting the lake in a north canoe being from eight to ten days.

The Sault de Ste. Marie is a large rapid, which carries the waters of Lake Superior into Lake Huron. It separates the British from the American possessions, and is fortified on the American side by a large wooden fort, in which a body of soldiers are constantly resident. There is also a pretty large village of Americans, which is rapidly increasing. The British side is not fortified; and, indeed, there are no houses of any kind except the few belonging to the Hudson Bay Company. This may be considered the extreme outskirts of civilisation, being the first place where I had seen any number of people collected together who were unconnected with the Hudson Bay Company.

I was not destined, however, to enjoy the sight of new faces long, for next morning we started to coast round the northern and uninhabited shores of Lake Huron, and so down the Ottawa to Montreal. Mr and Mrs Bain left me here, and proceeded by the route of the Lakes.

During the next few days we travelled through a number of rivers and lakes of various sizes; among the latter were Lakes Huron and Nipisingue. In crossing the latter, I observed a point on which were erected fourteen rough wooden crosses. Such an unusual sight excited my curiosity, and upon inquiring I found that they were planted there to mark the place where a canoe, containing fourteen men, had been upset in a gale, and every soul lost. The lake was clear and smooth when we passed the melancholy spot, and many a rolling year has defaced and cast down the crosses since the unfortunate men whose sad fate they commemorate perished in the storm.

While searching about the shore one night for wood to make a fire, one of our men found a large basket, made of bark, and filled with fine bears'-grease, which had been hid by some Indians. This was considered a great windfall; and ere two days were passed the whole of it was eaten by the men, who buttered their flour cakes with it profusely.

Not long after this we passed a large waterfall, where a friend of mine was once very nearly lost. A projecting point obliges the traveller to run his canoe rather near the head of the fall, for the purpose of landing to make the portage. From long habit the guides had been accustomed to this, and always effected the doubling of the point in safety. Upon this occasion, however, either from carelessness or accident, the canoe got into the strong current, and almost in an instant was swept down towards the fall. To turn the head of the canoe up the stream, and paddle for their lives, was the work of a moment; but before they got it fairly round they were on the very brink of the cataract, which, had they gone over it, would have dashed them to a thousand atoms. They paddled with the strength of desperation, but so strong was the current that they remained almost stationary. At last they began slowly to ascend -- an inch at a time -- and finally reached the bank in safety.

On Sunday the 19th of October we commenced descending the magnificent river Ottawa, and began to feel that we were at last approaching the civilised nations of the earth. During the day we passed several small log-huts, or shanties, which are the temporary dwelling-places of men who penetrate thus far into the forest for the purpose of cutting timber. A canoe full of these adventurous pioneers also passed us; and in the evening we reached Fort Mattawan, one of the Company's stations. At night we encamped along with a party who were taking provisions to the wood-cutters.

The scenery on the Ottawa is beautiful, and as we descended the stream it was rendered more picturesque and interesting by the appearance, occasionally, of that, to us, unusual sight, a farmhouse. They were too few and far between, however, to permit of our taking advantage of the inhabitants' hospitality, and for the next four days we continued to make our encampments in the woods as heretofore. At one of these frontier farms our worthy guide discovered, to his unutterable astonishment and delight, an old friend and fellow-voyageur, to greet whom he put ashore. The meeting was strange: instead of shaking hands warmly, as I had expected, they stood for a moment gazing in astonishment, and then, with perfect solemnity, kissed each other -- not gently on the cheek, but with a good hearty smack on their sunburnt lips. After conversing for a little, they parted with another kiss.

On the fourth day after this event we came in sight of the village of Aylmer, which lay calmly on the sloping banks of the river, its church spire glittering in the sun, and its white houses reflected in the stream.

It is difficult to express the feelings of delight with which I gazed upon this little village, after my long banishment from the civilised world. It was like recovering from a trance of four long dreamy years; and I wandered about the streets, gazing in joy and admiration upon everything and everybody, but especially upon the ladies, who appeared quite a strange race of beings to me -- and all of them looked so beautiful in my eyes (long accustomed to Indian dames), that I fell in love with every one individually that passed me in the village. In this happy mood I sauntered about, utterly oblivious of the fact that my men had been left in a public-house, and would infallibly, if not prevented, get dead drunk. I was soon awakened to this startling probability by the guide, who walked up the road in a very solemn I'm-not-at-all-drunk sort of a manner, peering about on every side, evidently in search of me. Having found me, he burst into an expression of unbounded joy; and then, recollecting that this was inconsistent with his assumed character of sobriety, became awfully grave, and told me that we must start soon, as the men were all getting tipsy.

The following day we arrived at Bytown.

This town is picturesquely situated on the brow of a stupendous cliff, which descends precipitously into the Ottawa. Just above the town a handsome bridge stretches across the river, near which the Kettle Fall thunders over a high cliff. We only stayed a few minutes here, and then proceeded on our way.

During the day we passed the locks of the Rideau Canal, which rise, to the number of eight or ten, one over another like steps; and immediately below them appeared the Curtain Falls. These falls are not very picturesque, but their great height and curtain-like smoothness render them an interesting object. After this, villages and detached houses became numerous all the way down the river; and late in the evening of the 24th we arrived at a station belonging to the Hudson Bay Company, on the Lake of the Two Mountains, where we passed the remainder of the night.

Here, for the first time since leaving home, I was ushered into a civilised drawing-room; and when I found myself seated on a cushioned chair, with my moccasined feet pressing a soft carpet, and several real, bona fide ladies (the wife and daughters of my entertainer) sitting before me, and asking hundreds of questions about my long voyage, the strange species of unbelief in the possibility of again seeing the civilised world, which had beset me for the last three years, began slowly to give way, and at last entirely vanished when my host showed me into a handsomely furnished bedroom, and left me for the night.

The first thing that struck me on entering the bedroom was the appearance of one of our voyageurs, dressed in a soiled blue capote, dilapidated corduroy trousers, and moccasins; while his deeply sunburnt face, under a mass of long straggling hair, stared at me in astonishment! It will doubtless be supposed that I was much horrified at this apparition. I was, indeed, much surprised; but, seeing that it was my own image reflected in a full-length looking-glass, I cannot say that I felt extremely horrified. This was the first time that I had seen myself -- if I may so speak -- since leaving Norway House; and, truly, I had no reason to feel proud of my appearance.

The following morning, at four o'clock, we left the Lake of the Two Mountains; and in the afternoon of the 25th October, 1845, arrived at Lachine, where, for the time, my travels came to a close -- having been journeying in the wilderness for sixty-six days.

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Soon after my arrival winter set in, and I became acquainted with a few of the inhabitants of Lachine. The moment the snow fell, wheeled carriages were superseded by carioles and sleighs of all descriptions. These beautiful vehicles are mounted on runners, or large skates, and slide very smoothly and easily over the snow, except when the road is bad; and then, owing to the want of springs, sleighs become very rough carriages indeed. They are usually drawn by one horse, the harness and trappings of which are profusely covered with small round bells. These bells are very necessary appendages, as little noise is made by the approach of a sleigh over the soft snow, and they serve to warn travellers in the dark. The cheerful tinkling music thus occasioned on the Canadian roads is very pleasing. Sleighs vary a good deal in structure and costliness of decoration; and one often meets a rough, cheerful Canadian habitant sitting in his small box of a sledge (painted sometimes red and sometimes green), lashing away at his shaggy pony in a fruitless attempt to keep up with the large graceful sleigh of a wealthy inhabitant of Montreal, who, wrapped up in furs, drives tandem, with two strong horses, and loudly tinkling bells.

Reader, I had very nearly come to the resolution of giving you a long account of Canada and the Canadians, but I dare not venture on it. I feel that it would be encroaching upon the ground of civilised authors; and as I do not belong to this class, but profess to write of savage life, and nothing but savage life, I hope you will extend to me your kind forgiveness if I conclude this chapter rather abruptly.

It is a true saying that the cup of happiness is often dashed from the lips that are about to taste it. I have sometimes proved this to be the case. The cup of happiness, on the present occasion, was the enjoyment of civilised and social life; and the dashing of it away was my being sent, with very short warning, to an out-of-the-way station, whose name, to me, was strange -- distance uncertain, but long -- appearance unknown, and geographical position a most profound mystery.

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Note 1. Since the above was written, many years have passed, and Dr Rae's name has become famous, not only on account of successful discovery, but also in connection with the expeditions sent out in search of Sir John Franklin.

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Note 2. It must be borne in mind that all the establishments we passed on the way belonged to the Hudson Bay Company.



Chapter Eleven.

Winter-Travelling In Canada -- Departure From Lachine -- Scenery Along The Road -- "Incidents" By The Way -- Arrival At Tadousac -- Mr. Stone's Adventure With Indians -- Clubbing Seals.

It was on a bright winter's day in the month of January 1846 that I was sent for by the Governor, and told to hold myself in readiness to start early the following morning with Mr Stone for Tadousac -- adding, that probably I should spend the approaching summer at Seven Islands.

Tadousac, be it known, is a station about three hundred miles below Montreal, at the mouth of the river Saguenay, and Seven Islands is two hundred miles below Tadousac; so that the journey is not a short one. The greater part of the road runs through an uninhabited country, and the travelling is bad.

In preparation for this journey, then, I employed myself during the remainder of the day; and before night all was ready.

Next morning I found that our journey was postponed to the following day, so I went into Montreal to make a few purchases, and passed the rest of the day in a state of intense thought, endeavouring to find out if anything had been forgotten. Nothing, however, recurred to my memory; and going to bed only half undressed, in order to be ready at a moment's notice, I soon fell into a short disturbed slumber, from which the servant awakened me long before daylight, by announcing that the sleigh was at the door. In ten minutes I was downstairs, where Mr Stone shortly afterwards joined me; and after seeing our traps safely deposited in the bottom of the sleigh, we jumped in, and slid noiselessly over the quiet street of Lachine.

The stars shone brightly as we glided over the crunching snow, and the sleigh-bells tinkled merrily as our horse sped over the deserted road. Groups of white cottages and solitary gigantic trees flew past us, looking, in the uncertain light, like large snow-drifts; save where the twinkling of a candle, or the first blue flames of the morning fire, indicated that the industrious habitant had risen to his daily toil. In silence we glided on our way, till the distant lights of Montreal awakened us from our reveries, and we met at intervals a solitary pedestrian, or a sleigh-load of laughing, fur-encompassed faces returning from an evening party.

About seven o'clock we arrived at the hotel from which the stage was to start for Quebec -- but when did stage-coach, or sleigh either, keep to its time? No sign of it was to be seen, and it required no small application of our knuckles and toes at the door to make the lazy waiter turn out to let us in. No misery, save being too late, can equal that of being too soon; at least, so I thought while walking up and down the coffee-room of the hotel, upon the table of which were scattered the remains of last night's supper, amid a confusion of newspapers and fag-ends of cigars; while the sleepy waiter made unavailing efforts to coax a small spark of fire to contribute some warmth to one or two damp billets of wood.

About an hour after its appointed time, the sleigh drove up to the door, and we hastened to take our places. The stage, however, was full, but the driver informed us that an "extra" (or separate sleigh of smaller dimensions than the stage) had been provided for us; so that we enjoyed the enviable advantage of having it all to ourselves. Crack went the whip, and off went the leader with a bound, the wheeler following at a pace between a trot and a gallop, and our "extra" keeping close in the rear. The lamps were still burning as we left the city, although the first streaks of dawn illumined the eastern sky. In fifteen minutes more we had left Montreal far behind.

There is something very agreeable in the motion of a sleigh along a good road. The soft muffled sound of the runners gliding over the snow harmonises well with the tinkling bells; and the rapid motion through the frosty air, together with the occasional jolt of going into a hollow or over a hillock, is very exhilarating, and we enjoyed our drive very much for the first hour or so. But, alas! human happiness is seldom of long duration, as we soon discovered; for, just as I was falling into a comfortable doze, bang! went the sleigh into a deep "cahoe," which most effectually wakened me. Now these same "cahoes" are among the disadvantages attending sleigh-travelling in Canada. They are nothing more or less than deep hollows or undulations in the road, into which the sleighs unexpectedly plunge, thereby pitching the traveller roughly forward; and upon the horses jerking the vehicles out of them, throwing him backward in a way that is pretty sure to bring his head into closer acquaintance with the back of the sleigh than is quite agreeable, particularly if he be a novice in sleigh-travelling. Those which we now encountered were certainly the worst I ever travelled over, rising in succession like the waves of the sea, and making our conveyance plunge sometimes so roughly that I expected it to go to pieces. Indeed, I cannot understand how wood and iron could stand the crashes to which we were exposed. In this way we jolted along, sometimes over good, sometimes over bad roads, till about nine o'clock, when we stopped at a neat, comfortable-looking inn, where the driver changed his horses, and the passengers sat down to a hurried breakfast.

The morning turned out beautifully clear and warm, at least in comparison with what it had been; and upon re-entering the sleigh we all looked extremely happy, and disposed to be pleased with everything and everybody. The country through which we now passed was picturesque and varied. Hills and valleys, covered with glittering snow and dark pines, followed each other in endless succession; while in every valley, and from every mountain-top, we saw hundreds of hamlets and villages, whose little streets and thoroughfares were crowded with busy habitants, engaged in their various occupations and winter traffic.

The laughing voices of merry little children romping along the roads accorded harmoniously with the lively tinkling of their parents' sleigh-bells as they set out for the market with the produce of their farms, or, dressed in their whitest blanket capotes and smartest bonnets rouges, accompanied their wives and daughters to a marriage or a festival. The scene was rendered still more pleasing by the extreme clearness of the frosty air and the deep blue of the sky; while the weather was just cold enough to make the rapid motion of our sleighs agreeable and necessary.

In some places the roads were extremely precipitous; and when we arrived at the foot of a large hill we used generally to get out and walk, preferring this to being dragged slowly up by the jaded horses.

During the day our sleighs were upset several times; but Mr Stone and I, in the "extra," suffered more in this way than those of the regular stage, as it was much narrower, and, consequently, more liable to tip over. Upon upsetting, it unaccountably happened that poor Mr Stone was always undermost. But he submitted to his fate most stoically; though from the nature of things my elbow invariably thrust him deep into the snow, on which, after being extricated, a splendid profile impression was left, to serve as a warning to other travellers, and to show them that a gentleman had been cast there.

As very little danger, however, attended these accidents, they only afforded subject for mirth at the time, and conversation at the end of the stage -- except once, when the sleigh turned over so rapidly, that I was thrown with considerable force against the roof, which, being of a kind of slight framework, covered with painted canvas, offered but small opposition to my flight; my head, consequently, went quite through it, and my unfortunate nose was divested to rather an alarming extent of its cutaneous covering. With this exception, we proceeded safely and merrily along, and about seven o'clock in the evening arrived at the small town of Three Rivers.

Early next morning we resumed our journey, and about four in the afternoon arrived at the famous city of Quebec, without having encountered any very interesting adventures by the way.

The first sight we had of Quebec was certainly anything but prepossessing. A recent fire in the lower town had completely destroyed a large portion of it; and the first street I passed through was nothing but a gaunt row of blackened chimneys and skeleton houses, which had a very melancholy, ghostlike appearance when contrasted with the white snow. As we advanced, however, to where the fire had been checked, the streets assumed a more agreeable aspect -- shops were open here and there, and workmen busily employed in repairing damaged houses and pulling down dangerous ones. Upon arriving at the steep street which leads from the lower town to within the walls, the immense strength of the ramparts and fortifications struck me forcibly. The road up which we passed to the gate was very narrow: on one side a steep hill descended to the lower town; and on the other towered the city walls, pierced all over with loopholes, and bristling with cannon. At the head of the road, in an angle of the wall, two silent but grim-looking guns pointed their muzzles directly down the road, so as to command it from one end to the other. All the other parts of the walls that I happened to see were even more strongly fortified than this.

The streets of Quebec are very steep, much more so than those of Edinburgh; and it requires no small exertion to mount one or two without stopping to breathe at the top. Upon the whole, it is anything but a pretty town (at least in winter), the houses being high, and the streets very narrow. The buildings, too, are commonplace; and the monument to Wolfe and Montcalm is a very insignificant affair. In fact, Quebec can boast of little else than the magnificent views it commands from the ramparts, and the impregnable strength of its fortifications. Some of the suburban villas, however, are very beautiful; and although I saw them in winter, yet I could form some idea of the enchanting places they must be in summer.

After spending three pleasant days here, we got into our sleigh again, and resumed our journey.

No stages ran below Quebec, so that we now travelled in the sleigh of a farmer, who happened to be going down part of the way.

Soon after leaving the city, we passed quite close to the famous Falls of Montmorenci. They are as high, if not higher, than those of Niagara, but I thought them rather tame, being nothing but a broad curtain of water falling over an even cliff, and quite devoid of picturesque scenery. A curious cone of ice, formed by the spray, rose nearly half-way up the falls.

The scenery below Quebec is much more rugged and mountainous than that above; and as we advanced the marks of civilisation began gradually to disappear -- villages became scarcer, and roads worse, till at last we came to the shanties of the wood-cutters, with here and there a solitary farmhouse. Still, however, we occasionally met a few sleighs, with the conductors of which our driver seemed to be intimately acquainted. These little interruptions broke, in a great degree, the monotony of the journey; and we always felt happier for an hour after having passed and exchanged with a Canadian a cheerful bonjour.

Our driver happened to be a very agreeable man, and more intelligent than most Canadians of his class; moreover, he had a good voice, and when we came to a level part of the road I requested him to sing me a song -- which he did at once, singing with a clear, strong, manly voice the most beautiful French air I ever heard; both the name and air, however, I have now forgotten. He then asked me to sing -- which I did without further ceremony, treating him to one of the ancient melodies of Scotland; and thus, with solos and duets, we beguiled the tedium of the road, and filled the woods with melody! much to the annoyance of the unmusical American feathered tribes, and to the edification of our horse, who pricked up his ears, and often glanced backwards, apparently in extreme surprise.

Towards evening the driver told us that we should soon arrive at Baie de St. Paul; and in half an hour more our weary horse dragged us slowly to the top of a hill, whence we had a splendid view of the village. In all the miles of country I had passed over, I had seen nothing to equal the exquisite beauty of the Vale of Baie de St. Paul. From the hill on which we stood the whole valley, of many miles in extent, was visible. It was perfectly level, and covered from end to end with thousands of little hamlets, and several churches, with here and there a few small patches of forest. The course of a little rivulet, which meanders through it in summer, was apparent, even though covered with snow. At the mouth of this several schooners and small vessels lay embedded in ice; beyond which rolled the dark, ice-laden waves of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The whole valley teemed with human life. Hundreds of Canadians, in their graceful sleighs and carioles, flew over the numerous roads intersecting the country; and the faint sound of tinkling bells floated gently up the mountain-side, till it reached the elevated position on which we stood. The whole scene was exquisitely calm and peaceful, forming a strange and striking contrast to the country round it. Like the Happy Valley of Rasselas, it was surrounded by the most wild and rugged mountains, which rose in endless succession, one behind another, stretching away in the distance till they resembled a faint blue wave on the horizon. In this beautiful place we spent the night, and the following at Mal Baie. This village was also pretty, but after Baie de St. Paul I could but little admire it.

Next night we slept in a shanty belonging to the timber-cutters on the coast of the gulf, which was truly the most wretched abode, except an Indian tent, I ever had the chance (or mischance) to sleep in. It was a small log-hut, with only one room; a low door -- to enter which we had to stoop -- and a solitary square window, filled with parchment in lieu of glass. The furniture was of the coarsest description, and certainly not too abundant. Everything was extremely dirty, and the close air was further adulterated with thick clouds of tobacco smoke, which curled from the pipes of half a dozen wood-choppers. Such was the place in which we passed the night; and glad was I when the first blush of day summoned us to resume our travels. We now entered our sleigh for the last time, and after a short drive arrived at the termination of the horse road. Here we got out, and rested a short time in a shanty, preparatory to taking to our snow-shoes.

The road now lay through the primeval forest, and fortunately it proved to be pretty well beaten, so we walked lightly along, with our snow-shoes under our arms. In the afternoon we arrived at another shanty, having walked about eighteen miles. Here we found a gentleman who superintended the operations of the lumberers, or wood-cutters. He kindly offered to drive us to Canard River, a place not far distant from the termination of our journey. I need scarcely say we gladly accepted his offer, and in a short time arrived at the river Saguenay.

This river, owing to its immense depth, never freezes over at its mouth; so we crossed it in a boat, and on the evening of the 7th of February we arrived at the post of Tadousac.

This establishment belongs to the Hudson Bay Company, and is situated at the bottom of a large and deep bay adjoining the mouth of the river Saguenay. Unlike the posts of the north, it is merely a group of houses, scattered about in a hollow of the mountains, without any attempt at arrangement, and without a stockade. The post, when viewed from one of the hills in the neighbourhood, is rather picturesque; it is seen embedded in the mountains, and its white-topped houses contrast prettily with the few pines around it. A little to the right rolls the deep, unfathomable Saguenay, at the base of precipitous rocks and abrupt mountains, covered in some places with stunted pines, but for the most part bald-fronted. Up the river, the view is interrupted by a large rock, nearly round, which juts out into the stream, and is named the "Bull." To the right lies the Bay of St. Catherine, with a new settlement at its head; and above this flows the majestic St. Lawrence, compared to which the broad Saguenay is but a thread.

Tadousac Bay is one of the finest natural harbours in the St. Lawrence. Being very deep quite close to the shore, it is much frequented by vessels and craft of every description and dimension. Ships, schooners, barks, brigs, and bateaux lie calmly at anchor within a stone's-throw of the bushes on shore; others are seen beating about at the mouth of the harbour, attempting to enter; while numerous pilot boats sail up and down, almost under the windows of the house; and in the offing are hundreds of vessels, whose white sails glimmer on the horizon like the wings of sea-gulls, as they beat up for anchorage, or proceed on their course for England or Quebec. The magnificent panorama is closed by the distant hills of the opposite shore, blending with the azure sky. This, however, is the only view, the land being a monotonous repetition of bare granite hills and stunted pines [see note 1].

Here, then, for a time, my travels came to a close, and I set about making myself as comfortable in my new quarters as circumstances would permit.

Tadousac I found to be similar, in many respects, to the forts in the north. The country around was wild, mountainous, and inhabited only by a few Indians and wild animals. There was no society, excepting that of Mr Stone's family; the only other civilised being, above the rank of a labourer, being a gentleman who superintended a timber-cutting and log-sawing establishment, a quarter of a mile from the Company's post.

My bourgeois, Mr Stone, was a very kind man and an entertaining companion. He had left Scotland, his native land, when very young, and had ever since been travelling about and dwelling in the wild woods of America. A deep scar on the bridge of his nose showed that he had not passed through these savage countries scathless. The way in which he came by this scar was curious, so I may relate it here.

At one of the solitary forts in the wild regions on the west side of the Rocky Mountains, where my friend Mr Stone dwelt, the Indians were in the habit of selling horses, of which they had a great many, to the servants of the Hudson Bay Company. They had, however, an uncommonly disagreeable propensity to steal these horses again the moment a convenient opportunity presented itself; and to guard against the gratification of this propensity was one of the many difficulties that the fur-traders had to encounter. Upon one occasion a fine horse was sold by an Indian to Mr Stone, the price (probably several yards of cloth and a few pounds of tobacco) paid, and the Indian went away. Not long after the horse was stolen; but as this was an event that often happened, it was soon forgotten. Winter passed away, spring thawed the lakes and rivers, and soon a party of Indians arrived with furs and horses to trade. They were of the Blackfoot tribe, and a wilder set of fellows one would hardly wish to see. Being much in the habit of fighting with the neighbouring tribes, they were quite prepared for battle, and decorated with many of the trophies of war. Scalp-locks hung from the skirts of their leather shirts and leggins, eagles' feathers and beads ornamented their heads, and their faces were painted with stripes of black and red paint.

After conversing with them a short time, they were admitted through the wicket one by one, and their arms taken from them and locked up. This precaution was rendered necessary at these posts, as the Indians used to buy spirits, and often quarrelled with each other; but, having no arms, of course they could do themselves little damage. When about a dozen of them had entered, the gate was shut, and Mr Stone proceeded to trade their furs and examine their horses, when he beheld, to his surprise, the horse that had been stolen from him the summer before; and upon asking to whom it belonged, the same Indian who had formerly sold it to him stood forward and said it was his. Mr Stone (an exceedingly quiet, good-natured man, but, like many men of this stamp, very passionate when roused) no sooner witnessed the fellow's audacity than he seized a gun from one of his men and shot the horse. The Indian instantly sprang upon him, but being a less powerful man than Mr Stone, and, withal, unaccustomed to use his fists, he was soon overcome, and pommelled out of the fort. Not content with this, Mr Stone followed him down to the Indian camp, pommelling him all the way. The instant, however, that the Indian found himself surrounded by his own friends, he faced about, and with a dozen warriors attacked Mr Stone and threw him on the ground, where they kicked and bruised him severely; whilst several boys of the tribe hovered around him with bows and arrows, waiting a favourable opportunity to shoot him. Suddenly a savage came forward with a large stone in his hand, and, standing over his fallen enemy, raised it high in the air and dashed it down upon his face. My friend, when telling me the story, said that he had just time, upon seeing the stone in the act of falling, to commend his spirit to God ere he was rendered insensible. The merciful God, to whom he thus looked for help at the eleventh hour, did not desert him. Several men belonging to the fort, seeing the turn things took, hastily armed themselves, and hurrying out to the rescue, arrived just at the critical moment when the stone was dashed in his face. Though too late to prevent this, they were in time to prevent a repetition of the blow; and after a short scuffle with the Indians, without any blood shed, they succeeded in carrying their master up to the fort, where he soon recovered. The deep cut made by the stone on the bridge of his nose left an indelible scar.

Besides Mr Stone, I had another companion -- namely, Mr Jordan, a clerk, who inhabited the same office with me, and slept in the same bedroom, during the whole winter. He was a fine-looking athletic half-breed, who had been partially educated, but had spent much more of his life among Indians than among civilised men. He used to be sent about the country to trade with the natives, and consequently led a much more active life than I did. One part of his business, during the early months of spring, was hunting seals. This was an amusing, though, withal, rather a murderous kind of sport. The manner of it was this: -- 

My friend Jordan chose a fine day for his excursion, and, embarking in a boat with six or seven men, sailed a few miles down the St. Lawrence, till he came to a low flat point. In a small bay near this he drew up the boat, and then went into the woods with his party, where each man cut a large pole or club. Arming themselves with these, they waited until the tide receded and left the point dry. In a short time one or two seals crawled out of the sea to bask upon the shore; soon several more appeared, and ere long a band of more than a hundred lay sunning themselves upon the beach. The ambuscade now prepared to attack the enemy. Creeping stealthily down as near as possible without being discovered, they simultaneously rushed upon the astonished animals; and the tragic scene of slaughter, mingled with melodramatic and comic incidents, that ensued, baffles all description. In one place might be seen my friend Jordan swinging a huge club round with his powerful arms, and dealing death and destruction at every blow; while in another place a poor weazened-looking Scotchman (who had formerly been a tailor! and to whom the work was new) advanced, with cautious trepidation, towards a huge seal, which spluttered and splashed fearfully in its endeavours to reach the sea, and dealt it a blow on the back. He might as well have hit a rock. The slight rap had only the effect of making the animal show its teeth; at which sight the tailor retreated precipitately, and, striking his heel against a rock, fell backwards into a pool of water, where he rolled over and over -- impressed, apparently, with the idea that he was attacked by all the seals in the sea. His next essay, however, was more successful, and in a few minutes he killed several, having learned to hit on the head instead of on the back. In less than a quarter of an hour they killed between twenty and thirty seals, which were stowed in the boat and conveyed to the post.

Nothing worth mentioning took place at Tadousac during my residence there. The winter became severe and stormy, confining us much to the house, and obliging us to lead very humdrum sort of lives. Indeed, the only thing that I can recollect as being at all interesting or amusing --  except, of coarse, the society of my scientific and agreeable friend, Mr Stone, and his amiable family -- was a huge barrel-organ, which, like the one that I had found at Oxford House, played a rich variety of psalm tunes, and a choice selection of Scotch reels -- the grinding out of which formed the chief solace of my life, until the arrival of an auspicious day when I received sudden orders to prepare for another journey.

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Note 1. It may be well to say that the above description applied to the country only in the summer and autumn months. It is now, we believe, an important summer resort, and a comparatively populous place.



Chapter Twelve.

A Journey On Snow-Shoes -- Evils Of Snow-Shoe Travelling In Spring -- Value Of Tea To A Tired Man -- Encamp In The Snow -- Isle Jeremie -- Canoeing And Boating On The Gulf Of St. Lawrence -- Amateur Navigating -- Seven Islands --  A Narrow Escape -- Conclusion.

It was on a cold, bleak morning, about the beginning of March 1846, that I awoke from a comfortable snooze in my bedroom at Tadousac, and recollected that in a few hours I must take leave of my present quarters, and travel, on snow-shoes, sixty miles down the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the post of Isle Jeremie.

The wind howled mournfully through the leafless trees, and a few flakes of snow fell upon the window as I looked out upon the cheerless prospect. Winter -- cold, biting, frosty winter -- still reigned around. The shores of Tadousac Bay were still covered with the same coat of ice that had bound them up four months before; and the broad St. Lawrence still flowed on, black as ink, and laden with immense fields and hummocks of dirty ice, brought down from the banks of the river above. The land presented one uniform chilling prospect of bare trees and deep snow, over which I was soon to traverse many a weary mile.

There is nothing, however, like taking things philosophically; so, after venting my spite at the weather in one or two short grumbles, I sat down in a passable state of equanimity to breakfast. During the meal I discussed with Mr Stone the prospects of the impending journey, and indulged in a few excursive remarks upon snow-shoe travelling, whilst he related a few incidents of his own eventful career in the country.

On one occasion he was sent off upon a long journey over the snow, where the country was so mountainous that snowshoe walking was rendered exceedingly painful, by the feet slipping forward against the front bar of the shoe when descending the hills. After he had accomplished a good part of his journey, two large blisters rose under the nails of his great toes; and soon the nails themselves came off. Still he must go on, or die in the woods; so he was obliged to tie the nails on his toes each morning before starting, for the purpose of protecting the tender parts beneath; and every evening he wrapped them up carefully in a piece of rag, and put them into his waistcoat pocket -- being afraid of losing them if he kept them on all night.

After breakfast I took leave of my friends at Tadousac, and, with a pair of snow-shoes under my arm, followed my companion Jordan to the boat which was to convey me the first twenty miles of the journey, and then land me, with one man, who was to be my only companion. In the boat was seated a Roman Catholic priest, on his way to visit a party of Indians a short distance down the gulf. The shivering men shipped their oars in silence, and we glided through the black water, while the ice grated harshly against the boat's sides as we rounded Point Rouge. Another pull, and Tadousac was hidden from our view.

Few things can be more comfortless or depressing than a sail down the Gulf of St. Lawrence on a gloomy winter's day, with the thermometer at zero! The water looks so black and cold, and the sky so gray, that it makes one shudder, and turn to look upon the land. But there no cheering prospect meets the view. Rocks -- cold, hard, misanthropic rocks -- grin from beneath volumes of snow; and the few stunted black-looking pines that dot the banks here and there only tend to render the scene more desolate. No birds fly about to enliven the traveller; and the only sound that meets the ear, besides the low sighing of the cold, cold wind, is the crashing of immense fields of ice, as they meet and war in the eddies of opposing currents. Fortunately, however, there was no ice near the shore, and we met with little interruption on the way. The priest bore the cold like a stoic; and my friend Jordan, being made, metaphorically speaking, of iron, treated it with the contemptuous indifference that might be expected from such metal.

In the evening we arrived at Esquimain River, where we took up our quarters in a small log-hut belonging to a poor seal-fisher, whose family, and a few men who attended a sawmill a short distance off, were the only inhabitants of this little hamlet. Here we remained all night, and prepared our snow-shoes for the morrow, as the boat was there to leave us and return to Tadousac. The night was calm and frosty, and everything gave promise of fine weather for our journey. But who can tell what an hour will bring forth? Before morning the weather became milder, and soon it began to thaw. A fine warm day, with a bright sun, be it known, is one of the most dreadful calamities that can befall a snowshoe traveller, as the snow then becomes soft and sticky, thereby drenching the feet and snow-shoes, which become painfully heavy from the quantity of snow which sticks to and falls upon them. In cold frosty weather the snow is dry, crisp, and fine, so that it falls through the network of the snow-shoe without leaving a feather's weight behind, while the feet are dry and warm; but a thaw! -- oh! it is useless attempting to recapitulate the miseries attending a thaw; my next day's experience will show what it is.

Early on the following morning I jumped from my bed on the floor of the hut, and proceeded to equip myself for the march. The apartment in which I had passed the night presented a curious appearance. It measured about sixteen feet by twelve, and the greater part of this space was occupied by two beds, on which lay, in every imaginable position, the different members of the half-breed family to whom the mansion belonged. In the centre of the room stood a coarsely-constructed deal table, on which lay in confusion the remains of the preceding night's supper. On the right of this, a large gaudily-painted Yankee clock graced the wall, and stared down upon the sleeping figures of the men. This, with a few rough wooden chairs and a small cupboard, comprised all the furniture of the house.

I soon singled out my man from among the sleeping figures on the floor, and bade him equip himself for the road -- or rather for the march, for road we had none. In half an hour we were ready; and having fortified ourselves with a cup of weak tea and a slice of bread, left the house and commenced our journey.

My man Bezeau (a French Canadian) was dressed in a blue striped cotton shirt, of very coarse quality, and a pair of corduroys, strapped round his waist with a scarlet belt. Over these he wore a pair of blue cloth leggins, neatly bound with orange-coloured ribbon. A Glengarry bonnet covered his head; and two pairs of flannel socks, under a pair of raw seal-skin shoes, protected his feet from the cold. His burden consisted of my carpet-bag, two days' provisions, and a blue cloth capote -- which latter he carried over his shoulder, the weather being warm. My dress consisted of a scarlet flannel shirt, and a pair of etoffe du pays trousers, which were fastened round my waist by a leathern belt, from which depended a small hunting-knife; a foraging cap and deer-skin moccasins completed my costume. My burden was a large green blanket, a greatcoat, and a tin tea-kettle. Our only arms of offence or defence were the little hunting-knife before mentioned, and a small axe for felling trees, should we wish to make a fire. We brought no guns, as there was little prospect of meeting any game on the road; and it behoves one, when travelling on foot, to carry as little as possible.

Thus we started from Esquimain River. The best joke, however, of all was, that neither I nor my man had ever travelled that way before! All we knew was, that we had to walk fifty miles through an uninhabited country, and that then we should, or at least ought to, reach Isle Jeremie. There were two solitary houses, however, that we had to pass on the way; the one an outpost of the Hudson Bay Company, the other a saw-mill belonging to one of the lumber companies (or timber-traders) in Quebec. In fact, the best idea of our situation may be had from the following lines, which may be supposed to have been uttered by the establishment to which we were bound: -- 

"Through the woods, through the woods, follow and find me, Search every hollow, and dingle, and dell; To the right, left, or front, you may pass, or behind me, Unless you are careful, and look for me well."

The first part of our road lay along the shores of the St. Lawrence.

The sun shone brightly, and the drifting ice in the gulf glittered in its rays as it flowed slowly out to sea; but ere long the warm rays acted upon the snow, and rendered walking toilsome and fatiguing. After about an hour's walk along the shore, we arrived at the last hut we were likely to see that day. It was inhabited by an Indian and his family. Here we rested a few minutes, and I renewed my snow-shoe lines, the old ones having broken by the way.

Shortly after this we passed the wreck of what had once been a fine ship. She lay crushed and dismasted among the rocks and lumps of ice which lined the desolate shore, her decks and the stumps of her masts drifted over with snow. Six short months before, she had bounded over the Atlantic wave in all the panoply of sail and rigging pertaining to a large three-master, inclosing in her sturdy hull full many a daring heart beating high with sanguine hopes, and dreaming of fame and glory, or perchance of home. But now, how great the change! -- her sails and masts uprooted, and her helm -- the seaman's confidence and safeguard --  gone; her bed upon the rocks and pebbles of a dreary shore; and her shattered hull hung round with icicles, and wrapped in the cold embraces of the wintry ocean. Few things, I think, can have a more inexpressibly melancholy appearance than a wreck upon a rocky and deserted shore in winter.

The road now began to get extremely bad. The ice, over which we had to walk for miles, had been covered with about six inches of water and snow. A sharp frost during the night had covered this with a cake of ice sufficiently strong to bear us up until we got fairly upon it, and were preparing to take another step, when down it went -- so that we had a sort of natural treadmill to exercise ourselves upon all day; while every time we sank, as a matter of course our snowshoes were covered with a mixture of water, snow, and broken ice, to extricate our feet from which almost pulled our legs out of the sockets.

In this way we plodded slowly and painfully along, till we came to a part of the shore where the ice had been entirely carried off, leaving the sandy beach uncovered for about two miles. We gladly took advantage of this, and, pulling off our snow-shoes, walked along among the shells and tangle of the sea-shore. At this agreeable part of our journey, while we walked lightly along, with our snow-shoes under our arms, I fell into a reverie upon the superior advantages of travelling in cold weather, and the delights of walking on sandy beaches in contrast with wet snow. These cogitations, however, were suddenly interrupted by our arrival at the place where the ice had parted from the general mass; so, with a deep sigh, we resumed our snow-shoes. My feet, from the friction of the lines, now began to feel very painful; so, having walked about ten miles, I proposed taking a rest. To this my man, who seemed rather tired, gladly acceded, and we proceeded to light a fire under the stem of a fallen tree which opportunely presented itself.

Here we sat down comfortably together; and while our wet shoes and socks dried before the blazing fire, and our chafed toes wriggled joyously at being relieved from the painful harness of the snow-shoes, we swallowed a cup of congou with a degree of luxurious enjoyment, appreciable only by those who have walked themselves into a state of great exhaustion after a hurried breakfast.

Greatly refreshed by the tea, we resumed our journey in better spirits, and even affected to believe we were taking an agreeable afternoon walk for the first mile or so. We soon, however, fell to zero again, as we gazed wistfully upon the long line of coast stretching away to the horizon. But there was no help for it; on we splashed, sometimes through ice, water, and snow, and sometimes across the shingly beach, till the day was far spent, when I became so exhausted that I could scarcely drag one foot after the other, and moved along almost mechanically. My man, too, strong as he was, exhibited symptoms of fatigue; though, to do him justice, he was at least seven times more heavily laden than I.

While we jogged slowly along in this unenviable condition, a lump of ice offered so tempting a seat that we simultaneously proposed to sit down. This was very foolish. Resting without a fire is bad at all times; and the exhausted condition we were then in made it far worse, as I soon found to my cost. Tired as I was before, I could have walked a good deal farther; but no sooner did I rise again to my feet than an inexpressible weakness overcame me, and I felt that I could go no farther. This my man soon perceived, and proposed making a fire and having a cup of tea; and then, if I felt better, we might proceed. This I agreed to; so, entering the woods, we dug a hole in the snow, and in half an hour had a fire blazing in it that would have roasted an ox! In a short time a panful of snow was converted into hot tea; and as I sat sipping this, and watching the white smoke as it wreathed upwards from the pipe of my good-natured guide, I never felt rest more delightful.

The tea refreshed us so much that we resumed our journey, intending, if possible, to reach Port Neuf during the night; and as we calculated that we had walked between fifteen and eighteen miles, we hoped to reach it in a few hours.

Away, then, we went, and plodded on till dark without reaching the post; nevertheless, being determined to travel as long as we could, we pushed on till near midnight, when, being quite done up, and seeing no sign of the establishment, we called a council of war, and sat down on a lump of ice to discuss our difficulties. I suggested that if we had not already passed the post, in all probability we should do so, if we continued to travel any farther in the dark. My companion admitted that he entertained precisely the same views on the subject; and, furthermore, that as we both seemed pretty tired, and there happened to be a nice little clump of willows, intermixed with pine trees, close at hand, his opinion was that nothing better could be done than encamping for the night. I agreed to this; and the resolution being carried unanimously, the council adjourned, and we proceeded to make our encampment.

First of all, the snow was dug away from the foot of a large pine with our snow-shoes, which we used as spades; and when a space of about ten feet long, by six broad, was cleared, we covered it with pine branches at one end, and made a roaring fire against the tree at the other. The snow rose all around to the height of about four feet, so that when our fire blazed cheerily, and our supper was spread out before it upon my green blanket, we looked very comfortable indeed -- and what was of much more consequence, felt so. Supper consisted of a cup of tea, a loaf of bread, and a lump of salt butter. After having partaken largely of these delicacies, we threw a fresh log upon the fire, and rolling ourselves in our blankets, were soon buried in repose.

Next morning, on awaking, the first thing I became aware of was the fact that it was raining, and heavily too, in the shape of a Scotch mist. I could scarcely believe it, and rubbed my eyes to make sure; but there was no mistake about it at all. The sky was gray, cold, and dismal, and the blanket quite wet! "Well," thought I, as I fell back in a sort of mute despair, "this is certainly precious weather for snow-shoe travelling!" I nudged my sleeping companion, and the look of melancholy resignation which he put on, as he became gradually aware of the state of matters, convinced me that bad as yesterday had been, to-day would be far worse.

When I got upon my legs, I found that every joint in my body was stiffer than the rustiest hinge ever heard of in the annals of doors! and my feet as tender as a chicken's, with huge blisters all over them. Bezeau, however, though a little stiff, was otherwise quite well, being well inured to hardships of every description.

It is needless to recount the miseries of the five miles' walk that we had to make before arriving at Port Neuf, over ground that was literally next to impassable. About nine o'clock we reached the house, and remained there for the rest of the day. Here, for three days, we were hospitably entertained by the Canadian family inhabiting the place; during this time it rained and thawed so heavily that we could not venture to resume our journey.

On the 16th the weather became colder, and Bezeau announced his opinion that we might venture to proceed. Glad to be once more on the move -- for fears of being arrested altogether by the setting-in of spring had begun to beset me -- I once more put on my snow-shoes; and, bidding adieu to the hospitable inmates of Port Neuf, we again wended our weary way along the coast. Alas! our misfortunes had not yet ceased. The snow was much softer than we anticipated, and the blisters on my feet, which had nearly healed during the time we stayed at Port Neuf, were now torn open afresh. After a painful and laborious walk of eight or nine miles, we arrived at a small house, where a few enterprising men lived who had penetrated thus far down the gulf to erect a saw-mill.

Here we found, to our infinite joy, a small flat-bottomed boat, capable of carrying two or three men; so, without delay, we launched it, and putting our snow-shoes and provisions into it, my man and I jumped in, and pulled away down the gulf, intending to finish the twenty miles that still remained of our journey by water. We were obliged to pull a long way out to sea, to avoid the ice which lined the shore, and our course lay a good deal among drifting masses.

Half an hour after we embarked a snow-storm came on, but still we pulled along, preferring anything to resuming the snow-shoes.

After a few hours' rowing, we rested on our oars, and refreshed ourselves with a slice of bread and a glass of rum -- which latter, having forgotten to bring water with us, we were obliged to drink pure. We certainly cut a strange figure, while thus lunching in our little boat --  surrounded by ice, and looking hazy through the thickly falling snow, which prevented us from seeing very far ahead, and made the mountains on shore look quite spectral.

For about five miles we pulled along in a straight line, after which the ice trended outwards, and finally brought us to a stand-still by running straight out to sea. This was an interruption we were not at all prepared for, and we felt rather undecided how to proceed. After a little confabulation, we determined to pull out, and see if the ice did not again turn in the proper direction; but after pulling straight out for a quarter of a mile, we perceived, or imagined we perceived, to our horror, that the ice, instead of being stationary, as we supposed it to be, was floating slowly out to sea with the wind, and carrying us along with it. No time was to be lost; so, wheeling about, we rowed with all our strength for the shore, and after a pretty stiff pull gained the solid ice. Here we hauled the flat up out of the water with great difficulty, and once more put on our snow-shoes.

Our road still lay along shore, and, as the weather was getting colder, we proceeded along much more easily than heretofore. In an hour or two the snow ceased to fall, and showed us that the ice was not drifting, but that it ran so far out to sea that it would have proved a bar to our further progress by water at any rate.

The last ten miles of our journey now lay before us; and we sat down, before starting, to have another bite of bread and a pull at the rum bottle; after which, we trudged along in silence. The peculiar compression of my guide's lips, and the length of step that he now adopted, showed me that he had made up his mind to get through the last part of the journey without stopping; so, tightening my belt, and bending my head forward, I plodded on, solacing myself as we advanced by humming, "Follow, follow, over mountain, -- follow, follow, over sea!" etcetera.

About four or five o'clock in the afternoon, upon rounding a point, we were a little excited by perceiving evident signs of the axe having been at work in the forest; and a little farther on discovered, to our inexpressible joy, a small piece of ground enclosed as a garden. This led us to suppose that the post could not be far off, so we pushed forward rapidly; and upon gaining the summit of a small eminence, beheld with delight the post of Isle Jeremie.

This establishment, like most of the others on the St. Lawrence, is merely a collection of scattered buildings, most of which are storehouses and stables. It stands in a hollow of the mountains, and close to a large bay, where sundry small boats and a sloop lay quietly at anchor. Upon a little hillock close to the principal house is a Roman Catholic chapel; and behind it stretches away the broad St. Lawrence, the south shore of which is indistinctly seen on the horizon. We had not much inclination, however, to admire the scenery just then; so, hastening down the hill, my man walked into the men's house, where in five minutes he was busily engaged eating bread and pork, and recounting his adventures to a circle of admiring friends; while I warmed myself beside a comfortable fire in the hall, and chatted with the gentleman in charge of the establishment.

At Isle Jeremie I remained about six weeks; or rather, I should say, belonged to the establishment for that time, as during a great part of it I was absent from the post. Mr Coral, soon after my arrival, went to visit the Company's posts lower down the St. Lawrence, leaving me in charge of Isle Jeremie; and as I had little or nothing to do in the way of business (our Indians not having arrived from the interior), most of my time was spent in reading and shooting.

It was here I took my first lessons in navigation -- I mean in a practical way; as for the scientific part of the business, that was deferred to a more favourable opportunity -- and, truly, the lessons were rather rough. The way of it was this: -- Our flour at Isle Jeremie had run out. Indians were arriving every day calling loudly for flour, and more were expected; so Mr Coral told me, one fine morning, to get ready to go to Tadousac in the boat for a load of flour. This I prepared to do at once, and started after breakfast in a large boat, manned by two men. The wind was fair, and I fired a couple of shots with my fowling-piece, as we cleared the harbour, in answer to an equal number of salutes from two iron cannons that stood in front of the house. By-the-bye, one of these guns had a melancholy interest attached to it a few months after this. While firing a salute of fourteen rounds, in honour of the arrival of a Roman Catholic bishop, one of them exploded while the man who acted as gunner was employed in ramming home the cartridge, and blew him about twenty yards down the bank. The unfortunate man expired in a few hours. Poor fellow! he was a fine little Canadian, and had sailed with me, not many weeks before, in a voyage up the St. Lawrence. But to return. Our voyage, during the first few days, was prosperous enough, and I amused myself in shooting the gulls which were foolish enough to come within range of my gun, and in recognizing the various places along shore where I had rested and slept on the memorable occasion of my snow-shoe trip.

But when did the St. Lawrence prove friendly for an entire voyage? Certainly not when I had the pleasure of ploughing its rascally waters! The remainder of our voyage was a succession of squalls, calms, contrary winds, sticking on shoals for hours, and being detained on shore, with an accompaniment of pitching, tossing, oscillation and botheration, that baffles all description. However, time brings the greatest miseries to an end; and in the process of time we arrived at Tadousac -- loaded our boat deeply with flour -- shook hands with our friends -- related our adventures -- bade them adieu -- and again found ourselves scudding down the St. Lawrence, with a snoring breeze on our quarter.

Now this was truly a most delectable state of things, when contrasted with our wretched trip up; so we wrapped our blankets round us (for it was very cold), and felicitated ourselves considerably on such good fortune. It was rather premature, however; as, not long after, we had a very narrow escape from being swamped. The wind, as I said before, was pretty strong, and it continued so the whole way; so that on the evening of the second day we came within sight of Isle Jeremie, while running before a stiff breeze, through the green waves which were covered with foam. Our boat had a "drooping nose," and was extremely partial to what the men termed "drinking;" in other words, it shipped a good deal of water over the bows. Now it happened that while we were straining our eyes ahead, to catch a sight of our haven, an insidious squall was creeping fast down behind us. The first intimation we had of its presence was a loud and ominous hiss, which made us turn our heads round rather smartly; but it was too late -- for with a howl, that appeared to be quite vicious the wind burst upon our sails, and buried the boat in the water, which rushed in a cataract over the bows, and nearly filled us in a moment, although the steersman threw her into the wind immediately. The sheets were instantly let go, and one of the men, who happened to be a sailor, jumped up, and, seizing an axe, began to cut down the main-mast, at the same time exclaiming to the steersman, "You've done for us now, Cooper!" He was mistaken, however, for the sails were taken in just in time to save us; and, while the boat lay tumbling in the sea, we all began to bail, with anything we could lay hands on, as fast as we could. In a few minutes the boat was lightened enough to allow of our hoisting the fore-sail; and about half an hour afterwards we were safely anchored in the harbour.

This happened within about three or four hundred yards of the shore; yet the best swimmer in the world would have been drowned ere he reached it, as the water was so bitterly cold, that when I was bailing for my life, and, consequently, in pretty violent exercise, my hands became quite benumbed and almost powerless.

Shortly after this I was again sent up to Tadousac, in charge of a small bateau, of about ten or fifteen tons, with a number of shipwrecked seamen on board. These unfortunate men had been cast on shore about the commencement of winter, on an uninhabited part of the coast, and had remained without provisions or fire for a long time, till they were discovered by a gentleman of the Hudson Bay Company, and conveyed over the snow in sleighs to the nearest establishment, which happened to be Isle Jeremie. Here they remained all winter, in a most dreadfully mutilated condition, some of them having been desperately frozen. One of the poor fellows, a negro, had one of his feet frozen off at the ankle, and had lost all the toes and the heel of the other, the bone being laid bare for about an inch and a half. Mr Coral, the gentleman who had saved them, did all in his power to relieve their distress --  amputating their frozen limbs, and dressing their wounds, while they were provided with food and warm clothing. I am sorry to say, however, that these men, who would have perished had it not been for Mr Coral's care of them, were the first, upon arriving at Quebec the following spring, to open their mouths in violent reproach and bitter invective against him; forgetting that, while their only charge against him was a little severity in refusing them a few trifling and unnecessary luxuries, he had saved them from a painful and lingering death.

In a couple of days we arrived at Tadousac the second time, to the no small astonishment of my brother scribbler residing there. After reloading our craft, we directed our course once more down the gulf.

This time the wind was also favourable, but, unfortunately, a little too strong; so we were obliged, in the evening, to come to an anchor in Esquimain River. This river has good anchorage close to the bank, but is very deep in the lead, or current; this, however, we did not know at the time, and seeing a small schooner close to shore, we rounded to a few fathoms outside of her, and let go our anchor. Whirr! went the chain -- ten! twelve! sixteen! till at last forty fathoms ran out, and only a little bit remained on board, and still we had no bottom. After attaching our spare cable to the other one, the anchor at last grounded. This, however, was a dangerous situation to remain in, as, if the wind blew strong, we would have to run out to sea, and so much cable would take a long time to get in; so I ordered my two men, in a very pompous, despotic way, to heave up the anchor again. But not a bit would it budge. We all heaved at the windlass; still the obstinate anchor held fast. Again we gave another heave, and smashed both the handspikes.

In this dilemma I begged assistance from the neighbouring schooner, and they kindly sent all their men on board with new handspikes; but our refractory anchor would not let go, and at last it was conjectured that it had got foul of a rock, and that it was not in the power of mortal man to move it. Under these pleasant circumstances we went to bed, in hopes that the falling tide might swing us clear before morning. This turned out just as we expected -- or, rather, a little better -- for next morning, when I went on deck, I found that we were drifting quietly down the gulf, stern foremost, all the sails snugly tied up, and the long cable dragging at the bows! Towards evening we arrived at Jeremie, and I gladly resigned command of the vessel to my first lieutenant.

One afternoon, near the middle of April, I sat sunning myself in the veranda before the door of the principal house at Isle Jeremie, and watched the fields of ice, as they floated down the Gulf of St. Lawrence, occasionally disappearing behind the body of a large pig, which stood upon a hillock close in front of me, and then reappearing again as the current swept them slowly past the intervening obstacle.

Mr Coral, with whom I had been leading a very quiet, harmless sort of life for a couple of weeks past, leant against a wooden post, gazing wistfully out to sea. Suddenly he turned towards me, and with great gravity told me that, as there was nothing particular for me to do at the establishment, he meant to send me down to Seven Islands, to relieve the gentleman at that post of his charge; adding, that as he wished me to set off the following morning at an early hour, I had better pack up a few things to-night.

Now, this order may not seem, at the first glance, a very dreadful one; but taking into consideration that Seven Islands is one hundred and twenty miles below the post at which I then resided, it did appear as if one would wish to think about it a little before starting. Not having time to think about it, however, I merely, in a sort of bantering desperation, signified my readiness to undertake a voyage to any part of the undiscovered world, at any moment he (Mr Coral) might think proper, and then vanished, to prepare myself for the voyage.

It was optional with me whether I should walk through one hundred and twenty miles of primeval and most impassable forest, or paddle over an equal number of miles of water. Preferring the latter, as being at once the less disagreeable and more expeditious method, I accordingly, on the following morning, embarked in a small Indian canoe, similar to the one in which I had formerly travelled with two Indians in the North-West. My companions were -- a Canadian, who acted as steersman; a genuine Patlander, who ostensibly acted as bowsman, but in reality was more useful in the way of ballast; and a young Newfoundland dog, which I had got as a present from Mr Stone while at Tadousac.

When we were all in our allotted places, the canoe was quite full; and we started from Isle Jeremie in good spirits, with the broad, sun-like face of Mike Lynch looming over the bows of the canoe, and the black muzzle of Humbug (the dog) resting on its gunwale.

It is needless to describe the voyage minutely. We had the usual amount of bad and good weather, and ran the risk several times of upsetting; we had, also, several breakfasts, dinners, suppers, and beds in the forest; and on the afternoon of the third day we arrived at Goodbout, an establishment nearly half-way between the post I had left and the one to which I was bound. Here we stayed all night, proposing to start again on the morrow. But the weather was so stormy as to prevent us for a couple of days trusting ourselves out in a frail bark canoe.

Early on the third morning, however, I took my place as steersman in the stern of our craft (my former guide being obliged to leave me here), and my man Mike squeezed his unwieldy person into the bow. In the middle lay our provisions and baggage, over which the black muzzle of Humbug peered anxiously out upon the ocean. In this trim we paddled from the beach, amid a shower of advice to keep close to shore, in case the big-fish -- alias, the whales -- might take a fancy to upset us.

After a long paddle of five or six hours we arrived at Pointe des Monts, where rough weather obliged us to put ashore. Here I remained all night, and slept in the lighthouse -- a cylindrical building of moderate height, which stands on a rock off Pointe des Monte, and serves to warn sailors off the numerous shoals with which this part of the gulf is filled. In the morning we fortunately found an Indian with his boat, who was just starting for Seven Islands; and after a little higgling, at which Mike proved himself quite an adept, he agreed to give us a lift for a few pounds of tobacco. Away, then, we went, with: -- 

"A wet sheet and a flowing sea, And a wind that followed fast,"

ploughing through the water in beautiful style.

The interior of our boat presented a truly ludicrous, and rather filthy scene. The Indian, who was a fine-looking man of about thirty, had brought his whole family -- sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, wife, and mother -- and a more heterogeneous mass of dirty, dark-skinned humanity I never before had the ill-luck to travel with. The mother of the flock was the most extraordinary being that I ever beheld. She must have been very near a hundred years old, as black and wrinkled as a singed hide, yet active and playful as a kitten. She was a very bad sailor, however, and dived down into the bottom of the boat the moment a puff of wind arose. Indians have a most extraordinary knack of diminishing their bulk, which is very convenient sometimes. Upon this occasion it was amusing to watch them settling gradually down, upon the slightest appearance of wind, until you might almost believe they had squeezed themselves quite through the bottom of the boat, and left only a few dirty blankets to tell the tale. Truly, one rarely meets with such a compact mass of human ballast. If, however, a slight lull occurred, or the sun peeped out from behind a cloud, there was immediately a perceptible increase in the bulk of the mass, and gradually a few heads appeared, then a leg, and soon a few arms; till at last the whole batch were up, laughing, talking, singing, eating, and chattering in a most uproarious state of confusion!

After the usual amount of storms, calms, and contrary winds, we arrived in safety at the post of Seven Islands, where I threw my worthy friend Mr Anderson into a state of considerable surprise and agitation by informing him that in the individual before him he beheld his august successor!

The establishment of Seven Islands is anything but an inviting place, although pretty enough on a fine day; and the general appearance of the surrounding scenery is lonely, wild, and desolate. The houses are built on a low sandy beach, at the bottom of the large bay of Seven Islands. The trees around are thinly scattered, and very small. In the background, rugged hills stretch as far as the eye can see; and in front, seven lofty islands, from which the bay and post derive their name, obstruct the view, affording only a partial glimpse of the open sea beyond. No human habitations exist within seventy miles of the place. Being out of the line of sailing, no vessels ever visit it, except when driven to the bay for shelter; and the bay is so large, that many vessels come in and go out again without having been observed. Altogether, I found it a lonely and desolate place, during a residence of nearly four months.

An extensive salmon-fishery is carried on at a large river called the Moisie, about eighteen miles below the post, where the Company sometimes catch and salt upwards of eighty and ninety tierces of fish.

During my sojourn there, I made one or two excursions to the fishery, a description of which may perhaps prove interesting to those versed in the more practical branches of ichthyology.

It was a lovely morning in June when Mr Anderson and I set out from Seven Islands on foot, with our coats (for the weather was warm) slung across our backs, and walked rapidly along the beach in the direction of the river Moisie. The weather was very calm, and the mosquitoes, consequently, rather annoying; but, as our progressive motion disconcerted their operations a little, we did not mind them much. The beach all the way was composed of fine hard sand, so that we found the walk very agreeable. A few loons dived about in the sea, and we passed two or three flocks of black ducks, known in some parts of the country by the name of "old wives;" but, having brought no gun with us, the old ladies were permitted to proceed on their way unmolested. The land all along presented the same uniform line of forest, with the yellow sand of the beach glittering at its edge; and as we cleared the islands, the boundless ocean opened upon our view.

In about four hours or so we arrived at the mouth of the Moisie, where the first fishery is established. Here we found that our men had caught and salted a good many salmon, some of which had just come from the nets, and lay on the grass, plump and glittering, in their pristine freshness. They looked very tempting, and we had one put in the kettle immediately; which, when we set to work at him soon afterwards, certainly did not belie his looks. The salmon had only commenced to ascend the river that day, and were being taken by fifties at a haul in the nets. The fishery was attended by three men, who kept seven or eight nets constantly in the water, which gave them enough of employment -- two of them attending to the nets, while the third split, salted, and packed the fish in large vats. Here we spent the night, and slept in a small house about ten feet long by eight broad, built for the accommodation of the fishermen.

Next morning we embarked in a boat belonging to a trapper, and went up the river with a fair wind, to visit the fisheries higher up. On the way we passed a seal-net belonging to the owner of the boat, and at our request he visited it, and found seven or eight fine seals in it: they were all dead, and full of water. Seal-nets are made the same as salmon-nets, except that the mesh is larger, the seal having a pretty good-sized cranium of his own. After a good deal of unravelling and pulling, we got them all out of the net, and proceeded onward with our cargo.

The scenery on the river Moisie is pleasing: the banks are moderately high, and covered to the foot with the richest and most variegated verdure; while here and there, upon rounding some of the curvatures of the stream, long vistas of the river may be seen, embedded in luxuriant foliage. Thirteen or fourteen miles up the river is the Frog Creek fishery, at which we arrived late in the afternoon, and found that the man superintending it had taken a good many fish, and expected more. He visited his nets while we were there, but returned with only a few salmon. Some of them were badly cut up by the seals, which are the most formidable enemies of fishermen, as they eat and destroy many salmon, besides breaking the nets. We were detained here by rain all night, and slept in the small fishing-house.

Travelling makes people acquainted with strange beds as well as strange bed-fellows; but I question if many people can boast of having slept on a bed of nets. This we were obliged to do here, having brought no blankets with us, as we expected to have returned to the Point fishery in the evening. The bedstead was a long low platform, in one end of the little cabin, and was big enough to let four people sleep in it -- two of us lying abreast at one end, and two more at the other end, feet to feet. A large salmon-net formed a pretty good mattress; another, spread out on top of us, served as a blanket; and a couple of trout-nets were excellent as pillows. From this piscatorial couch we arose early on the following morning, and breakfasted on a splendid fresh salmon; after which we resumed our journey. In a couple of hours we arrived at the Rapid fishery, where I found that my old friend Mike, the Irishman, had caught a great number of salmon. He was very bitter, however, in his remarks upon the seals, which it seems had made great havoc among his nets during the last two days. A black bear, too, was in the habit of visiting his station every morning, and, sitting on a rock not far off, watched his motions with great apparent interest while he took the fish out of the nets. Mike, poor man, regretted very much that he had no gun, as he might perhaps shoot "the baste." Bears are very destructive at times to the salted salmon, paying visits during the night to the vats, and carrying off and tearing to pieces far more than they are capable of devouring.

While inspecting the nets here, we witnessed an interesting seal-hunt. Two Indians, in separate canoes, were floating quietly in a small eddy, with their guns cocked, ready to fire at the first unfortunate seal that should show his head on the surface of the stream. They had not waited long when one popped up his head, and instantly got a shot, which evidently hurt him, as he splashed a little, and then dived. In a minute the Indian reloaded his gun, and paddled out into the stream, in order to have another shot the moment the seal rose for air: this he did in a short time, when another shot was fired, which turned him over apparently lifeless. The Indian then laid down his gun, and seizing his paddle, made towards the spot where the seal lay. He had scarcely approached a few yards, however, when it recovered a little, and dived --  much to the Indian's chagrin, who had approached too near the head of a small rapid, and went down, stern foremost, just at the moment his friend the seal did the same. On arriving at the bottom, the animal, after one or two kicks, expired, and the Indian at last secured his prize. After this, we embarked again in our boat; and the wind for once determined to be accommodating, as it shifted in our favour, almost at the same time that we turned to retrace our way. In a few hours we arrived at the fishery near the mouth of the river, where we found supper just ready.

After supper, which we had about eight o'clock, the night looked so fine, and the mosquitoes in the little smoky house were so troublesome, that we determined to walk up to the post; so, ordering one of the men to follow us, away we went along the beach. The night was fine, though dark, and we trudged rapidly along. It was very tiresome work, however, as, the tide being full, we were obliged to walk upon the soft sand. Everything along the beach looked huge and mystical in the uncertain light; and this, accompanied with the solemn boom of the waves as they fell at long intervals upon the shore, made the scene quite romantic. After five hours' sharp walking, with pocket-handkerchiefs tied round our heads to guard us from the attacks of mosquitoes, we arrived at Seven Islands between one and two in the morning.

Not long after this, a boat arrived with orders for my companion, Mr Anderson, to pack up his worldly goods and start for Tadousac. The same day he bade me adieu and set sail. In a few minutes the boat turned a point of land, and I lost sight of one of the most kindly and agreeable men whom I have had the good fortune to meet in the Nor'-West.

The situation in which I found myself was a novel, and, to say truth, not a very agreeable one. A short way off stood a man watching contemplatively the point round which the boat had just disappeared; and this man was my only companion in the world! -- my Friday, in fact. Not another human being lived within sixty miles of our solitary habitation, with the exception of the few men at the distant fishery. In front of us, the mighty Gulf of St. Lawrence stretched out to the horizon, its swelling bosom unbroken, save by the dipping of a sea-gull or the fin of a whale. Behind lay the dense forest, stretching back, without a break in its primeval wildness, across the whole continent of America to the Pacific Ocean; while above and below lay the rugged mountains that form the shores of the gulf. As I walked up to the house, and wandered like a ghost through its empty rooms, I felt inexpressibly melancholy, and began to have unpleasant anticipations of spending the winter at this lonely spot.

Just as this thought occurred to me, my dog Humbug bounded into the room, and, looking with a comical expression up in my face for a moment, went bounding off again. This incident induced me to take a more philosophical view of affairs. I began to gaze round upon my domain, and whisper to myself that I was "monarch of all I surveyed." All the mighty trees in the wood were mine -- if I chose to cut them down; all the fish in the sea were mine -- if I could only catch them; and the palace of Seven Islands was also mine. The regal feeling inspired by the consideration of these things induced me to call in a very kingly tone of voice for my man (he was a French Canadian), who politely answered, "Oui, monsieur."

"Dinner!" said I, falling back in my throne, and contemplating through the palace window our vast dominions!

On the following day a small party of Indians arrived, and the bustle of trading their furs, and asking questions about their expectations of a good winter hunt, tended to disperse those unpleasant feelings of loneliness that at first assailed me.

One of these poor Indians had died while travelling, and his relatives brought the body to be interred in our little burying-ground. The poor creatures came in a very melancholy mood to ask me for a few planks to make a coffin for him. They soon constructed a rough wooden box, in which the corpse was placed, and then buried. No ceremony attended the interment of this poor savage; no prayer was uttered over the grave; and the only mark that the survivors left upon the place was a small wooden cross, which those Indians who have been visited by Roman Catholic priests are in the habit of erecting over their departed relatives.

The almost total absence of religion of any kind among these unhappy natives is truly melancholy. The very name of our blessed Saviour is almost unknown by the hundreds of Indians who inhabit the vast forests of North America. It is strange that, while so many missionaries have been sent to the southern parts of the earth, so few should have been sent to the northward. There are not, I believe, more than a dozen or so of Protestant clergymen over the whole wide northern continent.

For at least a century these North American Indians have hunted for the white men, and poured annually into Britain a copious stream of wealth. Surely it is the duty of Christian Britain, in return, to send out faithful servants of God to preach the gospel of our Lord throughout their land.

The Indians, after spending a couple of days at the establishment --  during which time they sold me a great many furs -- set out again to return to their distant wigwams. It is strange to contemplate the precision and certainty with which these men travel towards any part of the vast wilderness, even where their route lies across numerous intricate and serpentine rivers. But the strangest thing of all is, the savage's certainty of finding his way in winter through the trackless forest, to a place where, perhaps, he never was before, and of which he has had only a slight description. They have no compasses, but the means by which they discover the cardinal points is curious. If an Indian happens to become confused with regard to this, he lays down his burden, and, taking his axe, cuts through the bark of a tree; from the thickness or thinness of which he can tell the north point at once, the bark being thicker on that side.

For a couple of weeks after this, I remained at the post with my solitary man, endeavouring by all the means in my power to dispel ennui; but it was a hard task. Sometimes I shouldered my gun and ranged about the forest in search of game, and occasionally took a swim in the sea. I was ignorant at the time, however, that there were sharks in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, else I should have been more cautious. The Indians afterwards told me that they were often seen, and several gentlemen who had lived long on the coast corroborated their testimony. Several times Indians have left the shores of the gulf in their canoes, to go hunting, and have never been heard of again, although the weather at the time was calm; so that it was generally believed that shark had upset the canoes and devoured the men. An occurrence that afterwards happened to an Indian renders this supposition highly probable. This man had been travelling along the shores of the gulf with his family -- a wife and several children -- in a small canoe. Towards evening, as he was crossing a large bay, a shark rose near his canoe, and, after reconnoitring a short time, swam towards it, and endeavoured to upset it. The size of the canoe, however, rendered this impossible; so the ferocious monster actually began to break it to pieces, by rushing forcibly against it. The Indian fired at the shark when he first saw it, but without effect; and, not having time to reload, he seized his paddle and made for the shore. The canoe, however, from the repeated attacks of the fish, soon became leaky, and it was evident that in a few minutes more the whole party would be at the mercy of the infuriated monster. In this extremity the Indian took up his youngest child, an infant of a few months old, and dropped it overboard; and while the shark was devouring it, the rest of the party gained the shore.

I sat one morning ruminating on the pleasures of solitude in the palace of Seven Islands, and gazed through the window at my solitary man, who was just leaving an old boat he had been repairing, for the purpose of preparing dinner. The wide ocean, which rolled its waves almost to the door of the house, was calm and unruffled, and the yellow beach shone again in the sun's rays, while Humbug lay stretched out at full length before the door. After contemplating this scene for some time, I rose, and was just turning away from the window, when I descried a man, accompanied by a boy, walking along the sea-shore towards the house. This unusual sight created in me almost as strong, though not so unpleasant, a sensation as was awakened in the bosom of Robinson Crusoe when he discovered the footprint in the sand. Hastily putting on my cap, I ran out to meet him, and found, to my joy, that he was a trapper of my acquaintance; and, what added immensely to the novelty of the thing, he was also a white man and a gentleman! He had entered one of the fur companies on the coast at an early age, and, a few years afterwards, fell in love with an Indian girl, whom he married; and, ultimately, he became a trapper. He was a fine, good-natured man, and had been well educated: and to hear philosophical discourse proceeding from the lips of one who was, in outward appearance, a regular Indian, was very strange indeed. He was dressed in the usual capote, leggins, and moccasins of a hunter.

"What have you got for dinner?" was his first question, after shaking hands with me.

"Pork and pancakes," said I.

"Oh!" said the trapper; "the first salt, and the latter made of flour and water?"

"Just so; and, with the exception of some bread, and a few ground pease in lieu of coffee, this has been my diet for three weeks back."

"You might have done better," said the trapper, pointing towards a blue line in the sea; "look, there are fish enough, if you only took the trouble to catch them."

As he said this, I advanced to the edge of the water; and there, to my astonishment, discovered that what I had taken for seaweed was a shoal of kippling, so dense that they seemed scarcely able to move.

Upon beholding this, I recollected having seen a couple of old hand-nets in some of the stores, which we immediately sent the trapper's son (a youth of twelve) to fetch. In a few minutes he returned with them; so, tucking up our trousers, we both went into the water and scooped the fish out by dozens. It required great quickness, however, as they shot into deep water like lightning, and sometimes made us run in so deep that we wet ourselves considerably. Indeed, the sport became so exciting at last, that we gave over attempting to keep our clothes dry; and in an hour we returned home, laden with kippling, and wet to the skin.

The fish, which measured from four to five inches long, were really excellent, and lent an additional relish to the pork, pancakes, and pease coffee!

I prevailed upon the trapper to remain with me during the following week; and a very pleasant time we had of it, paddling about in a canoe, or walking through the woods, while my companion told me numerous anecdotes, with which his memory was stored. Some of these were grave, and some comical; especially one, in which he described a bear-hunt that he and his son had on the coast of Labrador.

He had been out on a shooting expedition, and was returning home in his canoe, when, on turning a headland, he discovered a black bear walking leisurely along the beach. Now the place where he discovered him was a very wild, rugged spot. At the bottom of the bay rose a high precipice, so that Bruin could not escape that way: along the beach, in the direction in which he had been walking, a cape, which the rising tide now washed, prevented his retreating; so that the only chance for the brute to escape was by running past the trapper, within a few yards of him. In this dilemma, the bear bethought himself of trying the precipice; so, collecting himself, he made a bolt for it, and actually managed to scramble up thirty or forty feet, when bang went the boy's gun; but the shot missed, and it appeared as if the beast would actually get away, when the trapper took a deliberate aim and fired. The effect of the shot was so comical, that the two hunters could scarcely re-load their guns for laughing. Bruin, upon receiving the shot, covered his head with his fore-paws, and, curling himself up like a ball, came thundering down the precipice head over heels, raising clouds of dust, and hurling showers of stones down in his descent, till he actually rolled at the trapper's feet; and then, getting slowly up, he looked at him with such a bewildered expression, that the man could scarcely refrain from laughter, even while in the act of blowing the beast's brains out.

This man had also a narrow escape of having a boxing match with a moose-deer or elk. The moose had a strange method of fighting with its fore feet, getting up on its hind legs, and boxing, as it were, with great energy and deadly force. The trapper, upon the occasion referred to, was travelling with an Indian, who, having discovered the track of a moose in the snow, set off in chase of it, while the trapper pursued his way with the Indian's pack of furs and provisions on his shoulders. He had not gone far when he heard a shot, and the next moment a moose-deer, as large as a horse, sprang through the bushes and stood in front of him. The animal came so suddenly on the trapper that it could not turn; so, rising up with a savage look, it prepared to strike him, when another shot was fired from among the bushes by the Indian, and the moose, springing nearly its own height into the air, fell dead upon the snow.

In chasing the moose during winter in some parts of these countries, where the ground is broken and rugged, the hunters are not unfrequently exposed to the danger of falling over the precipices which the deceptive glare of the snow conceals from view, until, too late, he finds the treacherous snow giving way beneath his feet. On one occasion a young man in the service of the Company received intelligence from an Indian that he had seen fresh tracks of a moose, and being an eager sportsman, he sallied forth, accompanied by the Indian, in chase of it. A long fatiguing walk on the Chipewyan snow-shoes, which are six feet long, brought them within sight of the deer. The young man fired, wounded the animal, and then dashed forward in pursuit. For a long way the deer kept well ahead of them. At length they began to overtake it; but when they were about to fire again, it stumbled and disappeared, sending up a cloud of snow in its fall. Supposing that it had sunk exhausted into one of the many hollows which were formed by the undulations of the ground, the young man rushed headlong towards it, followed at a slower pace by the Indian. Suddenly he stopped and cast a wild glance around him as he observed that he stood on the very brink of a precipice, at the foot of which the mangled carcass of the deer lay. Thick masses of snow had drifted over its edge until a solid wreath was formed, projecting several feet beyond it. On this wreath the young man stood with the points of his long snow-shoes overhanging the yawning abyss; to turn round was impossible, as the exertion requisite to wield such huge snow-shoes would, in all probability, have broken off the mass. To step gently backwards was equally impossible, in consequence of the heels of the shoes being sunk into the snow. In this awful position he stood until the Indian came up, and taking off his long sash, threw the end of it towards him; catching hold of this, he collected all his energies, and giving a desperate bound threw himself backwards at full length. The Indian pulled with all his force on the belt, and succeeded in drawing him out of danger, just as the mass on which he had stood a moment before gave way, and thundered down the cliff, where it was dashed into clouds against the projecting crags long before it reached the foot.

About a week after his arrival the trapper departed, and left me again in solitude.

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The last voyage. -- There is something very sad and melancholy in these words -- the last! The last look, the last word, the last smile, even the last shilling, have all a peculiarly melancholy import; but the last voyage, to one who has lived, as it were, on travelling -- who has slept for weeks and months under the shadow of the forest trees, and dwelt among the wild romantic scenes of the wilderness -- has a peculiar and thrilling interest. Each tree I passed on leaving shook its boughs mournfully, as if it felt hurt at being thus forsaken. The very rocks seemed to frown reproachfully, while I stood up and gazed wistfully after each well-known object for the last time. Even the wind seemed to sympathise with the rest; for, while it urged the boat swiftly away from my late home, like a faithful friend holding steadfastly on its favouring course, still it fell occasionally, and rose again in gusts and sighs, as if it wished to woo me back again to solitude. I started on this, the last voyage, shortly after the departure of my friend the trapper, leaving the palace in charge of an unfortunate gentleman who brought a wife and five children with him, which rendered Seven Islands a little less gloomy than heretofore. Five men accompanied me in an open boat; and on the morning of the 25th August we took our departure for Tadousac. And, truly, Nature appeared to be aware that it was my last voyage, for she gave us the most unkind and harassing treatment that I ever experienced at her hands.

The first few miles were accomplished pleasantly enough. We had a fair breeze, and not too much of it; but towards the afternoon it shifted, and blew directly against us, so that the men were obliged to take to the oars; and, as the boat was large, it required them all to pull, while I steered.

The men were all French Canadians: a merry, careless, but persevering set of fellows, just cut out for the work they had to do, and, moreover, accustomed to it. The boat was a clumsy affair, with two spritsails and a jigger or mizzen; but, notwithstanding, she looked well at a distance, and though incapable of progressing very fast through the water, she could stand a pretty heavy sea. We were badly off, how ever, with regard to camp gear, having neither tent nor oilcloth to protect us should it rain -- indeed, all we had to guard us from the inclemency of the weather at night was one blanket each man; but as the weather had been fine and settled for some time back, we hoped to get along pretty well.

As for provisions, we had pork and flour, besides a small quantity of burnt-pease coffee, which I treasured up as a great delicacy.

Our first encampment was a good one. The night, though dark, was fine and calm, so that we slept very comfortably upon the beach, every man with his feet towards the fire, from which we all radiated like the spokes of a wheel. But our next bivouac was not so good. The day had been very boisterous and wet, so that we lay down to rest in damp clothes, with the pleasant reflection that we had scarcely advanced ten miles. The miseries of our fifth day, however, were so numerous and complicated that it at last became absurd! It was a drizzly damp morning to begin with; soon this gave way to a gale of contrary wind, so that we could scarcely proceed at the rate of half a mile an hour; and in the evening we were under the necessity either of running back five miles to reach a harbour, or of anchoring off an exposed lee-shore. Preferring the latter course, even at the risk of losing our boat altogether, we cast anchor, and leaving a man in the boat, waded ashore. Here things looked very wretched indeed. Everything was wet and clammy. Very little firewood was to be found; and when it was found, we had the greatest difficulty in getting it to light. At last, however, the fire blazed up; and though it still rained, we began to feel, comparatively speaking, comfortable.

Now, it must have been about midnight when I awoke, wheezing and sniffling with a bad cold, and feeling uncommonly wretched -- the fire having gone out, and the drizzly rain having increased -- and while I was endeavouring to cover myself a little better with a wet blanket, the man who had been left to watch the boat rushed in among us, and said that it had been driven ashore, and would infallibly go to pieces if not shoved out to sea immediately. Up we all got, and rushing down to the beach, were speedily groping about in the dark, up to our waists in water, while the roaring breakers heaved the boat violently against our breasts. After at least an hour of this work, we got it afloat again, and returned to our beds, where we lay shivering in wet clothes till morning.

We had several other nights nearly as bad as this one; and once or twice narrowly escaped being smashed to pieces among rocks and shoals, while travelling in foggy weather.

Even the last day of the voyage had something unpleasant in store for us. As we neared the mouth of the river Saguenay the tide began to recede, and ere long the current became so strong that we could not make headway against it; we had no alternative, therefore, but to try to run ashore, there to remain until the tide should rise again. Now it so happened that a sand-bank caught our keel just as we turned broadside to the current, and the water, rushing against the boat with the force of a mill-race, turned it up on one side, till it stood quivering, as if undecided whether or not to roll over on top of us. A simultaneous rush of the men to the elevated side decided the question, and caused it to fall squash down on its keel again, where it lay for the next four or five hours, being left quite dry by the tide. As this happened within a few miles of our journey's end, I left the men to take care of the boat, and walked along the beach to Tadousac.

Here I remained some time, and then travelled through the beautiful lakes of Canada and the United States to New York. But here I must pause. As I said before, I write not of civilised but of savage life; and having now o'ershot the boundary, it is time to close.

On the 25th of May 1847 I bade adieu to the Western hemisphere, and sailed for England in the good ship New York. The air was light and warm, and the sun unclouded, as we floated slowly out to sea, and ere long the vessel bathed her swelling bows in the broad Atlantic.

Gradually, as if loath to part, the wood-clad shores of America grew faint and dim; I turned my eyes, for the last time, upon the distant shore: the blue hills quivered for a moment on the horizon, as if to bid us all a long farewell, and then sank into the liquid bosom of the ocean.

<eob>

The Lonely Island

Or

The Refuge Of The Mutineers

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

The Refuge Of The Mutineers.

The Mutiny.

On a profoundly calm and most beautiful evening towards the end of the last century, a ship lay becalmed on the fair bosom of the Pacific Ocean.

Although there was nothing piratical in the aspect of the ship -- if we except her guns -- a few of the men who formed her crew might have been easily mistaken for roving buccaneers. There was a certain swagger in the gait of some, and a sulky defiance on the brow of others, which told powerfully of discontent from some cause or other, and suggested the idea that the peaceful aspect of the sleeping sea was by no means reflected in the breasts of the men. They were all British seamen, but displayed at that time none of the well-known hearty off-hand rollicking characteristics of the Jack-tar.

It is natural for man to rejoice in sunshine. His sympathy with cats in this respect is profound and universal. Not less deep and wide is his discord with the moles and bats. Nevertheless, there was scarcely a man on board of that ship on the evening in question who vouchsafed even a passing glance at a sunset which was marked by unwonted splendour. The vessel slowly rose and sank on a scarce perceptible ocean-swell in the centre of a great circular field of liquid glass, on whose undulations the sun gleamed in dazzling flashes, and in whose depths were reflected the fantastic forms, snowy lights, and pearly shadows of cloudland. In ordinary circumstances such an evening might have raised the thoughts of ordinary men to their Creator, but the circumstances of the men on board of that vessel were not ordinary -- very much the reverse.

"No, Bill McCoy," muttered one of the sailors, who sat on the breach of a gun near the forecastle, "I've bin flogged twice for merely growlin', which is an Englishman's birthright, an' I won't stand it no longer. A pretty pass things has come to when a man mayn't growl without tastin' the cat; but if Captain Bligh won't let me growl, I'll treat him to a roar that'll make him cock his ears an' wink six times without speakin'."

The sailor who said this, Matthew Quintal by name, was a short, thick-set young man of twenty-one or thereabouts, with a forbidding aspect and a savage expression of face, which was intensified at the moment by thoughts of recent wrongs. Bill McCoy, to whom he said it, was much the same in size and appearance, but a few years older, and with a cynical expression of countenance.

"Whether you growl or roar, Matt," said McCoy, with a low-toned laugh, "I'd advise you to do it in the minor key, else the Captain will give you another taste of the cat. He's awful savage just now. You should have heard him abusin' the officers this afternoon about his cocoa-nuts."

"So I should," returned Quintal. "As ill luck would have it, I was below at the time. They say he was pretty hard on Mr Christian."

"Hard on him! I should think he was," rejoined McCoy. "Why, if Mr Christian had been one of the worst men in the ship instead of the best officer, the Cap'n could not have abused him worse. I heard and saw 'im with my own ears and eyes. The cocoa-nuts was lyin', as it might be here, between the guns, and the Cap'n he came on deck an' said he missed some of his nuts. He went into a towerin' rage right off -- in the old style -- and sent for all the officers. When they came aft he says to them, says he, 'Who stole my cocoa-nuts?' Of course they all said they didn't know, and hadn't seen any of the people take 'em. 'Then,' says the Cap'n, fiercer than ever, 'you must have stole 'em yourselves, for they couldn't have been taken away without your knowledge.' So he questioned each officer separately. Mr Christian, when he came to him, answered, 'I don't know, sir, who took the nuts, but I hope you do not think me so mean as to be guilty of stealing yours.' Whereupon the Cap'n he flared up like gunpowder. 'Yes, you hungry hound, I do,' says he; 'you must have stolen them from me, or you would have been able to give a better account of them.'"

"That was pitchin' into 'im pretty stiff," said Quintal, with a grim smile. "What said Mr Christian?"

"He said nothin', but he looked thunder. I saw him git as red as a turkey cock, an' bite his lips till the blood came. It's my opinion, messmate," added McCoy, in a lower tone, "that if Cap'n Bligh don't change his tone there'll be -- "

"Come, come, mate," interrupted a voice behind him; "if you talk mutiny like that you'll swing at the end o' the yard-arm some fine mornin'."

The sailor who joined the others and thus spoke was a short, sturdy specimen of his class, and much more like a hearty hare-brained tar than his two comrades. He was about twenty-two years of age, deeply pitted with small-pox, and with a jovial carelessness of manner that had won for him the sobriquet of Reckless Jack.

"I'm not the only one that talks mutiny in this ship," growled McCoy. "There's a lot of us whose backs have bin made to smart, and whose grog has been stopped for nothin' but spite, John Adams, and you know it."

"Yes, I do know it," returned Adams, sharply; "and I also know that there's justice to be had in England. We've got a good case against the Captain, so we'd better wait till we get home rather than take the law into our own hands."

"I don't agree with you, Jack," said Quintal, with much decision, "and I wonder to see you, of all men, show the white feather."

Adams turned away with a light laugh of contempt, and the other two joined a group of their mates, who were talking in low tones near the windlass.

Matthew Quintal was not the only man on board who did not agree with the more moderate counsels of Reckless Jack, alias John Adams, alias John Smith, for by each of those names was he known. On the quarter-deck as well as on the forecastle mutterings of deep indignation were heard.

The vessel was the celebrated Bounty, which had been fitted up for the express purpose of proceeding to the island of Otaheite, (now named Tahiti), in the Pacific for plants of the breadfruit tree, it being thought desirable to introduce that tree into the West India Islands. We may remark in passing, that the transplantation was afterwards accomplished, though it failed at this time.

The Bounty had been placed under the command of Lieutenant Bligh of the Royal Navy. Her burden was about 215 tons. She had been fitted with every appliance and convenience for her special mission, and had sailed from Spithead on the 23rd December 1787.

Lieutenant Bligh, although an able and energetic seaman, was of an angry tyrannical disposition. On the voyage out, and afterwards at Otaheite, he had behaved so shamefully, and with such unjustifiable severity, both to officers and men, that he was regarded by a large proportion of them with bitter hatred. It is painful to be obliged to write thus of one who rose to positions of honour in the service; but the evidence led in open court, coupled with Bligh's own writings, and testimony from other quarters, proves beyond a doubt that his conduct on board the Bounty was not only dishonourable but absolutely brutal.

When the islanders were asked at first the name of the island, they replied, "O-Tahiti," which means, "It is Tahiti", hence the earlier form of the name -- Otaheite.

It was after the Bounty had taken in the breadfruit trees at Otaheite, and was advanced a short distance on the homeward voyage, that the events we are about to narrate occurred.

We have said that mutterings of deep discontent were heard on the quarter-deck. Fletcher Christian, acting lieutenant, or master's mate, leaned over the bulwarks on that lovely evening, and with compressed lips and frowning brows gazed down into the sea. The gorgeous clouds and their grand reflections had no beauty for him, but a shark, which swam lazily alongside, showing a fin now and then above water, seemed to afford him a species of savage satisfaction.

"Yes," he muttered, "if one of his legs were once within your ugly jaws, we'd have something like peace again after these months of torment."

Fletcher Christian, although what is called a high-spirited youth, was not quick to resent injury or insult. On the contrary, he had borne with much forbearance the oft-repeated and coarse insolence of his superior. His natural expression was bright and his temperament sunny. He possessed a powerful frame and commanding stature, was agile and athletic, and a favourite with officers and men. But Bligh's conduct had soured him. His countenance was now changed. The last insult about the cocoa-nuts, delivered openly, was more than he could bear. "When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war." In this case the tug was tremendous, the immediate results were disastrous, and the ultimate issues amazing, as will be seen in the sequel of our tale.

"To whom does your amiable wish refer?" asked a brother-officer named Stewart, who came up just then and leaned over the bulwarks beside him.

"Can you not guess?" said the other, sternly.

"Yes, I can guess," returned the midshipman, gazing contemplatively at the shark's fin. "But, I say, surely you don't really mean to carry out your mad intention of deserting."

"Yes, I do," said Christian with emphasis. "I've been to the fore-cockpit several times to-day, and seen the boatswain and carpenter, both of whom have agreed to help me. I've had a plank rigged up with staves into a sort of raft, on which I mean to take my chance. There's a bag all ready with some victuals in it, and another with a few nails, beads, etcetera, to propitiate the natives. Young Hayward is the only other officer besides yourself to whom I have revealed my intention. Like you, he attempts to dissuade me, but in vain. I shall go to-night."

"But where will you go to?" asked Stewart.

Christian pointed to Tofoa, one of the Friendly Islands, which was then in sight like a little black speck on the glowing sky where the sun had just disappeared.

"And how do you propose to escape him?" said the midshipman, pointing significantly to the shark, which at the moment gave a wriggle with its tail as if it understood the allusion and enjoyed it.

"I'll take my chance of that," said Christian, bitterly, and with a countenance so haggard yet so fierce that his young companion felt alarmed. "See here," he added, tearing open his vest and revealing within it a deep sea-lead suspended round his neck; "I had rather die than live in the torments of the last three weeks. If I fail to escape, you see, there will be no chance of taking me alive."

"Better try to take the ship!" whispered a voice behind him.

Christian started and grew paler, but did not turn his head to see who had spoken. The midshipman at his side had evidently not heard the whisper.

"I cannot help thinking you are wrong," said Stewart. "We have only to bear it a little longer, and then we shall have justice done to us in England."

Well would it have been for Fletcher Christian, and well for all on board the Bounty, if he had taken the advice of his young friend, but his spirit had been tried beyond its powers of endurance -- at least so he thought -- and his mind was made up. What moral suasion failed to effect, however, the weather accomplished. It prevented his first intention from being carried out.

While the shades of evening fell and deepened into a night of unusual magnificence, the profound calm continued, and the ship lay motionless on the sea. The people, too, kept moving quietly about the deck, either induced thereto by the sweet influences around them, or by some indefinable impression that a storm sometimes succeeds a calm as well in the moral as the material world. As the ship had no way through the water, it was impossible for the rash youth to carry out his plan either during the first or middle watches. He was therefore compelled to give it up, at least for that night, and about half-past three in the morning he lay down to rest a few minutes, as he was to be called by Stewart to relieve the watch at four o'clock.

He had barely fallen into a troubled slumber when he was awakened by Stewart, and rose at once to go on deck. He observed in passing that young Hayward, the mate of his watch, had lain down to take a nap on the arm-chest. Mr Hallet, the other midshipman of the watch, had also gone to sleep somewhere, for he was not to be seen. Whether the seriously reprehensible conduct of these two officers roused his already excited spirit to an ungovernable pitch, or their absence afforded a favourable opportunity, we cannot tell, but certain it is that Fletcher Christian opened his ear at that time to the voice of the tempter.

"Better try to take the ship," seemed burning in words of fire into his brain.

Quick to act as well as to conceive, he looked lustily and earnestly at the men of his watch. The one who stood nearest him, looking vacantly out upon the sea, was Matthew Quintal. To him Christian revealed his hastily adopted plan of seizing the ship, and asked if he would join him. Quintal was what men call a deep villain. He was quite ripe for mutiny, but from some motive known only to himself he held back, and expressed doubt as to the possibility of carrying out the plan.

"I did not expect to find cowardice in you," said Christian, with a look of scornful indignation.

"It is not cowardice, sir," retorted Quintal. "I will join if others do. Try some one else. Try Martin there, for instance."

Isaac Martin was a raw-boned, sallow, six-foot man of about thirty, who had been undeservedly flogged by Bligh. Christian went to him at once, and put the question, "Will you join me in taking the ship?"

"The very thing, Mr Christian. I'm with you," answered Martin, promptly.

The eager readiness of this man at once decided Quintal. Christian then went to every man in his watch, all of whom had received more or less harsh treatment from the Captain, and most of whom were more than willing to join the conspirators. Those who hesitated, whatever might have been their motives, had not sufficient regard for their commander to warn him of his danger. Perhaps the very suddenness of the proposal, as well as fear of the mutineers, induced them to remain silent. In passing along the deck Christian encountered a man named William Brown. He was assistant-botanist, or gardener, to the expedition, and having been very intimate with Christian, at once agreed to join him. Although a slenderly made young man, Brown was full of vigour and resolution.

"We must look sharp," said Christian to him, in that low eager whisper in which the conversation among the mutineers had hitherto been carried on. "It will soon be daylight. You know the men as well as I do. Go below and gain over those whom you feel sure of influencing. Don't waste your time on the lukewarm or cowardly. Away with you. Here, Williams," he added, turning to another man who was already in the plot, "go below and send up the gunner's mate, I want him; then call John Adams, -- I feel sure that Reckless Jack will join; but do it softly. No noise or excitement."

In a few seconds John Mills, the gunner's mate, a strongly-built middle-aged man, came on deck, and agreeing at once to join, was sent to fetch the keys of the arm-chest from the armourer, under pretence of getting out a musket to shoot a shark which was alongside.

Meanwhile John Williams went to the hammock of John Adams and roused him.

"I don't half like it," said Adams, when he was sufficiently awake to understand the message of his mate. "It's all very true what you say, Williams; the ship has been little better than a hell since we left Spithead, and Captain Bligh don't deserve much mercy, but mutiny is wrong any way you look at it, and I've got my doubts whether any circumstances can make it right."

The reasoning of Adams was good, but his doubts were cleared away, if not solved, by the abrupt entrance of Christian, who went to the arm-chest just opposite Adams's hammock and began to distribute arms to all the men who came for them. Seeing this, and fearing to be left on the weaker side, Adams rose, armed himself with a cutlass, and went on deck.

The morning of the 28th of April was now beginning to dawn. Before that the greater part of the ship's company had been gained over and armed; yet all this was done so quietly and with such firmness that the remainder of the crew were ignorant of what was going on. No doubt a few who might have given the alarm were afraid to do so. Among those who were asleep was one deserving of special notice, namely, Peter Heywood, a midshipman who was true as steel at heart, but whose extreme youth and inexperience, coupled with the surprise and alarm of being awakened to witness scenes of violence, produced a condition of inaction which resulted in his being left, and afterwards classed, with the mutineers.

Shortly after five o'clock the armed men streamed quietly up the fore-hatch and took possession of the deck. Sentinels were placed below at the doors of the officers' berths, and above at the hatchways. Then Fletcher Christian, John Adams, Matthew Quintal, William McCoy, Isaac Martin, and several others went aft, armed with muskets, bayonets, and cutlasses. Leaving Martin in charge of the quarter-deck, they descended to Captain Bligh's cabin.

The commander of the Bounty, all ignorant of the coming storm which his ungentlemanly and cruel conduct had raised, was sleeping calmly in his berth.

He was roughly awakened and bidden to rise.

"What is the reason of such violence?" he demanded, addressing Christian, as they half forced him out of bed.

"Silence, sir," said Christian, sternly; "you know the reason well enough. Tie his hands, lads."

Disregarding the order to be silent, Bligh shouted "murder!" at the top of his voice.

"Hold your tongue, sir, else you're a dead man," said Christian, seizing him by the tied hands with a powerful grasp, and holding a bayonet to his breast.

Of course no one responded to the Captain's cry, the hatchways, etcetera, being guarded. They gave him no time to dress, but hurried him on deck, where, amid much confusion and many abusive cries, preparations were being made for getting out a boat, for it was resolved to set Bligh and his friends adrift. At first there was some disputing among the mutineers as to which boat should be given to them. Eventually the launch was decided on.

"Hoist her out, bo's'n. Do it smartly and instantly, or look-out for yourself."

The order was given sternly, for the boatswain was known to be friendly to Bligh. He obeyed at once, with the assistance of willing men who were only too glad to get rid of their tyrannical commander.

"Now, Mr Hayward and Mr Hallet, get into the boat," said Christian, who seemed to be torn with conflicting emotions. His tone and look were sufficient for those young midshipmen. They obeyed promptly.

Mr Samuel the clerk and several more of the crew were then ordered into the boat. At this point Captain Bligh attempted to interfere. He demanded the intentions of the mutineers, but was told to hold his tongue, with threats of instant death if he did not obey. Particular persons were then called on to go into the boat, and some of these were allowed to collect twine, canvas, lines, sails, cordage, and other things to take with them. They were also allowed an eight-and-twenty gallon cask of water, fifty pounds of bread, a small quantity of rum and wine, a quadrant, and a compass.

When all the men obnoxious to the mutineers were in the boat, Captain Bligh was ordered into it. Isaac Martin had been placed as a guard over the Captain, and appeared to favour him, as he enabled him to moisten his parched lips with a shaddock. For this he was removed, and Adams took his place. Bligh looked round, but no friendly eye met his. He had forfeited the regard of all on board, though there were undoubtedly men there whose detestation of mutiny and whose sense of honour would have inclined them to aid him if they had not been overawed by the numbers and resolution of the mutineers. The master, indeed, had already made an attempt to rally some of the men round him, but had failed, and been sent to his cabin. He, with the others, was now in the boat. Poor young Peter Heywood the middy looked on bewildered as if in a dream. He could not be said in any sense, either by look or act, to have taken part with the mutineers.

At last he went below for some things, intending to go in the boat, but was ordered to remain below. So also, it is thought, was Edward Young, another midshipman, who did not make his appearance on deck at all during the progress of the mutiny. It was afterwards said that the leading seamen among the mutineers had purposely ordered these officers below, and detained them with a view to their working the ship in the event of anything happening to Christian.

Bligh now made a last appeal.

"I'll give you my honour, Mr Christian," he said, "never to think of what has passed this day if you will desist. To cast us adrift here in an open boat is to consign us to destruction. Think of my wife and family!"

"No, Captain Bligh," replied Christian, sternly; "if you had any honour things had not come to this; and if you had any regard for your wife and family, you should have thought of them before and not behaved so much like a villain. It is too late. You have treated me like a dog all the voyage. Come, sir, your officers and men are now in the boat, and you must go with them. If you attempt resistance you shall be put to death."

Seeing that further appeal would be useless, Bligh allowed himself to be forced over the side. When in the boat his hands were untied.

"You will at least allow us arms, to defend ourselves from the savages," he said. Fire-arms were refused, but four cutlasses were ultimately allowed him. At this point Isaac Martin quietly descended into the boat, but Quintal, pointing a musket at him, threatened to shoot him if he did not return to the ship. He obeyed the order with reluctance, and soon after the boat was cast adrift.

The crew of the Bounty at the time consisted of forty-four souls, all told. Eighteen of these went adrift with the Captain. The remaining twenty-five steered back to the sunny isles of the Pacific.



Chapter Two.

Records The Duties And Troubles Of The Mutineers.

It is not our purpose to follow the fortunes of Captain Bligh. The mutineers in the Bounty claim our undivided attention.

As regards Bligh, it is sufficient to say that he performed one of the most remarkable boat-voyages on record. In an overloaded and open boat, on the shortest allowance of provision compatible with existence, through calm and tempest, heat and cold, exposed to the attacks of cannibals and to the reproaches of worn-out and mutinous men, he traversed 3618 miles of ocean in forty-one days, and brought himself and his followers to land, with the exception of one man who was killed by the natives. In this achievement he displayed those qualities of indomitable resolution and unflagging courage which ultimately raised him to high rank in the navy. But we leave him now to trace those incidents which result from the display of his other qualities --  ungovernable passion, overbearing impetuosity, and incomprehensible meanness.

The first act of Fletcher Christian, after taking command of the ship, was to serve out a glass of grog all round. He then called a council of war, in which the mutineers discussed the question what they should do.

"You see, lads," said Christian, "it is absolutely certain that we shan't be left among these islands in peace. Whether Bligh manages to get home or not, the British Government is sure to send out to see what has become of us. My notion is that we should bear away to the south'ard, far out of the usual track of ships, find out some uninhabited and suitable island, and establish ourselves thereon?"

"What! without wives, or sisters, or mothers, or grandmothers, to say nothin' o' mothers-in-law, to cook our victuals an' look after our shirt-buttons?" said Isaac Martin, who, having been detained against his will, had become lugubriously, or recklessly, facetious, and was stimulated to a sort of fierce hilarity by his glass of rum.

"You're right, Martin," said Brown, the assistant botanist, "we couldn't get along without wives, so I vote that we go back to Otaheite, get married, every man of us, an' ho! for the South Pole. The British cruisers would never find us there."

There was a general laugh at this sally, but gravity returned almost instantly to every face, for they were in no humour just then for jesting. It is probable that each man began to realise the dreadful nature of his position as an outlaw whose life was forfeited to his country, and who could never more hope to tread the shores of Old England, or look upon the faces of kindred or friends. In such circumstances men sometimes try to hide their true feelings under a veil of recklessness or forced mirth, but seldom succeed in the attempt.

"No man in his senses would go back to Otaheite -- at least not to stay there," said John Adams, gravely; "it's the first place they will send to look for us."

"What's the odds?" growled one of the seamen. "They won't look there for us for a long time to come, unless Cap'n Bligh borrows a pair of wings from an albatross, an' goes home as the crow flies."

At this point John Mills, the gunner's mate, a man of about forty, cleared his throat and gave it as his opinion that they should not go back to Otaheite, but should leave the matter of their future destination in the hands of Mr Christian, who was well able to guide them.

This proposal was heartily backed by Edward Young, midshipman, a stout young fellow of twenty-two, who was fond of Christian; but there were one or two dissentient voices, among which were the little middy Peter Heywood, his brother-officer George Stewart, and James Morrison the boatswain's mate. These wished to return to Otaheite, but the counsel of the majority prevailed, and Christian ultimately steered for the island of Toubouai, which lay some five hundred miles to the south of Otaheite. There he expected to be safe from pursuit, and there it was resolved that the mutineers should take up their abode if the natives proved friendly.

That night, while the Bounty was skimming gently over the starlit sea before a light breeze, the three officers, Heywood, Stewart, and Young, leaned over the weather side of the quarter-deck, and held a whispered conversation.

"Why did you vote for going back to Otaheite, Heywood?" asked Young.

"Because it is to Otaheite that they will send to look after us, and I should like to be there to give myself up, the instant a man-of-war arrives, and declare my innocence of the crime of mutiny."

"You are right, Heywood," said Stewart; "I, too, would like to give myself up the moment I get the chance. Captain Bligh knows that you and I had no hand in the mutiny, and if he reaches England will clear us of so foul a stain. It's a pity that those who voted for Otaheite were not in the majority."

"That's all very well for you, who were seen to go below to fetch your clothes, and were detained against your will," said Young, "but it was not so with me. I was forcibly detained below. They would not allow me to go on deck at all until the launch had left, so that it would go hard with me before a court-martial. But the die is now cast, and there's no help for it. Although I took no part in the mutiny, I won't risk falling into the hands of justice, with such an unprincipled scoundrel as Bligh to witness against me. My future fortunes now lie with Fletcher Christian. I cannot avoid my fate."

Young spoke sadly, yet with some bitterness of tone, like one who has made up his mind to face and endure the worst.

On reaching the remote island of Toubouai the mutineers were much impressed with its beauty. It seemed exceedingly fertile, was wooded to the water's edge, and surrounded by a coral reef, with one opening through which a ship might enter. Altogether it seemed a most suitable refuge, but here they met with an insurmountable difficulty. On drawing near to the shore they saw hundreds of natives, who, armed with clubs and spears, lined the beach, blew their shell-horns, and resolutely opposed the landing of the strangers.

As all efforts to conciliate them were fruitless, resort was had to cannon and musketry. Of course the terrible thunder of the white man's artillery had its usual effect on the savages. They fled inland, and the mutineers gained a footing on the island.

But the natives continued their opposition so vigorously, that this refuge proved to be the reverse of a place of rest.

Christian therefore changed his plan, and, re-embarking in the Bounty, set sail for Otaheite.

On the way thither the mutineers disagreed among themselves. Some of those who had been forcibly detained even began to plot the retaking of the ship, but their intentions were discovered and prevented.

On the 6th of June they reached their former anchorage in Otaheite, where the natives received them with much joy and some surprise, but a story was trumped up to account for this sudden re-appearance of the mutineers.

Christian, however, had not yet given up his intention of settling on the island of Toubouai. He foresaw the doom that awaited him if he should remain at Otaheite, and resolved to return to the former island with a quantity of livestock. He began to barter with the friendly Otaheitans, and soon had as many hogs, goats, fowls, cats, and dogs as he required, besides a bull and a cow which had been left there by Captain Cook. With these and several natives he sailed again for Toubouai. Arriving there in nine days, he found that a change had come over the spirit of the natives. They were decidedly and unaccountably amiable. They not only permitted the white men to land, but assisted them in warping the ship into a place of shelter, as well as in landing provisions and stores.

Fletcher Christian, whatever his faults may have been, seems to have had peaceful tendencies. He had not only secured the friendship of the Otaheitans by his just and considerate treatment of them while engaged in barter, but he now managed to conciliate some of the chiefs of Toubouai. As a precaution, however, he set about building an entrenched fortress, in the labours connected with which he took his full share of work with the men. While the building was in progress the natives, despite the friendly chiefs, threw off the mask of good-will, which had doubtless been put on for the purpose of getting the white men into their power. Strong in overwhelming numbers, they made frequent attacks on the mutineers, which these latter, being strong in arms, successfully repelled. It soon became evident that warfare, not peace, was to be the lot of the residents on Toubouai, and, finally, it was agreed that the Bounty should be got ready for sea, and the whole party should return to Otaheite.

The resolution was soon carried into effect, and the mutineers ere long found themselves once again drawing near to the island.

As they approached it under full sail, for the wind was light, the men stood looking at it, commenting on its beauty and the amiableness of its people, but Fletcher Christian stood apart by himself, with his back to the shore, gazing in the opposite direction.

Edward Young went up to him.

"If this breeze holds, sir, we shall soon be at anchor in our old quarters."

The midshipman spoke in the respectful tone of one addressing his superior officer. Indeed, although Christian had, by his rash and desperate act of mutiny, forfeited his position, and lowered himself to a level with the worst of his associates, he never lost their respect. It is recorded that they styled him Mister Christian to the end.

"At anchor!" said Christian, in a tone of deepest despondency. "Ah, Edward Young, there is no anchorage for us now in this world! We may anchor in Matavai Bay to-night, but it will only be to up anchor and off again in a few days."

"Come, come, sir," said Young, heartily, "don't give way to despondency. You know we were driven to act as we did, and it can't be helped now."

"We were driven! My poor fellow," returned Christian, laying a hand on the midshipman's shoulder, "you had no part in this miserable business. It is I who have drawn you all into it, but -- well, well, as you say, it can't be helped now. We must make the best of it, -- God help us!"

He spoke in a low, soft tone of profound sadness, and continued his wistful gaze over the stern of the Bounty. Presently he looked quickly round, and, taking Young's arm, began to pace the deck while he spoke to him.

"As you say, Edward, we shall anchor once more in Matavai Bay, but I am firmly resolved not to remain there."

"I'm sorry to hear it, sir," said Young, "for most of the men are as firmly resolved to stay, and you know several of them are resolute, not to say desperate, characters."

"I am quite aware of that, but I shall make a proposal to them, which I think they will accept. I will first of all propose to leave Otaheite for some safer place of refuge, and when they object to that, I will propose to divide the whole of the ship's stores and property among us all, landing that portion which belongs to those who elect to remain on the island, and sailing away with the rest, and with those who choose to follow my fortunes, to seek a more distant and a safer home."

"That may perhaps suit them," said Young.

"Suit them," rejoined Christian, with a quick glance; "then you don't count yourself one of them?"

"No," returned the midshipman with a frank look, "I will follow you now, sir, to the end. How far I am guilty is a question that does not concern me at present. If the British Government gets hold of me, my fate is sealed. I am in the same boat with yourself, Mr Christian, and I mean to stick by it."

There was a strange spasm on Christian's countenance, as if of conflicting emotions, while he grasped the youth's hand and squeezed it.

"Thank you, Edward, thank you. Go now and see the anchor cleared to let go."

He descended quickly to the cabin, while the unfortunate midshipman went forward to give the order.

When the proposal just referred to was made the following day, after landing at Otaheite, it was at once agreed to. Peter Heywood, Stewart, Morrison, and others who had taken no active part in the mutiny, were glad to have the prospect of being enabled, sooner or later, to make a voluntary surrender of themselves, while the thoughtless and reckless among the men were well pleased to have done with uncertain wanderings, and to be allowed to settle among their amiable native friends.

Preparations for instant departure were made by Christian and those who chose to follow his lead. The contents of the Bounty were landed and fairly divided; then the vessel was got ready for her final voyage. Those who resolved to sail in her were as follows: -- 

Fletcher Christian, formerly acting lieutenant -- age 24. Edward Young, midshipman -- age 22. John Adams, seaman -- age 22. William McCoy, seaman -- age 25. Matthew Quintal, seaman -- age 21. John Williams, seaman -- age 25. Isaac Martin, seaman -- age 30. John Mills, gunner's mate -- age 40. William Brown, botanist's assistant -- age 27.

All these had married native women of Otaheite, who agreed to forsake home and kindred and follow the fortunes of their white husbands. There were also six native men who consented to accompany them. Their names were Talaloo, Ohoo, Timoa, Nehow, Tetaheite, and Menalee. Three of these had wives, and one of the wives had a baby girl by a former husband. The European sailors named the infant Sally. She was a round light-brown embodiment of gleeful impudence, and had barely reached the staggering age of infancy when taken on board the Bounty to begin her strange career.

Thus the party consisted of twenty-eight souls -- namely, nine mutineers, six native men, twelve native women, and the light-brown baby.

It was a pleasant bright morning in September 1790 when Fletcher Christian and his followers bade farewell to Otaheite. For some time the breeze was light, and the Bounty hovered round the Island as if loath to leave it. In the dusk of evening a boat put off from her, pulled to the shore, and Christian landed, alone, near the house of a chief who had become the special friend of Peter Heywood and Stewart. With the two midshipmen he spent some time in earnest conversation.

"I could not leave you," he said in conclusion, "without relieving my mind of all that I have just said about the mutiny, because you are sure to be sent for and taken to England as soon as the intelligence of this sad affair reaches. I advise you to go off at once to the first ship that may appear, and give yourselves up to the commander."

"Such is our intention," said Heywood.

"Right," rejoined Christian; "you are both innocent. No harm can come to you, for you took no part in the mutiny. For me, my fate is fixed. I go to search for some remote and uninhabited island, where I hope to spend the remainder of my days without seeing the face of any Europeans except those who accompany me. It is a dreary thought, lads, to lose country and kindred and friends for ever by the act of one dark hour. Now, remember, Heywood, what I have told you to tell my friends. God knows I do not plead guiltless; I am alone responsible for the mutiny, and I exonerate all, even my adherents, from so much as suggesting it to me; nevertheless, there are some who love me in England, to whom I would beg of you to relate the circumstances that I have told you. These may extenuate though they cannot justify the crime I have committed. I assure you, most solemnly, that almost up to the last I had no intention of doing more than making my own escape from the ship which the injustice and brutality of Bligh had made a place of torment to me. When you called me, Stewart, to relieve the watch, my brain seemed on fire, and it was when I found the two officers both asleep, who should have been on duty, that I suddenly made up my mind to take the ship. Now," concluded Christian, grasping the hands of the youths, "I must say farewell. I have done you grievous wrong. God forgive me, and bless you. Good-bye, Peter; good-bye, Stewart, good-bye."

He turned abruptly, stepped into his boat, and was rowed out to sea.

The young midshipmen, with moistened eyes, stood silently watching the boat until it reached the ship. Then they saw the Bounty steering away to the northward. Before daylight was quite gone she had disappeared on the distant horizon.

Thus did Fletcher Christian and his comrades pass from the sight and ken of man, and they were not heard of after that for more than twenty years!

But you and I, reader, have a special privilege to follow up these mutineers. Before doing so, however, let us note briefly what became of their comrades left on Otaheite.

These, to the number of sixteen, soon distributed themselves among the houses of their various friends, and proceeded to make themselves quite at home. Some of them, however, were not disposed to take up a permanent abode there. Among these was the boatswain's mate, James Morrison, a man of superior mental power and energy, who kept an interesting and graphic journal of events. [See note.] He, with the armourer, cooper, carpenter's mate, and others, set to work to construct a small vessel, in which they meant to sail to Batavia, whence they hoped to procure a passage to England. The natives opposed this at first, but on being told that the vessel was only meant for pleasure trips round the island, they ceased their opposition, and watched with great wonder at the process of ship-building, which was carried on industriously from day to day.

During the progress of the work there was witnessed an interesting ceremony, which, according to custom, was annually performed by the chief of the district and a vast concourse of natives. It shows how deeply the celebrated Captain Cook had gained the reverence and love of the people of Otaheite. A picture of the circumnavigator, which had been presented to the islanders by the captain of a merchant vessel, was brought out with great ceremony and held up before the people, who, including their queen, Eddea, paid homage to it. A ceremonial dance was also performed in its honour, and a long oration was pronounced by a leading chief, after which the portrait was returned to the care of an old man, who was its appointed custodian.

Long and earnestly did the white men labour at their little ship, and with equal, if not superior, earnestness did the natives flock from all parts of the island to see the wonderful work advance, bringing supplies of provisions to the whites as a sort of payment for admission to the show. The vessel was completed and launched after months of toil, but its sails of matting were found to be so untrustworthy that the plan of proceeding in it to Batavia had to be given up.

Meanwhile, two of the worst of the mutineers, named Thompson and Churchill, came to a tragical end. The former insulted a member of the family with whom he resided, and was knocked down. He left them in high dudgeon, and went to that part of the island where the vessel above referred to was being built. One day a canoe from a distant district touched there, and the owner landed with his wife and family, carrying his youngest child in his arms. Thompson angrily ordered him to go away, but the man did not obey the order, whereupon Thompson seized his musket and shot father and child with the same bullet. For this murder he was shunned with abhorrence by his comrades, and obliged to go off to another part of the island, accompanied by Churchill. These two took up their abode with a chief who was a tayo, or sworn friend, of the latter. This chief died shortly afterwards, leaving no children behind him; and Churchill, being his tayo, succeeded to his possessions and dignity, according to the custom of the country. He did not, however, enjoy his new position long, for Thompson, from jealousy or some other cause, shot him. The natives were so incensed at this that they arose en masse and stoned Thompson to death.

While these events were occurring, a messenger of retribution was speeding over the sea to Otaheite. On the morning of 23rd March 1791, exactly sixteen months after the landing of the mutineers, H.M.S. Pandora, Captain Edwards, sailed into Matavai Bay. Before she had anchored, Coleman the armourer swam off to her, and Peter Heywood and Stewart immediately followed and surrendered themselves. These, and all the mutineers, were immediately put in irons, and thrown into a specially prepared prison on the quarter-deck, named the "Pandora's Box," in which they were conveyed to England.

We have not space to recount the stirring incidents of this remarkable and disastrous voyage, and the subsequent trial of the mutineers. Let it suffice to say, that the Pandora, after spending three months in a fruitless search for the Bounty, was wrecked on the homeward voyage, and a large number of the crew and some of the prisoners were drowned, among whom was poor Stewart the midshipman. The remainder of the crew were saved in the ship's boats, after performing a voyage which, as to its length and the sufferings endured, rivals that previously made by Bligh. Thereafter, on reaching England, the mutineers were tried by court-martial; some were honourably acquitted, others were condemned to death but afterwards pardoned, and ultimately only three were executed.

Among those who were condemned, but afterwards pardoned as being unquestionably innocent, was Peter Heywood, whose admirable defence and correspondence with his family, especially that between himself and his charming sister Nessy, form a most interesting feature in the records of the trial; but all this must be passed over in silence, while we resume the thread of our story.

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Note. Part of this journal is quoted in an excellent account of the Mutineers of the Bounty, by Lady Belcher.



Chapter Three.

The Lonely Island Sighted.

It is pleasant to turn for a time from the dark doings of evil men to the contemplation of innocent infancy.

We return to the Bounty, and solicit the reader's attention to a plump brown ball which rolls about that vessel's deck, exhibiting a marked tendency to gravitate towards the lee scuppers. This brown ball is Sally, the Otaheitan infant.

Although brown, Sally's face is extremely pretty, by reason of the regularity of her little features, the beauty of her little white teeth, and the brilliancy of her large black eyes, to say nothing of her luxuriant hair and the gleeful insolence of her sweet expression.

We cannot say how many, or rather how few, months old the child is, but, as we have already remarked, she is a staggerer. That is to say, she has begun to assert the independence of her little brown legs, and progresses, even when on shore, with all the uncertainty of a drunken woman. Of course, the ship's motion does not tend to remedy this defect. Sally's chief delight is wallowing. No matter what part of the ship's deck she may select for her operations -- whether the scuppers, the quarter-deck, or the forecastle -- she lays her down straightway for a luxurious wallow. If the spot be dirty, she wallows it clean; if it be clean, she wallows it dirty. This might seem an awkward habit to an English mother; but it is a matter of supreme indifference to Sally's mother, who sits on a gun-carriage plaiting a mat of cocoa-nut fibre, for Sally, being naked, requires little washing. A shower of rain or a dash of spray suffices to cleanse her when at sea. On shore she lives, if we may say so, more in the water than on the land.

The day is fine, and the breeze so light that it scarce ruffles the face of the great ocean, though it manages to fill the topsails of the Bounty, causing her to glide quietly on. Some of the mutineers are seated on the deck or bulwarks, patching a canvas jacket or plaiting a grass hat. Others are smoking contemplatively. John Adams is winding up the log-line with McCoy. Edward Young stands gazing through a telescope at something which he fancies is visible on the horizon, and Fletcher Christian is down in the cabin poring over Carteret's account of his voyage in the Pacific.

There were goats on board. One of these, having become a pet with the crew, was allowed to walk at liberty, and became a grand playmate for Sally. Besides the goats, Christian had taken care to procure a number of hogs and poultry from Otaheite; also a supply of young breadfruit-trees and other vegetable products of the island, wherewith to enrich his new home when he should find it. All the animals were confined in cribs and pens with the exception of Sally's playmate.

"Take care!" exclaimed John Adams as he left the quarter-deck with his hands in his pockets; "your mate'll butt you overboard, Sal, if you don't look-out."

There was, indeed, some fear of such a catastrophe, for the precocious infant had a tendency to scramble on any object which enabled her to look over the low bulwarks, and the goat had a propensity to advance on its hind legs with a playful toss of its head and take its playmate by surprise, in truth, what between the fore-hatch, the companion-hatch, and the low bulwarks, it may be said that Sally led a life of constant and imminent danger. She was frequently plucked by the men out of the very jaws of death, and seemed to enjoy the fun.

While attempting to avoid one of the goat's playful assaults, Sally stumbled up against Matthew Quintal, deranged the work on which he was engaged, and caused him to prick his hand with a sail-needle, at which William McCoy, who was beside him, laughed.

"Get out o' that, you little nigger!" exclaimed Quintal, angrily, giving the child a push with his foot which sent her rolling to the side of the ship, where her head came in contact with an iron bolt. Sally opened her mouth, shut her eyes, and howled.

Quintal had probably not intended to hurt the child, but he expressed no regret. On the contrary, seeing that she was not much injured, he laughed in concert with McCoy.

These two, Quintal and McCoy, were emphatically the bad men of the party. They did not sympathise much, if at all, with human suffering --  certainly not with those whom they styled "niggers;" but there was one witness of the act whose heart was as tender towards the natives as Quintal's was hard.

"If you ever dare to touch her so again," said Young, striding up to Quintal, "I'll kick you into the pig-sty."

The midshipman seemed to be the last man on board whose natural disposition would lead him to utter such a threat, and Quintal was quite taken aback; but as Young was a powerful fellow, perfectly capable of carrying his threat into execution, and seemed, moreover, thoroughly roused, the former thought it best to hold his tongue, even though lugubrious Isaac Martin chuckled audibly, and Ohoo, one of the natives, who stood near, displayed his fine teeth from ear to ear.

Lifting up Sally with much tenderness, Young carried her to her mother, who, after a not very careful examination of the bruised head, set her down on the deck, where she immediately began to wallow as before. Rising on her brown little feet, she staggered forward a few paces, and then seated herself without bending her knees. From this position she rolled towards the starboard side of the ship and squeezed herself between a gun-carriage and the bulwarks, until she got into the porthole. Thrusting her head over the edge of this, she gazed at the ripples that rolled pleasantly from the side. This was paradise! The sun glittered on these ripples, and Sally's eyes glittered in sympathy. A very gentle lurch of the ship soon after sent Sally head foremost into the midst of the ripples.

This event was nothing new to Sally. In her Otaheitan home her mother had been wont to take her out for a swim as British mothers take their offspring for a walk. Frequently had that mother pitched Sally off her shoulders and left her to wabble in the water, as eagles are said to toss their eaglets into the air, and leave them to flutter until failing strength renders aid advisable.

No doubt when Sally, falling from such a height, and turning so as to come flat on her back, experienced a tingling slap upon her skin, she felt disposed to shed a salt tear or two into the mighty ocean; but when the smart passed away, she took to wallowing in the water, by way of making the most of her opportunities. Both Christian and Young heard the plunge. The former leaped up the companion ladder, the latter ran to the stern of the ship, but before either could gain the side one of the Otaheitan men, who had witnessed the accident, plunged into the sea and was soon close to Sally. The playful creature, after giving him a kick in the face, consented to be placed on his shoulders.

The ship of course was brought up to the wind and her topsails backed as quickly as possible, but the swimmers were left a considerable distance astern before this was accomplished.

"No need to lower a boat," remarked Christian, as he drew out the tubes of his telescope; "that fellow swims like a fish."

"So do all his countrymen," said Young.

"And the women and children too," added John Adams, who was at the helm.

"She's tugging at the man's woolly head as if it were a door mat," said Christian, laughing; "and I do believe -- yes -- the little thing is now reaching round -- and pulling his nose. Look at them, Young."

Handing the glass to the midshipman, he turned to inquire for the child's mother, and to his astonishment found that brown lady sitting on the deck busy with her mat-making, as unconcerned as if nothing unusual were going on.

The fact was, that Sally's mother thought no more of Sally falling into the sea than a white mother might of her child falling on its nose -- not so much, perhaps. She knew that the ship would wait to pick her up. She also knew that Sally was an expert swimmer for her age, and that the man who had gone to her rescue was thoroughly able for the duty, having, like all the South Sea Islanders, been accustomed from infancy to spend hours at a time in the water.

In a few minutes he came alongside, with Sally sitting astride his neck, holding on to both sides of his head, and lifting her large eyes with a gaze of ecstasy to those who looked over the vessel's side. She evidently regarded the adventure as one of the most charming that had up to that time gladdened her brief career. Not only so, but, no sooner had she been hauled on board with her deliverer, than she made straight for the porthole from which she had fallen, and attempted to repeat the manoeuvre, amid shouts of laughter from all who saw her. After that the various portholes had to be closed up, and the precocious baby to be more carefully watched.

"I have come to the conclusion," said Christian to Young, as they paced the deck by moonlight that same night, "that it is better to settle on Pitcairn's Island than on any of the Marquesas group. It is farther out of the track of ships than any known island of the Pacific, and if Carteret's account of it be correct, its precipitous sides will induce passers-by to continue their voyage without stopping."

"If we find it, and it should turn out to be suitable, what then!" asked Young.

"We shall land, form a settlement, and live and die there," answered Christian.

"A sad end to all our bright hopes and ambitions," said Young, as if speaking to himself, while he gazed far away on the rippling pathway made by the sun upon the sea.

Christian made no rejoinder. The subject was not a pleasant one to contemplate. He thought it best to confront the inevitable in silence.

Captain Carteret, the navigator who discovered the island and named it Pitcairn, after the young officer of his ship who was the first to see and report it, had placed it on his chart no less than three degrees out of its true longitude. Hence Christian cruised about unsuccessfully in search of it for several weeks. At last, when he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, a solitary rock was descried in the far distance rising out of the ocean.

"There it is at last!" said Christian, with a sigh that seemed to indicate the removal of a great weight from his spirit.

Immediately every man in the ship hurried to the bow of the vessel, and gazed with strangely mingled feelings on what was to be his future home. Even the natives, men and women, were roused to a feeling of interest by the evident excitement of the Europeans, and hastened to parts of the ship whence they could obtain a clear view. By degrees tongues began to loosen.

"It's like a fortress, with its high perpendicular cliffs," remarked John Adams.

"All the better for us," said Quintal; "we'll need some place that's difficult to get at and easy to defend, if one o' the King's ships should find us out."

"So we will," laughed McCoy in gruff tones, "and it's my notion that there's a natural barrier round that island which will go further to defend us agin the King's ships than anything that we could do. Isn't that white line at the foot o' the cliffs like a heavy surf, boys?"

"It looks like it," answered John Mills, the gunner's mate; "an' wherever you find cliffs rising like high walls out o' the sea, you may be pretty sure the water's too deep for good anchorage."

"That's in our favour too," returned Quintal; "nothin' like a heavy surf and bad anchorage to indooce ships to give us a wide berth."

"I hope," said William Brown the botanist, "that there's some vegetation on it. I don't see much as yet."

"Ain't it a strange thing," remarked long-legged Isaac Martin, in a more than usually sepulchral tone, "that land-lubbers invariably shows a fund of ignorance when at sea, even in regard to things they might be supposed to know somethin' about?"

"How have I shown ignorance just now?" asked Brown, with a smile, for he was a good-humoured man, and could stand a great deal of chaffing.

"Why, how can you, bein' a gardener," returned Martin, "expect to see wegitation on the face of a perpindikler cliff?"

"You're right, Martin; but then, you know, there is generally an interior as well as a face to a cliffy island, and one might expect to find vegetation there, don't you see."

"That's true -- to find it," retorted Martin, "but not to see it through tons of solid rock, and from five or six miles out at sea."

"But what if there's niggers on it?" suggested Adams, who joined the party at this point.

"Fight 'em, of coorse," said John Williams.

"An' drive 'em into the sea," added Quintal.

"Ay, the place ain't big enough for more than one lot," said McCoy. "It don't seem more than four miles long, or thereabouts."

An order to shorten sail stopped the conversation at this point.

"It is too late to attempt a landing to-night," said Christian to Young. "We'll dodge off and on till morning."

The Bounty was accordingly put about, and her crew spent the remainder of the night in chatting or dreaming about their future home.



Chapter Four.

The Island Explored.

A bright and pleasant morning forms a powerful antidote to the evils of a cheerless night. Few of the mutineers slept soundly on the night of their arrival off Pitcairn, and their dreams of that island were more or less unpleasantly mingled with manacles and barred windows, and men dangling from yard-arms. The blessed sunshine dissipated all this, rousing, in the hearts of some, feelings of hope and forgiveness, in the breasts of others, only those sensations of animal enjoyment which man shares in common with the brutes.

"Lower away the boat there," said Fletcher Christian, coming on deck with a more cheerful air than he had worn since the day of the mutiny; "we shall row round the island and search for a landing-place. You will take charge, Mr Young, during my absence. Put muskets and ammunition into the boat, John Adams; the place may be inhabited -- there's no saying -- and South Sea savages are not a hospitable race as a rule. Now then, look sharp, lads."

In a few minutes, Adams, Martin, McCoy, Brown, and Quintal were in the boat, with two of the Otaheitan men.

"Won't you take cutlasses?" asked Young, looking over the side.

"Well, yes, hand down half-a-dozen; and don't go far from this end of the island, Mr Young. Just keep dodging off and on."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the middy, touching his cap from the mere force of habit.

"Shove off," said Christian, seating himself at the helm.

In a few minutes the boat was skimming over the calm water towards the shore, while the Bounty, wearing round, went slowly out to sea.

As the boat neared the shore it soon became evident that it would be extremely difficult to effect a landing. Nothing could be seen but high precipitous cliffs without any sign of a harbour or creek sufficiently large or safe to afford anchorage for the ship. Worst of all, the only spot that seemed to offer any prospect of a landing-place, even for a boat, was guarded by tremendous breakers that seemed to bid defiance to man's feeble powers. These great waves, or rollers, were not the result of storm or wind, but of the mere ocean-swell of the great Pacific, which undulates over her broad breast even when becalmed. No signs of the coming waves were visible more than a few hundred yards from the shore. There, each roller gradually and silently arose when the undulating motion of the sea caught the bottom. A little farther in it assumed the form of a magnificent green wall of liquid glass, which became more and more vast and perpendicular as it rolled on, until it curled over and rushed with a mighty roar and a snowy crest towards the beach. There it dashed itself in tumultuous foam among the rocks.

"Give way, lads," said Christian, sitting down after a prolonged gaze at this scene; "we may find a better spot farther on."

As they proceeded they were received with wild and plaintive cries by innumerable sea-birds, whose homes were on the cliffs, and who evidently resented this intrusion of strangers.

"Shall we give 'em a shot, sir?" asked McCoy, laying his hand on a musket.

"No, time enough for that," replied Christian, shortly.

They pulled right round the island without seeing a single spot more available for a landing than the place they had first approached.

It was a very little bay, with a small clump of six cocoa-nut trees near the water's edge on the right, and a single cocoa-nut tree on the left, about two hundred yards from the others. Above these, on a hill a little to the westward, there was a grove of the same species.

"We'll have to try it, sir," said John Adams, looking at his leader inquiringly.

"We're sure to capsize," observed McCoy.

"No matter," said Christian; "we have at last reached home, and I'm bound not to be baffled at the door. Come, Ohoo, you know something about beaching canoes in a surf; there can't be much difference with a boat. Get up in the bow and direct me how to steer."

He spoke to one of the native in the imperfect jumble of Otaheitan and English with which the white men had learned to communicate with the natives. Ohoo understood, and at once went to the bow of the boat, the head of which was now directed towards a place in the cliffs where there seemed to be a small bay or creek. The native gave directions with his arms right or left, and did not require to speak. Christian steered with one of the oars instead of the rudder, to give him more power over the boat.

Soon they began to feel the influence of the in-going wave. It was a moment of intense anxiety. Christian ordered the men to cease rowing. Ohoo made a sudden and violent indication with his left arm. Christian obeyed.

"Give a gentle pull, boys," he said.

They rose as he spoke on the top of a wave so high that they could look down for a moment on the seething foam that raged between them and the beach, and Christian was about to order the men to pull hard, when the native looked back and shook his head excitedly. They had not got sufficiently into the grasp of that wave; they must wait for the next.

"Back all!" shouted the steersman. The boat slid back into the trough of the sea, while the wave went roaring inward.

The succeeding wave was soon close astern. It seemed to curl over them, threatening destruction, but it lifted them, instead, on its high shoulders. There was a slight appearance of boiling on the surface of the moving billow as it caught them. It was about to break, and the boat was fairly in its grasp.

"Give way!" shouted Christian, in a sharp, loud voice.

A moment more, and they were rushing grandly in on a mountain of snow, with black rocks rising on either side. It was nervous work. A little to the right or a little to the left, and their frail bark would have been dashed to pieces. As it was, they were launched upon a strip of sand and gravel that lay at the foot of the towering cliffs.

"Hurrah!" cried Martin and Brown, in wild excitement, as they leaped over the bow after the natives, while Christian, Adams, Quintal, and McCoy went over the stern to prevent the boat being dragged back by the recoiling foam, and pushed it high and dry on the beach.

"Well done! Here we are at last in Bounty Bay!" exclaimed Christian, with a look of satisfaction, giving to the spot, for the first time, that name which it ever afterwards retained. "Make fast the painter --  there; get your arms now, boys, and follow me."

At the head of the bay there was a hill, almost a cliff, up which there wound something that had the appearance of a path, or the almost dry bed of a water-course. It was exceedingly steep, but seemed the only route by which the interior of the island could be reached. Up the tangled pass for about three hundred yards the explorers advanced in single file, all except Quintal, who was left in charge of the boat.

"It looks very like a path that has been made by men," said Christian, pausing to breathe, and turning round when half-way up the height; "don't you think so, Brown?"

Thus appealed to, the botanist, whose eyes had been enchained by the luxuriant and lovely herbage of the place, stooped to inspect the path.

"It does look a little like it, sir," he replied, with some caution, "but it also looks not unlike a water-course. You see it is a little wet just hereabouts. Isn't it? What think you, Isaac Martin?"

"I don't think nothin' about it," returned Martin, solemnly, turning over the quid of tobacco that bulged his cheek; "but if I might ventur' for to give an opinion, I should say it don't much matter what it is, one way or another."

"That's true, Isaac," said Christian, with a short laugh, as he resumed his march up the cliff.

On the way they were shaded and kept pleasantly cool by the neighbouring precipices but on gaining the top they came into a blaze of sunshine, and then became suddenly aware that they had discovered a perfect paradise. They stood on a table-land which was thickly covered with cocoa-nut trees. A quarter of a mile farther on lay a beautiful valley, the slopes and mounds of which were clothed with trees and beautiful flowering herbage of various kinds, in clumps and groves of picturesque form, with open glades and little meadows between, the whole being backed by a grand mountain-range which traversed the island, and rose to a height of more than a thousand feet.

"It is heaven upon earth!" exclaimed Brown, as they began to push into the heart of the lovely scene.

"Humph! It's not all gold that glitters," growled McCoy, with a sarcastic smile.

"It's pretty real, nevertheless," observed Isaac Martin; "I only hope there ain't none o' the rascally niggers livin' here."

Christian said nothing, but wandered on, looking about him like one in a dream.

Besides cocoa-nut palms and other trees and shrubs, there were banyan-trees, the branches of which dropped downwards to the earth and there took root, and other large timber-trees, and plantains, bananas, yams, taro-roots, mulberry, tee-plant, and other fruit-bearing plants in great profusion. Over this richly varied scene the eyes of William Brown wandered in rapture.

"Magnificent!" he exclaimed; "a perfect garden!"

"Rich enough soil, eh?" said Martin, turning some of it up with the point of his shoe.

"Rich enough, ay; couldn't be finer," said Brown. "I should think, from its deep red colour, that it is chiefly decomposed lava. The island is evidently volcanic in its origin. I hope we shall find fresh water. We've not seen much yet, but it's sure to be found somewhere, for such magnificent vegetation could not exist without it."

"What have we here?" said Christian, stooping to pick up something. "A stone implement of some kind, like a spear-head, I think. It seems to me that the island must have been inhabited once, although it does not appear to be so now."

After they had wandered about for some time, examining the land, and passing many a commentary, both grave and humorous, they turned to retrace their steps, when Brown, who had gone on in advance, was heard to cheer as he waved his hat above his head. He had discovered a spring. They all hastened towards the spot. It lay like a clear gem in the hollow of a rock a considerable distance up the mountain. It was unanimously named "Brown's Pool," but it did not contain much water at the time.

"Can we do better than dine here?" said Isaac Martin. "There's lots o' food around us."

This was true, for of the various fruits which grew wild in the island, the cocoa-nut, plantain, and banana were to be had all the year round.

Brown had brought a small hatchet with him, which enabled them to break open several cocoa-nuts, whose hard outer husks would not have yielded easily to a clasp-knife.

While they sat thus enjoying themselves beside Brown's Pool, a small lizard was observed to run over a rock near to them. It stopped for a moment to raise its little head and look at the visitors, apparently with great surprise. A rat was also seen, and chased without success, by Isaac Martin.

A small species of fly-catcher, of a whitey-brown colour, was likewise observed, and those creatures, it was afterwards ascertained, were the only living things to be found on the island, with the exception of a variety of insects and the innumerable gulls already mentioned.

"Here, then," said Christian, raising a piece of the cocoa-nut shell filled with water to his lips, "I drink to our health and happiness in our island home."

There was a strange mingling of pathos with heartiness in his tone, which did not fail to impress his companions, who cheerfully responded to the toast.

"I only wish we had something stronger than water to drink it in," said McCoy.

"Better without strong drink," remarked John Adams, who was naturally a temperate man.

"Worse without it, I think," growled McCoy, who was naturally contentious and quarrelsome; "don't it warm the heart and raise the spirits and strengthen the frame, and -- "

"Ay, and clear the brain," interrupted Martin, with one of his most lugubrious looks, "an' steady the gait, specially w'en one's pretty far gone, an' beautify the expression, an' -- an' -- clear the int'leck, an' (hic) an' gen'r'ly in -- in -- tenshify sh' powers (hic) of c-converzashun, eh?"

Martin was a pretty fair mimic, and illustrated his meaning so well, not only with his tongue but with his solemn countenance, that the whole party burst into a laugh, with the exception of McCoy, who replied with the single word, "Bosh!"

To which Martin returned, "Bam!"

"Just so," said Christian, as he stooped to refill the cocoa-nut shell; "you may be said to have reduced that spirited question to an essence, which is much beyond proof, and closed it; we will therefore return to the shore, get on board as quickly as possible, and make arrangements for anchoring in the bay."

"I doubt it's too deep for anchoring," remarked Adams, as they walked down the hill.

"Well, then, we shall run the ship on shore," said Christian, curtly, "for here we must remain. There is no other island that I know of in these regions. Besides, this one seems the very thing we want. It has wood and water in abundance; fruits and roots of many kinds; a splendid soil, if we may believe our eyes, to say nothing of Brown's opinion; bad anchorage for ships, great difficulty and some danger in landing even in fine weather, and impossible to land at all, I should think, in bad; beautiful little valleys and hills; rugged mountains with passes so difficult that a few resolute men might defy a host, and caves to which we might retreat and sell our lives dearly if hard pushed. What more could we wish for?"

In a short time they reached the little narrow strip of shingly beach where the boat had been left in charge of Quintal. Here they had to encounter the great difficulty of forcing their way through the surf which had borne them shoreward in such grand style. The chief danger lay in the liability of the boat to be caught by the bow, turned broadside to the great tumbling billows, and overturned. Safety and success lay in keeping the boat's bow straight "end-on" to the seas, and pulling hard. To accomplish this, Fletcher Christian again took an oar to steer with, in preference to the rudder. Besides being the most powerful man of the party, he was the best boatman, and the most agile in his movements.

"Steady, now!" he said, as the boat lay in the seething foam partially sheltered by a rock, while the men sat with oars out, ready for instant action.

A bigger wave than usual had just hurled itself with a thunderous roar on the reverberating cliffs, and the great sheet of foaming water had just reached that momentary pause which indicated the turning-point previous to the backward rush, when Christian shouted -- 

"Give way!"

The boat leaped out, was kept end-on by a powerful stroke of the steersman, rushed on the back-draught as if down a cataract, and met the succeeding billow fairly. The bow was thrown up so high that it seemed as if the boat were standing on end, and must inevitably be thrown right over, but the impetus given by the willing men forced her half through and half over the crest of the watery mountain.

"With a will, boys, with a will!" cried Christian.

Another moment and they slid down the billow's back into the trough between the seas. A few more energetic strokes carried them over the next wave. After that the danger was past, and in less than half-an-hour they were once more on board the Bounty.



Chapter Five.

The Landing Of The Livestock In Bounty Bay.

Preparations were now made for landing. The bay which they had discovered, and was the only one on the island, lay on its northern side. Into it they succeeded in running the Bounty, and cast anchor. Soon the women, with little Sally, were landed and sent up to the table-land above, to make some sort of encampment, under the charge of midshipman Young. The ship was warped close up to the cliffs, so close that she ran the end of her bowsprit against them and broke it off. Here there was a narrow ledge that seemed suitable for a landing-place. Night put a stop to their labours on board. While some lighted fires and encamped on the shore, others remained in the ship to guard her and to be ready for the debarkation that was to take place in the morning.

And a strange debarkation it was. It had been found that there was a rise of eight feet in the tide. This enabled Christian to lay the ship in such a position that it was possible to extend several long planks from the bow to the beach. Fortunately the weather was fine, otherwise the landing would have been difficult if not disastrous.

When all was complete, the goats were collected and driven over the bow to the shore. The procession was headed by an old billy-goat, who looked supremely philosophical as he went slowly along the rough gangway.

"It minds one o' pirates makin' the crew of a merchantman walk the plank," remarked John Williams, as he assisted to urge the unwilling flock along.

"Quite like a menadgeree," suggested Mills.

"More like old Noah comin' out o' the ark," said Williams, "on the top o' Mount -- Mount -- what was its name? I forget."

"Mount Sy-nee," suggested Quintal.

"Not at all; it was Mount Arrowroot," said Isaac Martin, with the air of an oracle.

"Clear the way, lads, for the poultry," shouted midshipman Young.

A tremendous cackling in rear rendered further orders inaudible as well as unnecessary, while the men stood aside from the opening to the gangway of planks.

A considerable number of fowls had been taken on board at Otaheite, and these, besides being bewildered and uncertain as to the point to which they were being driven, and the precise duty that was required of them, were infected with the general obstinacy of the rest of the animal kingdom. At last, however, a splendid cock was persuaded to enter the gangway, down which he ran, and flew shrieking to the shore, followed by the rest of his kindred.

"Now for the hogs," said Quintal, to whose domineering spirit the work was congenial.

But the hogs were not to be managed as easily as the goats and fowls had been. With native obstinacy and amazing energy they refused to do what they were bid, and shrieked defiance when force was attempted. The noise was further increased by the butting of a few goats and the cackling of some poultry, which had got mixed up with them.

First of all they declined to leave the enclosures, out of which they had tried pertinaciously to escape all the voyage. By way of overcoming this difficulty, Christian ordered the enclosures to be torn down, and the planks with which they had been formed were used as persuaders to urge the refractory creatures on. As each poke or slap produced a series of horrible yells, it may be understood that the operation was accompanied with noise.

At last some of the men, losing patience, rushed at the hogs, seized them by ears and tails, and forcibly dragged them to the gangway. McCoy and Quintal distinguished themselves in this service, hurling their animals on the planks with such violence that several of them fell over into the sea, and swam towards the shore in the surf from which they were rescued by the Otaheitan men, who danced about in the water, highly enjoying this part of their labour.

A profound calm seemed to succeed a wild storm when the last of the unruly pigs had left the ship.

"We've got 'em all out at last," said one of the men, with a sigh, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve.

"Bad luck to them," growled another, tying up a slight wound received in the conflict.

"We've done with the live stock, anyhow, and that's a comfort," said a third.

"Done with the live stock!" exclaimed Martin. "Why, the worst lot has yet to come."

"That must be yourself, then, Martin, my boy," said Brown.

"I wish it was, Brown," retorted Martin; "but you've forgotten the cats."

"So we have!" exclaimed everybody.

"And you may be sure they'll give us some trouble," said Christian. "Come, let's go at 'em at once."

This estimate of the cats was fully justified by what followed. A considerable number of these useful creatures, black, white, and grey, had been brought from Otaheite for the purpose of keeping down the rats, with which many of the South Sea Islands are afflicted. During the voyage most of them had retired to the privacy of the hold, where they found holes and corners about the cargo, and came out only at night, like evil spirits, to pick up a precarious livelihood. During the recent conflict a few had found insecure refuge in holes and corners about the deck, where yelling and fugitive pigs had convulsed them with horror; and one, a huge grey cat, having taken madly to the rigging, rushed out to the end of the foresail-yard, where it was immediately roused to frenzy by a flock of astonished gulls. Now, these cats had to be rummaged out of their retreats by violence, in which work all the white men in the ship had to take part amid a chorus of awful skirling, serpentlike fuffing, ominous and deadly growling, and, generally, hideous caterwauling, that no pen, however gifted, could adequately describe.

"I see 'im," cried Mills, with his head thrust down between a nail-cask and a bundle of Otaheitan roots.

"Where?" from John Adams, who, with heels and legs in the air, and head and shoulders down somewhere about the keel, was poking a long stick into total darkness.

"There, right under you, with a pair of eyes blazing like green lamps."

A poke in the right direction caused a convulsion in the bowels of the cargo like a miniature earthquake. It was accompanied by a fearful yell.

"I've touched him at last," said Adams, quietly. "Look-out there, Brown, he's goin' to scramble up the bulkhead."

"There goes another," shouted Martin, whose head was so far down among the cargo that his voice had a muffled sound.

There was no occasion to ask where this time, for, with a wild shriek, a large black fellow left its retreat, sprang up the hatchway, and sought refuge in the rigging. At the same moment there came a sepulchral moan from a cat whose place of refuge was invaded by Quintal. The moan was followed by a cry, loud and deep, that would have done credit to a mad baby.

"Isn't it appalling to see creeturs so furious?" said Adams, solemnly, as he drew his head and shoulders out of the depths.

"They're fiendishly inclined, no doubt," said Christian, who stood hard by with a stick, ready to expedite the process of ejection when a cat ventured to show itself.

At last, with infinite trouble the whole body of the enemy were routed from the hold, and the hatches fastened down to prevent a return. But the end was not yet gained, for the creatures had found various refuges on deck, and some had taken to the rigging.

"Come out o' that," cried Martin, making a poke at the big grey cat, like a small tiger, which had fled to the foretop.

With a ferocious caterwaul and fuff the creature sprang down the shrouds on the opposite side as if it had been born and bred a sailor. Unfortunately it made a wild leap at a pendant rope in passing, missed it, and came down on the deck with a prodigious flop. Only one of its nine lives, apparently, was damaged. With the other eight it rushed to the opening in the bow, and soon gained the shore, where it immediately sprang to the leafy head of a cocoa-nut palm. At the same moment a black-and-white cat was sent flying in the same direction by Young. Quintal, indulging his savage nature, caught one of the cats by the neck and tried to strangle it into subjection, but received such punishment with teeth and claws that he was fain to fling it into the sea. It swam ashore, emerged a melancholy "drookit" spectacle, and dashed into the nearest underwood.

Thus, one by one, the cats were hunted out of the Bounty, and introduced to their future home. The last to give in was, appropriately, an enormous black Tom, which, with deadly yellow eyes, erect hair, bristling tail, curved back, extended claws, and flattened ears, rushed fuffing and squealing from one refuge to another, until at last, giving way to the concentrated attack of the assembled crew, it burst through the opening, scurried down the gangway, and went like a shot into the bushes, a confirmed maniac, -- if not worse.



Chapter Six.

Settling Down And Exploration.

The first few days were devoted by the mutineers to conveying ashore every article that was likely to prove useful. Not only were chests, boxes, tools, bedding, culinary implements, etcetera, removed from the vessel, but the planks that formed the bulkheads, much of the cordage, and all the loose spars and removable iron-work were carried ashore. In short, the vessel was completely gutted.

When this was finished, a council was called to decide what should be done with the Bounty herself, for although Christian was the acknowledged leader of the party, he took no important step without consulting his comrades.

"You see it is useless," he said, "to think of venturing again to sea in the Bounty; we are too short-handed for that. Besides, we could not find a more suitable island than this. I therefore propose that we should burn the ship, to prevent her being seen by any chance vessel that may pass this way. If she were observed, men might be tempted to land, and of course they would tell that we were here, and His Majesty would soon have a cruiser out in search of us. What say you?"

"I say wait a bit and consider," replied Young.

"Ditto," said Adams.

Some of the others thought with Christian. Quintal, in particular, who seemed to live in a chronic state of objection to being hanged, was strong for destroying the vessel. Eventually, after a good deal of delay and much discussion, the good ship Bounty finished her career by being burned to the water's edge in Bounty Bay. This occurred on the 23rd January 1790. The lower part of the vessel, which would not burn, was towed out into deep water and sunk, so that not a vestige of her remained.

And now all was bustling activity. A spot some few hundred yards farther inland than that selected as their camping-ground on the day of arrival, was fixed on as suitable for their permanent location. It was beautifully situated, and pleasantly sheltered by trees, through between the stems of which the sea was visible. To this spot everything was conveyed, and several of the most powerful of the men began to clear the ground, and fell the trees with axes.

One morning, soon after landing, a party was organised to traverse the island and investigate its character and resources. As they were not yet quite sure that it was uninhabited, this party was a strong one and well armed. It consisted of Christian, Adams, Brown, Martin, and four of the Otaheitans. Edward Young stayed at the encampment with the remaining men and the women.

"In which direction shall we go?" asked Christian, appealing to Brown.

The botanist hesitated, and glanced round him.

"If I might make so bold, sir," said Isaac Martin, "I would suggest that we go right up to the top o' the mountains. There's nothin' like a bird's-eye view for fillin' the mind wi' right notions o' form, an' size, an' character."

Following this advice, they traversed the lower ground, which was found very prolific everywhere. Then they ascended the undulating slopes of the mountain-sides until they reached the rugged and bare rocks of the higher ground.

On the way they found further and indisputable evidence of the island having been inhabited at some previous and probably long past era. Among these evidences were spear-heads, and axes of stone, and several warlike weapons.

"Hallo! here's a circumstance," exclaimed Martin, stopping in front of an object which lay on the ground.

On closer examination the "circumstance" turned out to be an image made of a hard and coarse red stone.

"It is evidently an idol," said Christian; "and here are some smooth round stones, resembling those used by the Otaheitans in war."

Not far from the spot, and in other places as they advanced, the exploring party found heaps of stone chips, as well as more images and tools.

"I've been thinking," said Brown, turning for a moment to look down at the sea, which now lay spread out far below them like a blue plain, "I've been thinking that the proof of people having been here long ago lies not only in these stones, axes, spears, and images, but also in the fact that we find the cocoa-nut trees, bananas, plantains, breadfruit-trees, as well as yams and sweet potatoes, grow chiefly in the sunny and sheltered parts of the island, and gathered together as if they had been planted there."

"Here's the best proof of all," exclaimed Martin, who had a tendency to poke about, with his long nose advanced, as if scenting out things.

They looked at the spot to which Martin pointed, and there saw a human skeleton in the last stage of decay, with a large pearl shell under the skull. Not far-off more human bones were discovered.

"That's proof positive," said Brown. "Now, I wonder why these natives came here, and why they went away."

"P'r'aps they didn't come, but was born'd here," suggested Martin; "an' mayhap they didn't go away at all, but died here."

"True, Martin," said Adams; "and that shell reminds me of what Captain Bligh once told me, that the natives o' the Gambier Islands, which must lie to wind'ard o' this, have a custom of puttin' a shell under the heads of the dead in this fashion. Moreover, he told me that these same Gambier chaps, long ago, used to put the people they vanquished in war on rafts, and turn 'em adrift to sink or swim, or fetch what land they might. No doubt some of these people got drifted here."

As he spoke the party emerged from a somewhat rugged pass, close to the highest peak of the mountain-ranges. A few minutes' scramble brought them to the summit, whence they obtained a magnificent view of the entire circuit of the island.

We have said that the peak is just over a thousand feet high. From this commanding position the Pacific was seen with a boundless horizon all round. Not a speck of land visible save the rocky isle on which they stood. Not a sail to mark the vast expanse of water, which, from that height, seemed perfectly flat and smooth, though a steady breeze was blowing, and the islet was fringed with a pure white ring of foam. Not a cloud even to break the monotony of the clear sky, and no sound to disturb the stillness of nature save the plaintive cries, mellowed by distance, of the myriads of sea-fowl which sailed round the cliffs, or dipped into the water far below.

"Solitude profound," said Christian, in a low voice, breaking the silence which had fallen on the party as they gazed slowly round them.

Just then a loud and hideous yell issued from, apparently; the bowels of the earth, and rudely put to flight the feeling of profound solitude. The cry, although very loud, had a strangely muffled sound, and was repeated as if by an echo.

The explorers looked in each other's faces inquiringly, and not without an expression of awe.

"Strange," said Adams; "an' it sounded very like some one in distress."

It was observed suddenly that Isaac Martin was absent.

"But the voice was not like his," said Brown.

The mysterious cry was repeated at the moment, and Christian ran quickly in the direction whence it seemed to come. As they neared a rugged mass of rocks which lay close to the peak on which they had been standing, the cry lost much of its mystery, and finally assumed the tones of Martin's voice.

"Hallo! hi! murder! help! O my leg! Mr Christian, Adams, Brown, this way. Help! ho! hi!"

What between the muffled sound and the echo, Martin created a noise that would have set his friends into fits of laughter if they had not been greatly alarmed.

In a few seconds the party reached what seemed to be a dark hole, out of which the poor man's left leg was seen protruding. Christian and Adams grasped it. Brown and one of the Otaheitans lent a hand, and Martin was quickly dragged out of danger and set on his legs.

"I say, Martin," said Brown, anxiously, "sit down or you'll bu'st. Every drop o' blood in your body has gone to your head."

"No wonder," gasped Isaac, "if you'd bin hangin' by one fut half as long, your blood would have blowed your head off altogether."

"There now, sit down a minute, and you'll be all right," said Christian. "How did it happen?"

To this Martin replied that it was simple enough. He had fallen a few yards behind, and, taking a wrong turn, had come on a hole, into which he looked. Seeing something like a light at the bottom of it, he stooped down to look further, slipped on the rocks, and went in head foremost, but was arrested by his foot catching between two rocks and getting jammed.

In this position he would soon have perished had not his comrades come to the rescue.

With some curiosity they now proceeded to examine the hole. It turned out to be the entrance to a cave which opened towards the northern side of the island, and from which a splendid sweep of the sea could be seen, while in the immediate neighbourhood, far down the precipices, innumerable sea-birds were seen like flakes of snow circling round the cliffs. A few of the inquisitive among these mounted to the giddy height of the cave's seaward-mouth, and seemed to gaze in surprise at the unwonted sight of man.

"A most suitable cavern for a hermit or a monk," said Brown.

"More fit for a monkey," said Martin.

"Not a bad place of refuge in case our retreat should be discovered," observed Christian.

"H'm! the Mutineers' Retreat," muttered John Adams, in a slightly bitter tone.

"A few resolute men," continued Christian, taking no notice of the last remark, "could hold out here against a hundred -- at least while their ammunition lasted."

He returned as he spoke to the cave's landward entrance, and clambered out with some difficulty, followed by his companions. Proceeding with their investigations, they found that, while a large part of the island was covered with rich soil, bearing fruit-trees and shrubs in abundance, the remainder of it was mountainous, rugged, and barren. They also ascertained that, although the place had been inhabited in times long past, there seemed to be no inhabitants at that time to dispute their taking possession. Satisfied with the result of their investigations, they descended to their encampment on the table-land close to the heights above Bounty Bay.

On drawing near to the clearing they heard the sound of voices raised as if in anger.

"It's Quintal and McCoy," said Adams; "I know the sound o' their ill-natured voices."

Presently the two men could be seen through the trees. Quintal was sitting on a felled tree, looking fiercely at McCoy, who stood beside him.

"I tell you the baccy is mine," said Quintal.

"It's nothin' o' the sort, it's mine," answered McCoy, snatching the coveted weed out of the other's hand.

Quintal jumped up, hit McCoy on the forehead, and knocked him down.

McCoy instantly rose, hit Quintal on the nose, and tumbled him over the log on which he had been sitting.

Not much the worse, Quintal sprang to his feet, and a furious set-to would have immediately followed if the arrival of Christian and his party had not prevented it. It was no easy matter to calm the ruffled spirits of the men who had treated each other so unceremoniously, and there is no doubt the bad feeling would have been kept up about the tobacco in dispute if Christian had not intervened. McCoy reiterated stoutly that the tobacco was his.

"You are wrong," said Christian, quietly; "it belongs to Quintal. I gave it to him this morning."

As there was no getting over this, McCoy returned the tobacco with a bad grace, and Christian was about to give the assembled party some good advice about not quarrelling, when the mother of little Sally appeared suddenly, wringing her hands, and exclaiming in her native tongue, "My child is lost! my child is lost!"

As every one of the party, even the roughest, was fond of Sally, there was an eager and anxious chorus of questioning.

"Where away did 'ee lose her?" asked McCoy; but the poor mother could only wring her hands and cry, "Lost! lost!"

"Has she gone over the cliffs?" asked Edward Young, who came up at the moment; but the woman would say nothing but "Lost! lost!" amid floods of tears.

Fortunately some of the other women, who had been away collecting cocoa-nuts, arrived just then, and somewhat relieved the men by prevailing on the mother to explain that, although she could not say positively her child had fallen over the cliffs, or come by any other mishap, Sally had nevertheless disappeared early in the forenoon, and that she had been searching for her ever since without success.

The process of interrogation was conducted chiefly by Isabella, alias Mainmast, the wife of Fletcher Christian, and Susannah, the wife of Edward Young; and it was interesting to note how anxious were the native men, Talaloo, Timoa, Ohoo, Nehow, Tetaheite, and Menalee. They were evidently as concerned about the safety of the child as were the white men.

"Now, lads," said Christian, after it was ascertained that the poor woman could give no information whatever, "we must search at once, but we must go about it according to a fixed plan. I remember once reading of a General having got lost in a great swamp one evening with his staff. It was near the sea, I think, and the tide was making. He collected his officers and bade them radiate out from him in all directions, each one in a straight line, so as to make sure of at least one of them finding the right road out of the danger. We will do likewise."

Following out this plan, the entire party scattered themselves into the bush, each keeping in a straight line, searching as he went, and widening the field of search as his distance from the centre increased. There was no time to lose, for the shades of night had already begun to fall.

Anxiously did the poor mother and one or two of the other women sit in the clearing, listening for the expected shout which should indicate success. For a long time no shout of any kind was heard, though there was considerable noise when the searching party came upon the lairs of members of the livestock that had taken up their quarters in the bush.

We will follow only the line of search which ended in success. It was pursued by Christian himself. At first he came on spots where domestic fowls had taken up their abode. Then, while tramping through a mass of luxuriant ferns, he trod on the toes of a slumbering hog, which immediately set up a shriek comparable only to the brake of an ill-used locomotive. This uncalled-for disturbance roused and routed a considerable number of the same family which had taken refuge in the same locality. After that he came on a bevy of cats, seated at respectful distances from each other, in glaring and armed neutrality. His sudden and evidently unexpected appearance scattered these to the four points of the compass.

Presently he came upon a pretty open spot of small size, which was surrounded by shrubs and trees, through the leafy branches of which the setting sun streamed in a thousand rays. One of these rays dazzled the eyes, and another kissed the lips of a Nanny-goat. It was Sally's pet, lying down and dozing. Beside it lay Sally herself, sound asleep, with her pretty little face resting on its side, and one of her little fat hands holding on to a lock of its white hair.

With a loud shout Christian proclaimed his success to the Pitcairn world, and, picking up the still slumbering child, carried her home in triumph to her mother.



Chapter Seven.

Roasting, Foraging, And Fabricating.

One morning John Adams awoke from a pleasant dream and lay for some time on his back, in that lazy, half-conscious fashion in which some men love to lie on first awaking. The canopy above him was a leafy structure through which he could see the deep azure of the sky with its few clouds of fleecy white. Around him were the rude huts of leaves and boughs which his comrades had constructed for themselves more or less tastefully, and the lairs under bush and tree with which the Otaheitan natives were content. Just in front of his own hut was that of Fletcher Christian. It was more thoroughly built than the others, being partly formed of planks and other woodwork saved from the Bounty, and was well thatched with the broad leaves of tropical plants.

In front of the hut Christian's wife, Isabella, was busily engaged digging a hole in the ground. She was the only member of the party astir that morning.

"I wonder why Mainmast is up so early," murmured Adams, rousing himself and using his elbow as a prop while he observed her.

Mainmast, who was better known by that sobriquet than by the name which Christian had given to her on his wedding-day at Otaheite, was a very comely and naturally amiable creature, graceful in form, and although a so-called savage, possessing an air of simple dignity and refinement which might almost be termed lady-like. Indeed, several of the other native wives of the mutineers were similar to Mrs Christian in these respects, and, despite their brown complexions, were remarkably good-looking. One or two, however, were commonplace enough, especially the wives of the three married Otaheitan men, who seemed to be, as no doubt they were, of a lower social class than the others who had mingled with the best Otaheitan society, Edward Young's wife, for instance, being a sort of native princess -- at least she was the daughter of a great chief.

The dress of these women was simple, like themselves, and not ungraceful. It consisted of a short petticoat of tapa, or native cloth, reaching below the knees, and a loose shawl or scarf of the same material thrown over the shoulders.

After gazing a short time, Adams perceived what Mainmast was about. She was preparing breakfast, which consisted of a hog. It had been shot by Christian the night before, partly because it annoyed him with pertinacious grunting in the neighbourhood of his hut, and partly because several families of hoglets having been born soon after their arrival on the island, he could not be charged with extravagance in giving the people a treat of flesh once in a way.

The process of cooking the hog was slow, hence the early move. It was also peculiar, therefore we shall describe it in detail, in order that the enterprising housewives of England may try the plan if convenient.

Mainmast's first act was to kindle a large fire, into which she put a number of goodly-sized and rounded stones. While these were heating, she dug a large hole in the ground with a broken shovel, which was the only implement of husbandry possessed at that time by the community. This hole was the oven. The bottom of it she covered with fresh plantain leaves. The stones having been heated, were spread over the bottom of the hole and then covered with leaves. On this hotbed the carcass of the pig was placed, and another layer of leaves spread over it. Some more hot stones were placed above that, over which green leaves were strewn in bunches, and, finally, the whole was covered up with earth and rubbish piled up so as to keep in the heat.

Just as she had accomplished this, Mainmast was joined by Mrs Young (Susannah) and Mrs McCoy.

"Good-morning," said Mrs Christian, using the words of salutation which she had learned from the Europeans. "The hog will not be ready for a long time; will you help me with the cakes?"

The women at once assented, and set to work. They spoke to each other in the Otaheitan tongue. To their husbands they spoke in a jumble of that tongue and English. For convenience we shall, throughout our tale, give their conversations in ordinary English.

While Mrs McCoy prepared some yams and sweet potatoes for baking, Mrs Young compounded a cake of yams and plantains, beaten up, to be baked in leaves. Mainmast also roasted some breadfruit.

This celebrated fruit -- but for which the Bounty, would never have been sent forth, and the mutiny with its wonderful consequences would never have occurred -- grows on a tree the size of a large apple-tree, the leaves of which are of a very deep green. The fruit, larger than an orange, has a thick rind, and if gathered before becoming ripe, and baked in an oven, the inside resembles the crumb of wheaten bread, and is very palatable. It lasts in season about eight months of the year.

While the culinary operations were going on, the precocious Sally, awaking from her slumbers, rose and staggered forth to survey the face of the newborn day. Her little body was clothed in an admirably fitting garment of light-brown skin, the gift of Nature. Having yawned and rubbed her eyes, she strayed towards the fire. Mrs Christian received her with an affable smile, and presented her with a pannikin of cocoa-nut milk to keep her quiet. Quaffing this beverage with evident delight, she dropped the pannikin, smacked her rosy lips, and toddled off to seek adventures. Her first act was to stand in front of Isaac Martin's hut, and gaze with a look not unmixed with awe at the long nose pointing to the sky, from which sonorous sounds were issuing.

It is said that familiarity breeds contempt. It was obvious that the awesome feeling passed from the infant's mind as she gazed. Under the impulse of a sudden inspiration she entered the hut, went up to the nose, and tweaked it.

"Hallo!" shouted Martin, springing up and tumbling Sally head over heels in the act. "Oh, poor thing, I haven't hurt you, have I?"

He caught the child in his arms and kissed her; but Sally seemed to care neither for the tumble nor the kisses. Having been released, she sallied from the hut in search of more adventures.

Martin, meanwhile, having been thoroughly aroused, got up and went towards the fire.

"You're bright and early, Mainmast," he said, slowly filling his pipe.

"Yes, hog takes time to cook."

"Hog is it, eh? That'll be first-rate. Got sauce for it?"

"Hog needs no sauce," said Mrs Christian, with a laugh. To say truth, it required very little to arouse her merriment, or that of her amiable sisterhood.

When Martin had lighted his pipe, he stood gazing at the fire profoundly, as if absorbed in meditation. Presently he seized a frying-pan which lay on the ground, and descended therewith by way of the steep cliffs to the sea.

While he was gone, one and another of the party came to the fire and began to chat or smoke, or both, according to fancy. Ere long Martin was seen slowly ascending the cliffs, holding the frying-pan with great care.

"What have you got there?" asked one.

"Oysters, eh?" said another, scrutinising the pan.

"More like jelly-fish," said Young.

"What in all the world is it?" asked Adams, as the pan was put on the fire.

"You'll see when it boils," said Martin.

"There's nothin' in it at all but water," said Quintal, somewhat contemptuously.

"Well, I've heerd of many a thing, but never fried water," remarked McCoy.

"I should think it indigestible," said Christian, coming up at the moment.

Whether the natives understood the jest or not we cannot say, but certain it is that all of them, men and women, burst into a fit of laughter at this, in which they were joined by Otaheitan Sally from mere sympathy.

"Well, what is to be the order of the day?" asked Christian, turning to Young. "Shall we proceed with our dwellings, or divide the island into locations?"

"I think," answered the midshipman, "that some of us at least should set up the forge. I know that Williams's fingers are tingling to grasp the sledge-hammer, and the sooner he goes at it, too, the better, for we're badly off for tools."

"If you don't require my services," said Brown, "I'll go plant some breadfruits and other things at that sheltered spot we fell upon yesterday."

"I intend to finish the thatching of my hut," said Quintal, in that off-hand tone of independence and disregard of the wishes of others which was one of his characteristics.

"Well, there are plenty of us to do all the work," said Christian. "Let every man do what pleases himself. I would only ask for one or two volunteers to cut the water-tanks I spoke of yesterday. The water we have discovered, although a plentiful supply for present needs, may run short or cease altogether if drought comes. So we must provide against a dry instead of a rainy day, by cutting a tank or two in the solid rock to hold a reserve."

Adams and Mills at once volunteered for this duty. Other arrangements were soon made, and they sat down to breakfast, some using plates saved from the Bounty, others flat stones as substitutes, while empty cocoa-nut shells served for drinking-cups.

"Your water pancake should be done brown by this time," said Young, as he sat down on the turf tailor-wise.

"Not quite, but nearly," returned Martin, as he stirred the furiously-boiling contents of the frying-pan.

In a few minutes more the sea water had boiled quite away, leaving a white residuum, which Martin scraped carefully off into a cocoa-nut cup.

"You see, boys," he said, setting down the salt thus procured, "I never could abide fresh meat without a pick o' salt to give it a relish. It may be weakness perhaps, but -- "

"Being the weakness of an old salt," interrupted Christian, "it's excusable. Now, boys, fall-to with a will. We've got plenty of work before us, an' can't afford to waste time."

This exhortation was needless. The savoury smell of the roast pig, when it had been carefully disentombed, might have given appetite to a seasick man. They ate heartily, and for some time in silence.

The women, however, did not join in the feast at that time. It was the custom among the Otaheitans that the men should eat first, the women afterwards; and the mutineers, having become habituated to the custom, did not see fit to change it. When the men had finished and discussed the day's proceedings, the remainder of the pig, fruits, and vegetables, were consumed by the females, among whom, we are bound to state, Sally was the greatest gourmand.

When pipes were finished, and the digestion of healthy young men had been thus impaired as far as was possible in the circumstances, the party went off in several groups about their various avocations.

Among other things removed from the Bounty were a smith's anvil and bellows, with various hammers, files, etcetera, and a large quantity of iron-work and copper. One party, therefore, under Young and Williams the armourer, busied themselves in setting up a forge near their settlement, and preparing charcoal for the forge fire.

Another party, under Christian, proceeded to some neighbouring rocks, and there, with sledge-hammer and crowbars, which they used as jumpers, began the laborious task of boring the solid rock, intending afterwards to blast, and partly to cut it, into large water-tanks. Quintal continued the thatching of his hut, in which work his humble wife aided him effectively. Brown proceeded with the planting operations which he had begun almost immediately after landing; and the women busied themselves variously, some in preparing the mid-day meal, some in gathering fruits and roots for future use, and others in improving the internal arrangements of their various huts, or in clearing away the debris of the late feast. As for little Sally, she superintended generally the work of the home department, and when she tired of that, went further afield in search of adventures.



Chapter Eight.

Division Of The Island -- Moralisings, Misgivings, And A Great Event.

There was no difficulty in apportioning the new possessions to which the mutineers had served themselves heirs. In that free-and-easy mode in which men in power sometimes arrange matters for their own special behoof, they divided the island into nine equal parts, of which each appropriated one part. The six native men were not only ignored in this arrangement, but they were soon given to understand, by at least several of their captors, that they were to be regarded as slaves and treated as such.

It is, however, but just to Edward Young to say that he invariably treated the natives well and was much liked by them, from which it is to be supposed that he did not quite fall in with the views of his associates, although he made no objection to the unjust distribution of the land. John Adams, being an amiable and kindly man, also treated the natives well, and so did Fletcher Christian; but the others were more or less tyrannical, and those kindred spirits, Matthew Quintal and William McCoy, treated them with great severity, sometimes with excessive cruelty.

At first, however, things went well. The novelty and romance of their situation kept them all in good spirits. The necessity for constant activity in laying out their gardens, clearing the land around the place of settlement, and erecting good log-houses, -- all this, with fresh air and abundance of good food, kept them in excellent health and spirits, so that even the worst among them were for a time amiably disposed; and it seemed as if those nine men had, by their act of mutiny, really introduced themselves into a terrestrial paradise.

And so they had, as far as nature was concerned, but the seeds of evil in themselves began ere long to grow and bear fruit.

The fear of the avenger in the form of a man-of-war was constantly before their minds. We have said that the Bounty had been burnt, and her charred remnants sunk to remove all traces of their presence on the island. For the same end a fringe of trees was left standing on the seaward side of their clearing, and no erection of any kind was allowed upon the seaward cliffs or inland heights.

One afternoon, Christian, who had been labouring in his garden, threw down his tools, and taking up the musket which he seldom left far from his hand, betook himself to the hills. He was fond of going there, and often spent many hours in solitary watching in the cave near the precipitous mountain-peak.

On his way up he had to pass the hut of William McCoy. The others, conforming to the natural tendency of mankind to congregate together, had built their houses round the cleared space on the table-land above Bounty Bay, from which central point they were wont to sally forth each morning to their farms or gardens, which were scattered wide apart in separate valleys. McCoy, however, aspired to higher heights and grander solitudes. His dwelling, a substantial log-hut, was perched upon a knoll overlooking the particular valley which he cultivated with the aid of his Otaheitan wife and one of the native men.

"You are getting on well," said Christian to McCoy, who was felling a tree when he came up to him.

"Ay, slowly, but I'd get on a deal faster if that lazy brown-skin Ohoo would work harder. Just look at him. He digs up that bit o' ground as if he was paid by the number o' minutes he took to do it. I had to give him a taste of a rope's end this morning, but it don't seem to have done him much good."

"It didn't seem to do much good to you when you got it on board the Bounty," said Christian, gravely.

"P'r'aps not; but we're not on board the Bounty, now," returned McCoy, somewhat angrily.

"Depend on it, McCoy," said Christian, softening his tone, "that the cat never made any man work well. It can only force a scoundrel to obedience, nothing more."

"H'm, I b'lieve you're not far wrong, sir," returned the other, resuming his work.

Giving a friendly nod to Ohoo as he passed, and a cheerful "good-morning" to Mrs McCoy, who was busy inside the hut, Christian passed slowly on through the luxuriant herbage with which that part of the hillside was covered.

At first he walked in the shade of many-stemmed banyans and feathery-topped palms, while the leaves of tall and graceful ferns brushed his cheeks, and numerous luxuriant flowering plants perfumed the air. Then he came to a clump of bushes, into which darted one of the goats that had by this time become almost wild. The goat's rush disturbed a huge sow with a litter of quite new pigs, the gruntings and squeakings of which gave liveliness to an otherwise quiet and peaceful scene.

Coming out on the shoulder of the mountain just above the woods, he turned round to look back. It was a splendid panorama of tropical vegetation, rounded knolls, picturesque mounds, green patches, and rugged cliffs, extending downwards to Bounty Bay with its fringe of surf, and beyond -- all round -- the sleeping sea.

Two or three little brown, sparrow-like birds twittered in the bushes near, and looked askance, as if they would question the man's right to walk there. One or two active lizards ran across his path, pausing now and then, and glancing upwards as if in great surprise.

Christian smiled sadly as he looked at them, then turned to breast the hill.

It was a rugged climb. Towards the top, where he diverged to the cave, every step became more difficult.

Reaching the hole where Isaac Martin had come by his misadventure, Christian descended by means of a rude ladder which he had constructed and let down into it. Entering the cave, he rested his musket against the wall of rock, and sat down on a ledge near the opening towards the sea. It was a giddy height. As he sat there with hands clasped over one knee and eyes fixed wistfully on the horizon, his right foot, thrust a little beyond the edge of the rock, overhung a tremendous precipice, many hundred feet deep.

For a long time he gazed so steadfastly and remained so motionless as to seem a portion of the rock itself. Then he heaved a sigh that relieved the pent-up feelings of an overburdened soul.

"So early!" he muttered, in a scarcely audible voice. "At the very beginning of life, just when hope, health, manhood, and opportunity were at the flood."

He stopped, and again remained motionless for a long time. Then, continuing in the same low, sad tone, but without altering his position or his wistful gaze.

"And now, an outlaw, an outcast, doomed, if taken, to a felon's death! Comrades seduced to their ruin! The brand of Cain not more terrible than mine! Self-exiled for life! Never, never more to see friends, country, kindred, sisters -- mother! God help me!"

He laid his face in his hands and groaned aloud. Again he was silent, and remained without motion for nearly an hour.

"Can it be true?" he cried in a voice of suppressed agony, looking up as if expecting an answer from heaven. "Shall I never, never, never awake from this hideous dream!"

The conscience-smitten young man laid strong constraint upon himself and became calmer. When the sun began to approach the horizon he rose, and with an air of stern resolution, set about making various arrangements in the cave.

From the first Fletcher Christian had fixed on this cavern as a retreat, in case his place of refuge should be discovered. His hope was that, if a man-of-war should come at last and search the island, he and his comrades might escape detection in such a sequestered and well-concealed cavern. If not, they could hold out to the last and sell their lives dearly. Already he had conveyed to it, by degrees, a considerable supply of ammunition, some of the arms and a quantity of such provisions as would not readily spoil with time. Among other things, he carried to that elevated outlook Carteret's book of voyages and some other works, which had formed the very small library of the Bounty, including a Bible and a Church of England Prayer-book.

When not gazing on the horizon, expecting yet fearing the appearance of a sail, he passed much of his time in reading.

On the evening of which we write he had beguiled some time with Carteret, when a slight sound was heard outside the cavern.

Starting up with the nervous susceptibility induced by a guilty conscience, he seized his musket and cocked it. As quickly he set it down again, and smiled at his weakness. Next moment he heard a voice shouting. It drew nearer.

"Hallo, sir! Mr Christian!" cried John Adams, stooping down at the entrance.

"Come down, Adams, come down; there's no occasion to keep shouting up there."

"True, sir; but do you come up. You're wanted immediately."

There was something in the man's voice which alarmed Christian. Grasping his musket, he sprang up the ladder and stood beside his comrade.

"Well?"

"It's -- it's all right, sir," said Adams, panting with his exertions in climbing the hill; "it's -- it's a boy!"

Without a word of reply Christian shouldered his weapon, and hurried down the mountain-side in the direction of home.



Chapter Nine.

Sally's Chief Joys -- Dark Clouds Overspread The Pitcairn Sky, And Darker Deeds Are Done.

Just before John Adams left the settlement for the purpose of calling Christian, whose retreat at the mountain-top was by that time well-known to every one, little Sally had gone, as was her wont, to enjoy herself in her favourite playground. This was a spot close to the house of Edward Young, where the debris of material saved from the Bounty had been deposited. It formed a bristling pile of masts, spars, planks, cross-trees, oars, anchors, nails, copper-bolts, sails, and cordage.

No material compound could have been more dangerous to childhood, and nothing conceivable more attractive to Sally. The way in which that pretty little nude infant disported herself on that pile was absolutely tremendous. She sprang over things as if she had been made expressly to fly. She tumbled off things as if she had been created to fall. She insinuated herself among anchor-flukes and chains as if she had been born an eel. She rolled out from among the folds of sails as if she were a live dumpling. She seemed to dance upon upturned nails, and to spike herself on bristling bolts; but she never hurt herself, -- at least if she did she never cried, except in exuberant glee.

Now, it was while thus engaged one day that Sally became suddenly conscious of a new sound. Young as she was, she was fully alive to the influence of a new sensation. She paused in an attitude of eager attention. The strange sound came from Christian's hut. Sally waddled thither and looked in. The first thing that met her gaze was her own mother with a live creature in her hands, which she was carefully wrapping up in a piece of cloth. It was a pitifully thin whitey-brown creature, with a puckered face, resembling that of a monkey; but Sally had never seen a monkey, and probably did not think of the comparison. Presently the creature opened its mouth, shut its eyes, and uttered a painfully weak squall.

Cause and effect are not infrequently involved in mystery. We cannot tell why Sally, who never cried, either when hurt or scolded, should, on beholding this sight, set up a tremendous howl; but she did, and she kept up the howl with such vigour that John Adams was attracted to the spot in some alarm.

Stopping only long enough to look at the infant and see that the mother was all right, Adams ran off at full speed to the mountain-top, as we have seen, to be the first to announce the joyful news to the father.

Thus came into the world the first "descendant" of the mutineers of the Bounty.

It was with unwonted animation that the men sat down to supper that evening, each having congratulated Christian and inquired at the hut for the baby and mother, as he came in from work.

"What will you call him?" inquired Young, after pledging the new arrival in a cup of cocoa-nut milk.

"What day is it?" asked Christian.

"Thursday," answered Martin.

"Then I'll call him Thursday," said Christian; "it will commemorate the day."

"You'd better add 'October,' and commemorate the month," said Adams.

"So I will," said Christian.

"An' stick on 'Seventeen-ninety' to commemorate the year," suggested Mills.

"No, there are limits to everything," returned Christian; "three names are enough. Come, fill up your cups, lads, and drink to Thursday October Christian!"

With enthusiasm and a shout of laughter, the toast was pledged in cocoa-nut milk, and once again Christian's hand was shaken by his comrades all round.

The advent of TOC, as Adams called him, (or Toc, as he afterwards came to be styled), was, as it were, the breaking of the ice. It was followed ere long by quite a crop of babies. In a few months more a Matthew Quintal was added to the roll. Then a Daniel McCoy furnished another voice in the chorus, and Sally ceased to disquiet herself because of that which had ceased to be a novelty. This all occurred in 1791. After that there was a pause for a brief period; then, in 1792, Elizabeth Mills burst upon the astonished gaze of her father, and was followed immediately by another Christian, whom Fletcher, discarding his eccentric taste for days and months, named Charles.

By this time Sally had developed such a degree of matronly solicitude, that she was absolutely intrusted at times with the care of the other children. In a special manner she devoted herself to little Charlie Christian, who was a particularly sedate infant. Indeed, solemnity was stamped upon that child's visage from his birth. This seemed to harmonise intensely with Sally's sense of fun. She was wont to take Charlie away from his mother, and set him up on a log, or the rusty shank of the Bounty's "best bower," prop him up with sticks or bushes -- any rubbish that came to hand -- and sit down in front of him to gaze. Charlie, after the first few months of precarious infancy, became extremely fat. He used to open his solemn eyes as wide as was possible in the circumstances, and return the gaze with interest. Unable to restrain herself, Sally would then open her pretty mouth, shut her gorgeous eyes, and give vent to the richest peals of laughter.

"Oh, you's so good, Charlie!"

She had learned by that time to speak broken English in an infantine fashion, and her assertion was absolutely true, for Charlie Christian was preternaturally good.

The same cannot be said of all the members of this little community. Ere long, a period approached when the harmony which had hitherto prevailed was about to be broken. Increasing life had marked their course hitherto. Death now stepped in to claim his share.

The wife of John Williams went out one day to gather gulls' eggs among the cliffs. The women were all in the habit of doing this at times, and they had become expert climbers, as were also the men, both white and brown.

When day began to close, they wondered why Mrs Williams was so late of returning. Soon her husband became uneasy; then, taking alarm, he went off to search for her, accompanied by all the men. The unfortunate woman was found dead at the base of the cliffs. She had missed her footing and fallen while searching for eggs.

This accident had at first a deeply solemnising effect on the whole community. Accustomed though these men were to the sight of death in some of its worst forms in war, they were awed by this sudden and unexpected assault of the great enemy. The poor mangled body lying so quietly among the rocks at the foot of the awful precipice, the sight of the husband's grief, the sad and silent procession with the ghastly burden in the deepening gloom of evening, the wailing of the women, and the awestruck gaze of such of the children as were old enough to know that something terrible had occurred, though unable to understand it, --  all conspired to deepen the impression, even on those among the men who were least easily impressed; and it was with softened feelings of pity that Quintal and McCoy, volunteering their services on the occasion, dug the first grave at Pitcairn.

Time, however, soon wore away these feelings. Williams not only got over his bereavement easily, but soon began to wish for another wife. It was, of course, impossible to obtain one righteously in the circumstances; he therefore resolved to take the wife of Talaloo the Otaheitan.

It must not be supposed that all Williams', comrades supported him in this wicked design. Christian, Young, and Adams remonstrated with him strongly; but he was obstinate, and threatened to take the boat and leave the island if they interfered with him. As he was an expert blacksmith, his comrades could not afford to lose him, and ceased remonstrating. Eventually he carried out his intention.

This was, as might have been expected, the beginning of trouble. The coloured men made common cause of it, and from that time forward began to plot the destruction of their white masters. What made matters worse was that Talaloo's wife was not averse to the change, and from that time became a bitter enemy of her Otaheitan husband. It was owing to this wicked woman's preference for Williams that the plot was afterwards revealed.

One evening, while sitting in Christian's house, Talaloo's wife began to sing a sort of extempore song, the chorus to which was: -- 

"Why does black man sharpen axe? To kill white man."

Hearing this, Christian, who was close at hand, entered the hut and demanded an explanation. On being informed of the plot of the Otaheitan men to murder all the whites, a dark frown overspread his face. Hastily seizing his musket, he loaded it, but it was observed that he put no bullet in.

The Otaheitans were assembled at the time in a neighbouring house. Christian went straight to the house, charged the men with their guilty intentions, pointed his gun at them, and pulled the trigger. The piece missed fire. Before he could re-cock, Talaloo leaped through the doorway, followed by his friend Timoa, and took shelter in the woods.

The other four men begged for mercy, said that the two who had just left were the instigators as well as ringleaders in the plot, and promised to hunt them down and murder them if their own lives should be spared. As Christian had probably no fixed intention to kill any of the men, and his sudden anger soon abated, he accepted their excuses and left them. It was impossible, however, for the mutineers to feel confidence in the natives after that. The two men who had fled for refuge to the bush did not return to the settlement, but remained in hiding.

One day Talaloo's wife went, with some of the other women, to the southern side of the island to fish from the rocks. They were soon busily at work. The lines used had been made by themselves from the fibrous husk of the cocoa-nut. The hooks had been brought on shore from the Bounty. Chattering and laughing with the free-and-easy gaiety of savages, they plied their work -- it seemed more like play -- with varying success.

Suddenly the wife of Talaloo heard a faint hiss behind her. Turning her head, she saw her former husband in the bushes. He beckoned to her, and disappeared. None of the other women appeared to have heard or observed the man. Presently, Talaloo's wife rose, and going into the woods, joined her husband. She found him in company with Timoa.

"Is Talaloo become a dog that he should be driven to live in the bush?" demanded the man, with a stern air.

"The white men are strong," answered his wife, with a subdued look; "the women can do nothing."

"You can stay with me here in the bush if you will," said Talaloo. "The white men are strong, but we are stronger. We will kill the white men."

He turned with an air of offended dignity, and strode away. His wife meekly followed, and Timoa went with them.

Now, there was one woman among the fishers whose eyes were sharp and her hearing was keen.

This was Susannah, the wife of the midshipman Edward Young. She had followed Talaloo's wife, saw what occurred, and carried back a report to the settlement. A council of war was at once held.

"If we leave these men at liberty," said Williams, "we shall never again be able to go to rest in security."

"Something must be done," said Christian, with the air of a man whose mind wanders far away from the subject in hand.

"Kill them," suggested McCoy.

"Yes," said Quintal; "I vote that we get up a grand hunt, run them to earth, and shoot them like dogs, as they are."

"Not so easy as you think to hunt down such men among these wild and wooded hills," said Young. "Besides, it is only Talaloo who has threatened us; Timoa is guiltless, I think."

"I'll tell you what we'll do, lads; we'll poison 'em," said Williams. "I've heard of such a thing bein' done at Otaheite by one of the women. She knows how to get the poison from some sort of plant, I believe, and I'm pretty sure that Menalee will help us."

The plan thus suggested was finally adopted. One of the women made three puddings, two of which were good, the third was poisoned. Menalee at once agreed to go to the fugitives, say he had stolen the puddings, and would be willing to share them. The two good puddings were to be given to Talaloo's wife and Timoa, the poisoned one to Talaloo himself. For further security Menalee was to carry a pistol with him, and use it if necessary.

The assassin was not long in tracking out his countrymen.

"You bring us food?" said Talaloo.

"Yes, I have stolen it. Will you have some?"

They all accepted the puddings, and Timoa and the woman began to eat; but Talaloo was quick witted. He observed something unusual in Menalee's manner, suspected poison, and would not eat his pudding. Laying it aside, he ate that of his wife along with her.

Menalee pretended not to notice this. After the others had done eating, he proposed that they should all go a little farther up into the bushes, where, he said, he had left his own wife among some breadfruit trees.

Talaloo agreeing to this, they rose and walked away. The footpath being narrow, they were obliged to go in single file. Menalee walked behind Talaloo. After having gone a few paces, the former drew his pistol, pointed it at the back of his countryman's head, and pulled the trigger, but it missed fire. Talaloo hearing the click, turned round, saw the pistol, and immediately fled; but his enemy was swift of foot, soon overtook him, and the two grappled. A severe struggle ensued, Timoa and the woman standing by and looking on, but rendering help to neither party.

The two combatants were pretty well matched. The pistol had fallen at the first onset, and for a few minutes it seemed doubtful which should prove the victor, as they swayed to and fro, straining their dark and sinewy forms in deadly conflict. At last the strength of Talaloo seemed to give way, but still he retained a vice-like grasp of his antagonist's right wrist.

"Won't you help me?" gasped Talaloo, turning an appealing glance on his wife.

"No," cried Menalee, "but she will help me to kill Talaloo."

The hardened woman picked up the pistol, and going towards her husband struck him on the head. Menalee quickly finished with his knife what the murderess had begun.

For a few minutes the three stood looking at the murdered man in silence, when they returned to the settlement and told what they had done. But the assassin's work was not yet over. Another of the natives, named Ohoo, had fled to the woods, threatening vengeance against the white men. It was deemed necessary that he too should be killed, and Menalee was again found to be a willing instrument. Timoa, who had exhibited such callous indifference at the murder of Talaloo, was his fitting companion. They soon found Ohoo, and succeeded in killing him.

Strange to say, the mutineers, after these foul deeds, dwelt for a long time in comparative peace and harmony. It seemed as if their worst feelings had found full vent and been expended in the double murder. No doubt this state of hollow peace was partly owing to the fact that the native men, now being reduced to four in number, felt themselves to be unable to cope with their masters, and quietly submitted to the inevitable.

But by degrees the evil spirits in some of the party began to reassert their power. McCoy and Quintal in particular became very savage and cruel. They never hesitated to flog or knock down a native on the slightest pretext, insomuch that these unhappy men were again driven to plot the destruction of their masters. Adams, Christian, and Young were free from the stain of wanton cruelty. Young in particular was kind to the natives, and a favourite both with men and women.



Chapter Ten.

Dangers, Joys, Trials, And Multiplication.

"I'm going to the cliffs to-day, Williams," said Young one morning. "Will you come?"

Williams was busy at the forge under the pleasant shade of the great banyan-tree. Resting his hammer on the anvil, he looked up.

"No," he answered. "I can't go till I've finished this spade. It's the last bit of iron we have left that'll serve for such a purpose."

"That's no reason why you should not let it lie till the afternoon or to-morrow."

"True, but I've got another reason for pushing through with it. Isaac Martin says the want of a spade keeps him idle, and you know it's a pity to encourage idleness in a lazy fellow."

"You are right. What is Martin about just now?"

"Working at the big water-tank. It suits him, a heavy quiet sort of job with the pick, requiring no energy or thought, -- only a sleepy sort o' perseverance, of which long-legged Isaac has plenty."

"Come, now," returned Young, with a laugh. "I see you are getting jealous of Martin's superior intellect. But where are Quintal and McCoy?"

"Diggin' in their gardens, I suppose. Leastwise, I heerd Mr Christian say to Mainmast he'd seen 'em go off in that direction. Mr Christian himself has gone to his old outlook aloft on the mountains. If he don't see a sail at last it won't be for want o' keepin' a bright look-out."

The armourer smiled grimly as he thrust the edge of the half-formed spade into the fire, and began to blow his bellows.

"You've got them to work again," said Young, referring to the bellows which had belonged to the Bounty.

"Ay, patched 'em up after a fashion, though there's a good deal o' windage somewheres. If them rats git hold of 'em again, the blacksmith's occupation'll be gone. Here comes Bill Brown; p'r'aps he won't object to go bird-nestin' with 'ee."

The armourer drew the glowing metal from the fire as he spoke, and sent the bright sparks flying up into the leaves of the banyan-tree while the botanist approached.

"I'll go, with all my heart," said Brown, on being invited by Young to accompany him. "We'd better take Nehow with us. He is the best cliff-man among the natives."

"That's just what I thought of doing," said Young, "and -- ah! here comes some one else who will be glad to go."

The midshipman's tone and manner changed suddenly as he held out both hands by way of invitation to Sally, who came skipping forward, and ran gleefully towards him.

Sally was no longer the nude cherub which had landed on the island. She had not only attained to maturer years, but was precocious both in body and mind, -- had, as we have shown, become matronly in her ideas and actions, and was clothed in a short petticoat of native cloth, and a little scarf of the same, her pretty little head being decorated with a wreath of flowers culled and constructed by herself.

"No, I can't go," answered Sally to Young's invitation, with a solemn shake of her head.

"Why not?"

"'Cause I's got to look arter babby."

Up to this period Sally had shown a decided preference for the ungrammatical language of the seamen, though she associated freely with Young and Christian. Perhaps her particular fondness for John Adams may have had something to do with this.

"Which baby, Sall? You know your family is a pretty large one."

"Yes, there's a stunnin' lot of 'em -- a'most too many for me; but I said the babby."

"Oh, I suppose you mean Charlie Christian?"

"In coorse I means Challie," replied the child, with a smile that displayed a dazzling set of teeth, the sparkle of which was only equalled by that of her eyes.

"Well, but you can bring Charlie along with you," said Young, "and I'll engage to carry him and you too if you get tired. There, run away; find him, and fetch him quick."

Little Sall went off like the wind, and soon returned with the redoubtable Charles in her arms. It was all she could do to stagger under the load; but Charlie Christian had not yet attained to facility in walking. He was still in the nude stage of childhood, and his faithful nurse, being afraid lest he should get badly scratched if dragged at a rapid pace through the bushes, had carried him.

Submitting, according to custom, in solemn and resigned surprise, Charlie was soon seated on the shoulders of our midshipman, who led the way to the cliffs. William Brown followed, leading Sally by the hand, for she refused to be carried, and Nehow brought up the rear.

The cliffs to which their steps were directed were not more than an hour's walk from the settlement at Bounty Bay, though, for Sally's sake, the time occupied in going was about half-an-hour longer. It was a wild spot which had been selected. The towering walls of rock were rugged with ledges, spurs, and indentations, where sea-birds in myriads gave life to the scene, and awakened millions of echoes to their plaintive cries. There was a pleasant appearance of sociability about the birds which was powerfully attractive. Even Nehow, accustomed as he was to such scenes, appeared to be impressed. The middy and the botanist were excited. As for Sally, she was in ecstasies, and the baby seemed lost in the profoundest fit of wonder he had experienced since the day of his birth.

"Oh, Challie," exclaimed his nurse in a burst of laughter, "what a face you's got! Jis' like de fig'r'ead o' the Bounty." (Sall quoted here!) "Ain't they bootiful birds?"

She effectually prevented reply, even if such had been intended, by suddenly seizing her little charge round the neck and kissing his right eye passionately. Master Charlie cared nothing for that. He gazed past her at the gulls with the unobliterated eye. When she kissed him on the left cheek, he gazed past her at the gulls with the other eye. When she let him go, he continued to gaze at the gulls with both eyes. He had often seen the same gulls at a distance, from the lower level of Bounty Bay, but he had never before stood on their own giddy cliffs, and watched them from their own favourite bird's-eye-view point; for there were thousands of them sloping, diving, and wheeling in the airy abyss, pictured against the dark blue sea below, as well as thousands more circling upwards, floating and gyrating in the bright blue sky above. It seemed as if giant snowflakes were trembling in the air in all directions. Some of the gulls came so near to those who watched them that their black inquiring eyes became distinctly visible; others swept towards them with rustling wings, as if intending to strike, and then glanced sharply off, or upwards, with wild cries.

"Wouldn't it be fun to have wings?" asked Brown of Sally, as she stood there open-mouthed and eyed.

"Oh, wouldn't it?"

"If I had wings," said Young, with a touch of sadness in his tone, "I'd steer a straight course through the air for Old England."

"I didn't know you had such a strong desire to be hanged," said Brown.

"They'd never hang me," returned Young. "I'm innocent of the crime of mutiny, and Captain Bligh knows it."

"Bligh would be but a broken reed to lean on," rejoined Brown, with a shrug of contempt. "If he liked you, he'd favour you; if he didn't, he'd go dead against you. I wouldn't trust myself in his hands whether innocent or guilty. Depend upon it, Mr Young, Fletcher Christian would have been an honour to the service if he had not been driven all but mad by Bligh. I don't justify Mr Christian's act -- it cannot be defended, -- but I have great sympathy with him. The only man who deserves to be hanged for the mutiny of the Bounty, in my opinion, is Mr Bligh himself; but men seldom get their due in this world, either one way or another."

"That's a powerfully radical sentiment," said Young, laughing; "it's to be hoped that men will at all events get their due in the next world, and it is well for you that Pitcairn is a free republic. But come, we must go to work if we would have a kettle of fresh eggs. I see a ledge which seems accessible, and where there must be plenty of eggs, to judge from the row the gulls are making round it. I'll try. See, now, that you don't get yourself into a fix that you can't get out of. You know that the heads of you landsmen are not so steady as those of seamen."

"I know that the heads of landsmen are not stuffed with such conceit as the heads of you sailors," retorted Brown, as he went off to gather eggs.

"Now, Sally, do you stop here and take care of Charlie," said Young, leading the little girl to a soft grassy mound, as far back from the edge of the cliff as possible. "Mind that you don't leave this spot till I return. I know I can trust you, and as for Charlie -- "

"Oh, he never moves a'most, 'xcept w'en I lifts 'im. He's so good!" interrupted Sally.

"Well, just keep a sharp eye on him, and we'll soon be back with lots of eggs."

While Edward Young was thus cautioning the child, William Brown was busy making his way down the cliffs to some promising ledges below, and Nehow, the Otaheitan, clambered up the almost perpendicular face of the part that rose above them. [See frontispiece.]

It was interesting to watch the movements of the three men. Each was, in his own way, venturesome, fearless, and more or less practised in cliff climbing. The midshipman ascended the perpendicular face with something of a nautical swagger, but inasmuch as the ledges, crevices, and projections were neither so well adapted to the hands nor so sure as ratlines and ropes, there was a wholesome degree of caution mingled with his confidence. When the wished-for ledge was gained, he gave relief to his feelings in a hearty British cheer that reverberated from cliff to cliff, causing the startled sea-gulls to drive the very echoes mad with their clangour.

The botanist, on the other hand, proceeded with the extreme care of a man who knew that a false step or uncertain grip might send him into the seething mass of foam and rocks below. But he did not hesitate or betray want of courage in attempting any difficulty which he had made up his mind to face.

The proceedings of Nehow, however, seemed little short of miraculous. He appeared to run up perpendicular places like a cat; to leap where the others crept, to scramble where his companions did not dare to venture, and, loosely speaking, to hang on occasionally to nothing by the point of his nose, his eyelids, or his finger-nails! We say that he appeared to do all this, but the gulls who watched and followed him in noisy indignation could have told you, if they had chosen, that his eye was quick, that his feet and hands were sure, and that he never trusted foot or hand for one moment on a doubtful projection or crevice.

For some time all went well. The three men soon returned, each with a few eggs which they laid on the grass in three little heaps, to be watched and guarded by Sally, and to be stared at in grave surprise by Charlie. They carried their eggs in three round baskets without lids, and with handles which folded over on one side, so that the baskets could be fitted into each other when not in use, or slung round the necks of the egg-collectors while they were climbing.

The last to return to the children was William Brown. He brought his basket nearly half full of fine eggs, and set it down beside the two heaps already brought in.

"Ain't they lovely, Sall?" asked Brown, wiping the perspiration from his brow with the sleeve of his coat. That same coat, by the way, was very disreputable -- threadbare and worn, -- being four years old on the lowest calculation, and having seen much rough service, for Brown had an objection to the tapa cloth, and said he would stick to the old coat as long as it would stick to him. The truth is he felt it, with his worn canvas trousers and Guernsey shirt, to be in some sense a last link to "home," and he was loath to part with them.

"Lovely!" exclaimed Sally, "they's jus' bootiful." Nothing could exceed "bootiful" in Sally's mind -- she had paid the eggs the highest possible compliment.

Charlie did them, at the same moment, the greatest possible damage, by sitting down in the basket, unintentionally, with an awful crash.

From the gaze of horror that he cast upwards, it was evident that he was impressed with a strong belief that he had done something wrong, though the result did not seem to him unpleasant. The gaze of horror quickly changed into one of alarm when he observed the shocked countenance of Sally, and he burst into uncontrollable tears.

"Poor thing," said Brown, lifting him out of the mess and setting him on his legs. "Never mind, old man, I'll fetch you a better basketful soon. You clean him up, Sall, and I'll be back in a jiffy."

So saying, Brown took up his basket, emptied out the mess, wiped it with a bunch of grass, and descended the short slope to the cliff edge, laughing as he went.

Poor Sally's shocked expression had not yet passed off when Charlie came to a sudden stop, shut his mouth tightly and opened his eyes, as though to say, "Well, how do you take it now?"

"Oh, Challie, but you is bad to-day."

This was enough. The shades of darkest night settled down on Charlie's miserable soul. Re-shutting his eyes and reopening his mouth, he poured forth the woe of his inconsolable heart in prolonged and passionate howling.

"No, no; O don't!" cried the repentant Sally, her arms round his neck and fondling him. "I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry. It's me that's bad -- badder than you ever was."

But Charlie refused to be comforted. He flung himself on the grass in agony of spirit, to the alarm and grief of his poor nurse.

"Me's dood?" he cried, pausing suddenly, with a blaze of inquiry in his wet visage.

"Yes, yes, good as gold -- gooder, far gooder!"

Sally did not possess an enlightened conscience at that time. She would have said anything to quiet him, but he would not be quieted.

"Me's dood -- O dood! ah-o-ee-aw-ee!"

The noise was bad enough, but the way he flung himself about was worse. There was no occasion for Sally to clean him up. Rolling thus on the green turf made him as pure, if not bright, as a new pin; but it had another effect, which gave Sally a fright such as she had never up to that time conceived of, and never afterwards forgot.

In his rollings Charlie came to the edge of the knoll where a thick but soft bush concealed a ledge, or drop, of about two feet. Through this bush he passed in a moment. Sally leaped up and sprang to the spot, just in time to see her charge rolling helplessly down the slope to what appeared to be certain death.

There was but a short slope between the bush and the cliff. Rotund little Charlie "fetched way" as he advanced, despite one or two feeble clutches at the rocks.

If Sally had been a few years older she would have bounded after him like a goat, but she had only reached that period of life which rendered petrifaction possible. She stood ridged for a few moments with heart, head, and eyes apparently about to burst. At last her voice found vent in a shriek so awful that it made the heart of Young, high on the cliffs above, stand still. It had quite the contrary effect on the legs of Brown. That cautious man chanced to be climbing the cliff slowly with a fresh basketful of eggs. Hearing the shriek, and knowing full well that it meant imminent danger, he leaped up the last few steps of the precipice with a degree of heedless agility that equalled that of Nehow himself. He was just in time to see Charlie coming straight at him like a cannon shot. It was really an awful situation. To have received the shock while his footing was still precarious would have insured his own destruction as well as that of the child. Feeling this, he made a kangaroo-like bound over the edge of the cliff, and succeeded in planting both feet and knees firmly on a grassy foundation, just in time. Letting go his burden, he spread out both arms. Charlie came into his bosom with extreme violence, but he remained firm, while the basket of eggs went wildly downward to destruction.

Meanwhile, Sally stood there with clasped hands and glazed eyes, sending up shriek after shriek, which sent successive stabs to the heart of Edward Young, as he scurried and tumbled, rather than ran, down from the upper cliffs towards her.

In a few minutes he came in pale and panting. A minute later and Nehow ran round a neighbouring point like a greyhound.

"All right?" gasped Young.

"All right," replied Brown.

"Wheeaow-ho!" exclaimed Nehow, expanding his cavernous mouth with a grin of satisfaction.

It is worthy of record that little Sally did not revisit these particular cliffs for several years after that exciting and eventful day, and that she returned to the settlement with a beating and grateful heart.

It must not be supposed that Charlie Christian remained for any great length of time "the babby" of that infant colony. By no means. In a short time after the event which we have just described, there came to Pitcairn a little sister to Charlie. She was named Mary, despite the earnest suggestion of Isaac Martin, that as she was "born of a Wednesday," she ought to be called by that name.

Of course Otaheitan Sally at once devoted herself to the newcomer, but she did not on that account forsake her first love. No; her little brown heart remained true to Charlie, though she necessarily gave him less of her society than before.

Then Mrs Quintal gave her husband the additional burden, as he styled it, of a daughter, whom he named Sarah, for no other reason, that any one could make out, than the fact that his wife did not like it, and his friend McCoy had advised him on no account to adopt it. Thus was little Matthew Quintal also provided with a sister.

Shortly after that, John Adams became a moderately happy father, and called the child Dinah, because he had never had a female relation of that name; indeed, he had never possessed a relation of any kind whatever that he knew of, having been a London street-boy, a mere waif, when he first became aware, so to speak, of his own existence.

About the same time that little Dinah was born, John Mills rushed one day into the yam-field of Edward Young, where the midshipman was at work, seized his hand, and exclaimed -- "I wish you joy, sir, it's a girl!"

Not to be out-done in civility, Young carefully watched his opportunity, and, only four days later, rushed into the yam-garden of John Mills, where he was smoking, seized his hand, and exclaimed -- "I congratulate you, Mills, it's a boy!" So, Young called his daughter Folly, because he had an old aunt of that name who had been kind to him; and Mills called his son John, after himself, who, he said, was the kindest friend he ever had.

By this time poor Otaheitan Sally became overburdened with care. It became evident that she could not manage to look after so large a family of helpless infants, even though her services should only be required when the mothers were busy in the gardens. Mrs Isabella Christian, alias Mainmast, was therefore relieved of part of her field duties, and set apart for infantry drill.

Thus the rising generation multiplied and grew apace; and merry innocent laughter and gleeful childlike shouts began to resound among the cliffs and groves of the lonely refuge of the mutineers.



Chapter Eleven.

Sporting, Schooling And Moralising.

Time flew by with rapid wing, and the infant colony prospered in many ways, though not in all.

One day John Adams took down his gun from the pegs on which it rested above the door of his hut. Saying to his wife that he was going to shoot a few cats and bring home a pig for supper, he sallied forth, and took the footpath that led to one of the darkest recesses of the lonely island.

Lest the reader should imagine that Adams was a cruel man, we must explain that, several years having elapsed since the landing of the mutineers on Pitcairn, the cats had by that time multiplied excessively, and instead of killing the rats, which was their duty, had taken to hunting and devouring the chickens. For this crime the race of cats was condemned to death, and the sentence was put in force whenever opportunity offered.

Fortunately, the poultry had also multiplied quickly, and the hogs had increased to such a degree that many of them had been allowed to take to a wild life in the woods, where they were hunted and shot when required for food. Sporting, however, was not often practised, because the gunpowder which had been saved from the Bounty had by this time sensibly diminished. Strange to say, it did not seem to occur to any of the men that the bow and arrow might become of use when guns became useless. Probably they looked upon such weapons with contempt, for they only made little bows, as playthings for the children, with harmless, blunt-headed arrows.

On turning from the clearing into the bush, Adams came on a sight which amused him not a little. In an open place, partially screened from the sun by the graceful leaves of palms and bananas, through which was obtained a glimpse of the sea, Otaheitan Sally was busily engaged in playing at "school." Seated on the end of a felled tree was Thursday October Christian, who had become, as Isaac Martin expressed it, a great lout of a boy for his age.

Thursday was at the head of the class, not in virtue of his superior knowledge, but his size. He was a strong-made fellow, with a bright, intelligent, good-humoured face, like that of his father. Next to him sat little Matt Quintal, rather heavy and stupid in expression, but quiet and peaceable in temperament, like his mother. Next came Daniel McCoy, whose sharp sparkling countenance seemed the very embodiment of mischief, in which quality he resembled his father. Fortunately for little Dan, his mother was the gentlest and most unselfish of all the native women, and these qualities, transmitted to her son, were the means of neutralising the evil which he inherited from his father. After him came Elizabeth Mills, whose pretty little whitey-brown face was the counterpart of her mother's in expression. Indeed, all of these little ones inherited in a great degree that sweet pliability of character for which the Otaheitan women were, and we believe still are, famous. Last, but not least, sat Charlie Christian at the bottom of the class.

"Now, hol' up your heads an' pay 'tention," said the teacher, with the air of authority suitable to her position.

It may be observed here, that Sally's knowledge of schooling and class-work was derived from Edward Young, who sometimes amused himself and the children by playing at "school," and even imparted a little instruction in this way.

"Don't wink, Dan'l McCoy," said Sally, in a voice which was meant to be very stern, but was laughably sweet.

"P'ease, Missis, Toc's vinkin' too." Thus had Dan learned to express Thursday's name by his initials.

There was a touch of McCoy senior in this barefaced attempt to divert attention from himself by criminating another.

"I know that Toc is winking," replied Sally, holding up a finger of reproof; "but he winks with both eyes, an' you does it with only one, which is naughty. An' when you speaks to me, sir, don't say vink -- say wink."

"Yis, mum," replied little Dan, casting down his eyes with a look of humility so intense that there was a sudden irruption of dazzling teeth along the whole class.

"Now, Toc, how much does two and three make?"

"Six," replied Thursday, without a moment's hesitation.

"Oh, you booby!" said Sally.

"P'ease, mum, he ain't booby, him's dux," said Dan.

"But he's a booby for all that, sir. You hold you tongue, Dan'l, an' tell me what three and two makes."

"P'ease, mum, I can't," answered Dan, folding his hands meekly; "but p'r'aps Charlie can; he's clebber you know. Won't you ax 'im?"

"Yes, I will ask 'im. Challie, what's three an' two?"

If Charlie had been asked how to square the circle, he could not have looked more innocently blank, but the desire to please Sally was in him a sort of passion. Gazing at her intently with reddening face, he made a desperate guess, and by the merest chance said, "Five."

Sally gave a little shriek of delight, and looked in triumph at Dan. That little creature, who seemed scarce old enough to receive a joke, much less to make one, looked first at Charlie and winked with his left eye, then at Thursday and winked with his right one.

"You're winkin' again, sir," cried Sally, sharply.

"Yis, mum, but with bof eyes this time, vich isn't naughty, you know."

"But it is naughty, sir, unless you do it with both eyes at once."

"Oh, with bof at vunce!" exclaimed Dan, who thereupon shut both eyes very tight indeed, and then opened them in the widest possible condition of surprise.

This was too much for Sally. She burst into a hearty fit of laughter. Her class, being ever ready to imitate such an example, followed suit. Charlie tumbled forward and rolled on the grass with delight, little Dan kicked up his heels and tumbled back over the log in ecstasy, and Thursday October swayed himself to and fro, while the other two got up and danced with glee.

It was while the school was in this disorganised state that John Adams came upon them.

"That's right, Sall," he said, heartily, as he patted the child's head. "You keep 'em at it. Nothin' like havin' their noses held to the grindstone when they're young. You didn't see anybody pass this way, did you?"

"No," replied the child, looking earnestly up into the seaman's countenance.

It was a peculiarity of these children that they could change from gay to grave with wonderful facility. The mere putting of the question had changed the current of their minds as they earnestly and gravely strove to recollect whether any one had been seen to pass during the morning.

"No," repeated Sally, "don't think nobody have pass this mornin'."

"Yis, there vas vun," said little Dan, who had become more profoundly thoughtful than the others.

"Ay, who was that, my little man?" said Adams.

"Isaac Martin's big sow," replied Dan, gravely.

The shout of laughter that followed this was not in proportion to the depth but the unexpectedness of the joke, and John Adams went on his way, chuckling at the impudence of what he called the precocious snipe.

In a short time the seaman found himself in a thicket, so dense that it was with difficulty he could make his way through the luxuriant underwood. On his left hand he could see the sky through the leaves, on his right the steep sides of the mountain ridge that divided the island.

Coming to a partially open space, he thought he saw the yellow side of a hog. He raised his gun to fire, when a squeaky grunt told him that this was a mother reposing with her family. He contented himself, therefore, with a look at them, and gave vent to a shout that sent them scampering down the hill.

Soon after that he came upon a solitary animal and shot it.

The report of the musket and the accompanying yell brought the Otaheitan man Tetaheite to his side.

"Well met, Tighty," (so he styled him); "I want you to carry that pig to Mrs Adams. You didn't see any cats about, did you?"

"No, sar."

"Have you seen Mr Christian at the tanks this morning?"

"Yis, sar; but him's no dere now. Him's go to de mountain-top."

"Ha! I thought so. Well, take the pig to my wife, Tighty, and say I'll be back before dark."

The native threw the animal over his broad shoulders, and Adams directed his steps to the well-known cave on the mountain-top, where the chief of the mutineers spent so much of his leisure time.

After the murder of the two natives, Talaloo and Ohoo, Fletcher Christian had become very morose. It seemed as if a fit of deep melancholy had taken entire possession of him. His temper had become greatly soured. He would scarcely condescend to hold intercourse with any one, and sought the retirement of his outlook in the cave on the mountain-top, where few of his comrades ventured to disturb him, save when matters of importance claimed his immediate attention.

Latterly, however, a change had been observed in his demeanour. He had become gentle, almost amiable, and much more like his former self before the blighting influence of Bligh had fallen on him. Though he seldom laughed, he would chat pleasantly with his companions, as in days gone by, and frequently took pains to amuse the children. In particular, he began to go frequently for long walks in the woods with his own sons --  little Charlie on his back, and Thursday October gambolling by his side; also Otaheitan Sally, for that careful nurse refused to acknowledge any claim to the guardianship of Charlie as being superior to her own, not even that of a father.

But Fletcher Christian, although thus changed for the better in many respects, did not change in his desire for solitude. His visits to the outlook became not less but rather more frequent and prolonged than before.

He took no one into his confidence. The only man of the party who ever ventured to visit him in his "outlook" was Edward Young; but his visits were not frequent, though they were usually protracted when they did take place, and the midshipman always returned from them with an expression of seriousness, which, it was observed, never passed quickly away. But Young was not more disposed to be communicative as to these visits than Christian himself, and his comrades soon ceased to think or care about the matter.

With his mind, meditating on these things, John Adams slowly wended his way up the mountain-side, until he drew near to the elevated hermitage of his once superior officer, now his comrade in disgrace and exile.

Stout John Adams felt his blunt, straightforward, seafaring spirit slightly abashed as he thus ventured to intrude on the privacy of one for whom, despite his sins and their terrible consequences, he had never lost respect. It felt like going into the captain's cabin without orders. The seaman's purpose was to remonstrate with Christian for thus daily giving himself up, as he expressed it, "to such a long spell o' the blues."

Drawing near to the entrance of the cavern, he was surprised to hear the sound of voices within.

"Humph, somebody here before me," he muttered, coming to an abrupt pause, and turning, as if with the intention of retracing his steps, --  but the peculiarity of the sounds that issued from the cave held him as if spellbound.



Chapter Twelve.

Converse In The Cave -- Cruelty, Punishment, And Revelry.

It was Fletcher Christian's voice, -- there could be no doubt about that; but it was raised in very unfamiliar tones, and it went on steadily, with inflections, as if in pathos and entreaty.

"Can he be praying?" thought Adams, in surprise, for the tones, though audible, were not articulate. Suddenly they waxed louder, and "God be merciful to me, a sinner!" broke on the listener's ear. "Oh bless and deliver the men whom I have led astray -- poor Edward Young, John Adams, Isaac Martin -- "

The tones here sank and again became inarticulate, but Adams could not doubt that Christian was praying, by name, for the rest of his companions. Presently the name of Jesus was heard distinctly, and then the voice ceased.

Ashamed to have been thus unintentionally led into eavesdropping, Adams coughed, and made as much noise as possible while stooping to pass under the low entrance to the cave. There was no door of any kind, but a turn in the short passage concealed the cave itself from view. Before entering, Adams stopped.

"May I come in, sir?" he called out.

"Is that you, Adams? By all means come in."

Christian was seated, partly in the shadow, partly in the light that streamed in from the seaward opening. A quiet smile was on his lips, and his hand rested on an open book. It was the old Bible of the Bounty.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Adams, touching his hat. "Hope I don't intrude. I heard you was -- was -- "

"Praying," said Christian. "Yes, Adams, I have been praying."

"Well, sir," said Adams, feeling rather awkward, but assuming an air of encouragement, "you've got no reason to be ashamed of that."

"Quite true, Adams, and I'm not ashamed of it. I've not only got no reason to be ashamed of praying, but I have strong reason to be thankful that I'm inclined to pray. Sit down, Adams, on the ledge opposite. You've got something on your mind, I see, that you want to get rid of. Come, let's have it."

There was nothing but good-natured encouragement in Christian's look and tone; nevertheless, John Adams felt it extremely difficult to speak, and wished with all his heart that he had not come to the cave. But he was too bold and outspoken a man to be long oppressed with such feelings. Clearing his voice, he said, "Well, Mr Christian, here's what I've got to say. I've bin thinkin' for a long time past that it's of no manner of use your comin' up here day after day an' mopin' away about what can't be mended, an' goin' into the blues. You'll excuse me, sir, for bein' so free, but you shouldn't do it, sir. You can't alter what's bin done by cryin' over spilt milk, an' it comes heavy on the rest of us, like. Indeed it do. So I've made so bold as to come an' say you'd better drop it and come along with me for a day's shootin' of the cats an' pigs, and then we'll go home an' have a royal supper an' a song or two, or maybe a game at blind-man's-buff with the child'n. That's what'll do you good, sir, an' make you forget what's past, take my word for it, Mister Christian."

While Adams was speaking, Christian's expression varied, passing from the kindly smile with which he had received his friend to a look of profound gravity.

"You are both right and wrong, Adams, like the rest of us," he said, grasping the sailor's extended hand; "thank you all the same for your advice and good feeling. You are wrong in supposing that anything short of death can make me forget the past or lessen my feeling of self-condemnation; but you are right in urging me to cease moping here in solitude. I have been told that already much more strongly than you have put it."

"Have you, sir?" said Adams, with a look of surprise.

"Yes," said Christian, touching the open Bible, "God's book has told me. It has told me more than that. It has told me there is forgiveness for the chief of sinners."

"You say the truth, sir," returned Adams, with an approving nod. "Repenting as you do, sir, an' as I may say we all do, of what is past and can't be helped, a merciful God will no doubt forgive us all."

"That's not it, that's not it," said Christian, quickly. "Repentance is not enough. Why, man, do you think if I went to England just now, and said ever so earnestly or so truly, 'I repent,' that I'd escape swinging at the yard-arm?"

"Well, I can't say you would," replied the sailor, somewhat puzzled; "but then man's ways ain't the same as God's ways; are they, sir?"

"That's true, Adams; but justice is always the same, whether with God or man. Besides, if repentance alone would do, where is the need of a Saviour?"

Adams's puzzled look increased, and finally settled on the horizon. The matter had evidently never occurred to him before in that light. After a short silence he turned again to Christian.

"Well, sir, to be frank with you, I must say that I don't rightly understand it."

"But I do," said Christian, again laying his hand on the Bible, "at least I think I do. God has forgiven me for Jesus Christ's sake, and His Spirit has made me repent and accept the forgiveness, and now I feel that there is work, serious work, for me to do. I have just been praying that God would help me to do it. I'll explain more about this hereafter. Meanwhile, I will go with you to the settlement, and try at least some parts of your plan. Come."

There was a quiet yet cheerful air of alacrity about Fletcher Christian that day, so strongly in contrast with his previous sad and even moody deportment, that John Adams could only note it in silent surprise.

"Have you been readin' much o' that book up here, sir?" he asked, as they began to descend the hill.

"Do you mean God's book?"

"Yes."

"Well, yes, I've been reading it, off and on, for a considerable time past; but I didn't quite see the way of salvation until recently."

"Ha! that's it; that's what must have turned your head."

"What!" exclaimed Christian, with a smiling glance at his perplexed comrade. "Do you mean turned in the right or the wrong direction?"

"Well, whether right or wrong, it's not for me to say but for you to prove, Mr Christian."

This reply seemed to set the mind of the other wandering, for he continued to lead his companion down the hill in silence after that. At last he said -- 

"John Adams, whatever turn my head may have got, I shall have reason to thank God for it all the days of my life -- ay, and afterwards throughout eternity."

The silence which ensued after this remark was broken soon after by a series of yells, which came from the direction of Matthew Quintal's house, and caused both Christian and Adams to frown as they hastened forward.

"There's one man that needs forgiveness," said Adams, sternly. "Whether he'll get it or not is a question."

Christian made no reply. He knew full well that both McCoy and Quintal were in the habit of flogging their slaves, Nehow and Timoa, and otherwise treating them with great cruelty. Indeed, there had reached him a report of treatment so shocking that he could scarcely credit it, and thought it best at the time to take no notice of the rumour; but afterwards he was told of a repetition of the cruelty, and now he seemed about to witness it with his own eyes. Burning indignation at first fired his soul, and he resolved to punish Quintal. Then came the thought, "Who was it that tempted Quintal to mutiny, and placed him in his present circumstances?" The continued cries of agony, however, drove all connected thought from his brain as he ran with Adams towards the house.

They found poor Nehow tied to a cocoa-nut tree, and Quintal beside him. He had just finished giving him a cruel flogging, and was now engaged in rubbing salt into the wounds on his lacerated back.

With a furious shout Christian rushed forward. Quintal faced round quickly. He was livid with passion, and raised a heavy stick to strike the intruders; but Christian guarded the blow with his left arm, and with his right fist knocked the monster down. At the same time Adams cut the lashings that fastened Nehow, who instantly fled to the bush.

Quintal, although partially stunned, rose at once and faced his adversary, but although possessed of bulldog courage, he could not withstand the towering wrath of Christian. He shrank backward a step, with a growl like a cowed but not conquered tiger.

"The slave is mine!" he hissed between his teeth.

"He is not; he belongs to God," said Christian. "And hark 'ee, Matthew Quintal, if ever again you do such a dastardly, cowardly, brutal act, I'll take on myself the office of your executioner, and will beat out your brains. You know me, Quintal; I never threaten twice."

Christian's tone was calm, though firm, but there was something so deadly in the glare of his clear blue eyes, that Quintal retreated another step. In doing so he tripped over a root and fell prone upon the ground.

"Ha!" exclaimed Adams, with a bitter laugh, "you'd better lie still. It's your suitable position, you blackguard."

Without another word he and Christian turned on their heels and walked away.

"This is a bad beginning to my new resolves," said Christian, with a sigh, as they descended the hill.

"A bad beginning," echoed Adams, "to give a well-deserved blow to as great a rascal as ever walked?"

"No, not exactly that; but -- Well, no matter, we'll dismiss the subject, and go have a lark with the children."

Christian said this with something like a return to his previous good-humour. A few minutes later they passed under the banyan-tree at the side of Adams's house, and entered the square of the village, where children, kittens, fowls, and pigs were disporting themselves in joyous revelry.



Chapter Thirteen.

Tyrants And Plotters.

Leaving Christian and Adams to carry out their philanthropic intentions, we return to Matthew Quintal, whom we left sprawling on the ground in his garden.

This garden was situated in one of the little valleys not far from Bounty Bay. Higher up in the same valley stood the hut of McCoy. Towards this hut Quintal, after gathering himself up, wended his way in a state of unenviable sulkiness.

His friend McCoy was engaged at the time in smoking his evening pipe, but that pipe did not now seem to render him much comfort, for he growled and puffed in a way that showed he was not soothed by it, the reason being that there was no tobacco in the pipe. That weed, -- which many people deem so needful and so precious that one sometimes wonders how the world managed to exist before Sir Walter Raleigh put it to its unnatural use -- had at last been exhausted on Pitcairn Island, and the mutineers had to learn to do without it. Some of them said they didn't care, and submitted with a good grace to the inevitable. Others growled and swore and fretted, saying that they knew they couldn't live without it. To their astonishment, and no doubt to their disgust, they did manage to live quite as healthily as before, and with obvious advantage to health and teeth. Two there were, however, namely, Quintal and McCoy, who would not give in, but vowed with their usual violence of language that they would smoke seaweed rather than want their pipes. Like most men of powerful tongue and weak will, they did not fulfil their vows. Seaweed was left to the gulls, but they tried almost every leaf and flower on the island without success. Then they scraped and dried various kinds of bark, and smoked that. Then they tried the fibrous husk of the cocoa-nut, and then the dried and pounded kernel, but all in vain. Smoke, indeed, they produced in huge volumes, but of satisfaction they had none. It was a sad case.

"If we could only taste the flavour o' baccy ever so mild," they were wont to say to their comrades, "the craving would be satisfied."

To which Isaac Martin, who had no mercy on them, would reply, "If ye hadn't created the cravin' boys, ye wouldn't have bin growlin' and hankerin' after satisfaction."

As we have said, McCoy was smoking, perhaps we should say agonising, over his evening pipe. His man, or slave, Timoa, was seated on the opposite side of the hut, playing an accompaniment on the flute to McCoy's wife and two other native women, who were singing. The flute was one of those rough-and-ready yellow things, like the leg of a chair, which might serve equally well as a policeman's baton or a musical instrument. It had been given by one of the sailors to Timoa, who developed a wonderful capacity for drawing unmusical sounds out of it. The singing was now low and plaintive, anon loud and harsh -- always wild, like the song of the savages. The two combined assisted the pipe in soothing William McCoy -- at least so we may assume, because he had commanded the music, and lay in his bunk in the attitude of one enjoying it. He sometimes even added to the harmony by uttering a bass growl at the pipe.

During a brief pause in the accompaniment Timoa became aware of a low hiss outside, as if of a serpent. With glistening eyes and head turned to one side he listened intently. The hiss was repeated, and Timoa became aware that one of his kinsmen wished to speak with him in secret. He did not dare, however, to move.

McCoy was so much taken up with his pipe that he failed to notice the hiss, but he observed the stoppage of the flute's wail.

"Why don't you go on, you brute!" he cried, angrily, at the same time throwing one of his shoes at the musician, which hit him on the shin and caused him a moment's sharp pain.

Timoa would not suffer his countenance to betray his feelings. He merely raised the flute to his lips, exchanged a glance with the women, and continued his dismal strain. His mind, however, was so engrossed with his comrade outside that the harmony became worse than ever. Even McCoy, who professed himself to be no judge of music, could not stand it, and he was contemplating the application of the other shoe, when a step was heard outside. Next moment his friend Quintal strode in and sat down on a stool beside the door.

"Oh, I say, Matt," cried McCoy, "who put that cocoa-nut on the bridge of your nose?"

"Who?" grow led Quintal, with an oath. "Who on the island would dare to do it but that domineerin' upstart, Christian?"

"Humph!" answered McCoy, with a slight sneer. He followed this up with a curse on domineerers in general, and on Fletcher Christian in particular.

It is right to observe here that though we have spoken of these two men as friends, it must not be understood that they were friendly. They had no personal regard for each other, and no tastes in common, save the taste for tobacco and drink; but finding that they disliked each other less than they disliked their comrades, they were thus drawn into a hollow friendship, as it were, under protest.

"How did it happen?" asked McCoy.

"Give us a whiff an' I'll tell 'ee. What sort o' stuff are you tryin' now?"

"Cocoa-nut chips ground small. The best o' baccy, Matt, for lunatics, which we was when we cast anchor on this island. Here, fill your pipe an' fire away. You won't notice the difference if you don't think about it. My! what a cropper you must have come down when you got that dab on your proboscis!"

"Stop your howlin'," shouted Quintal to the musicians, in order to vent some of the spleen which his friend's remark had stirred up.

Timoa, not feeling sure whether the command was meant for the women or himself, or, perhaps, regarding McCoy as the proper authority from whom such an order should come, continued his dismal blowing.

Quintal could not stand this in his roused condition. Leaping up, he sprang towards Timoa, snatched the flute from his hand, broke it over his head, and kicked him out of the hut.

Excepting the blow and the kick, this was just what the Otaheitan wanted. He ran straight into the bush, which was by that time growing dark under the shades of evening, and found Nehow leaning against a tree and groaning heavily, though in a suppressed tone.

"Quick, come with me to the spring and wash my back," he cried, starting up.

They did not converse in broken English now, of course, but in their native tongue.

"What has happened?" asked Timoa, anxiously.

While Nehow explained the nature of the cruel treatment he had just received, they ran together to the nearest water-course. It chanced to be pretty full at the time, heavy rain having fallen the day before.

"There; oh! ha-a! not so hard," groaned the unfortunate man, as his friend laved the water on his lacerated back.

In a few minutes the salt was washed out of the wounds, and Nehow began to feel easier.

"Where is Menalee?" he asked, abruptly, as he sat down under the deep shadow of a banyan-tree.

"In his master's hut, I suppose," answered Timoa. "Go find him and Tetaheite; fetch them both here," he said, with an expression of ferocity on his dark face.

Timoa looked at him with an intelligent grin.

"The white men must die," he said.

"Yes," Nehow replied, "the white men shall die."

Timoa pointed to the lump which had been raised on his shin, grinned again, and turning quickly round, glided into the underwood like an evil spirit of the night.

At that time Menalee was engaged in some menial work in the hut of John Mills. Managing to attract his attention, Timoa sent him into the woods to join Nehow.

When Timoa crept forward, Tetaheite was standing near to a large bush, watching with intense interest the ongoings of Christian, Adams, and Young. These three, in pursuance of the philanthropic principle which had begun to operate, were playing an uproarious game with the children round a huge bonfire; but there was no "method in their madness;" the children, excepting Thursday October Christian and Sally, were still too young for concerted play. They were still staggerers, and the game was simply one of romps.

Tetaheite's good-humoured visage was glistening in the firelight, the mouth expanded from ear to ear, and the eyes almost closed.

Suddenly he became aware of a low hissing sound. The mouth closed, and the eyes opened so abruptly, that there seemed some necessary connection between the two acts. Moving quietly round the bush until he got into its shadow, his dark form melted from the scene without any one observing his disappearance.

Soon the four conspirators were seated in a dark group under shade of the trees.

"The time has come when the black man must be revenged," said Nehow. "Look my back. Salt was rubbed into these wounds. It is not the first time. It shall be the last! Some of you have suffered in the same way."

It scarcely needed this remark to call forth looks of deadly hate on the Otaheitan faces around him.

"The white men must die," he continued. "They have no mercy. We will show none."

Even in the darkness of that secluded spot the glistening of the eyes of these ill-treated men might have been seen as they gave ready assent to this proposal in low guttural tones.

"How is it to be done?" asked Menalee, after a short pause.

"That is what we have met to talk about," returned Nehow. "I would hear what my brothers have to say. When they have spoken I will open my mouth."

The group now drew closer together, and speaking in still lower tones, as if they feared that the very bushes might overhear and betray them, they secretly plotted the murder of the mutineers.



Chapter Fourteen.

The Influence Of Infancy, Also Of Villainy.

While the dark plots referred to in the last chapter were being hatched, another life was introduced into the little community in the form of a third child to Fletcher Christian, -- a little girl. Much though this man loved his two boys, a tenderer, though not, perhaps, a deeper region of his heart was touched by his daughter. He at once named her Mary. Who can tell the multitude of old memories and affections which were revived by this name? Might it not have been that a mother, a sister, some lost though not forgotten one, came forcibly to mind, and accounted, in some degree at least, for the wealth of affection which he lavished on the infant from the day of her birth? We cannot tell, but certain it is that there never was a more devoted father than this man, who in England had been branded with all that was ferocious, mean, desperate, -- this hardened outlaw, this chief of the mutineers.

Otaheitan mothers are not particular in the matter of infant costume. Little Mary's dress may be described in one word -- nothing. Neither are such mothers much troubled with maternal anxieties. Long before a European baby would have been let out of the hands of mother or nurse, even for a moment, little Molly Christian was committed to the care of her delighted father, who daily bore her off to a favourite resort among the cliffs, and there played with her.

One day, on reaching his place of retirement, he was surprised to find a man in possession before him. Drawing nearer, he observed that the man also had a baby in his arms.

"Why, I declare, it's Edward Young!" he exclaimed, on going up.

"Of course it is," said the midshipman, smiling, as he held his own little daughter Jane aloft. "Do you think you are to have it all to yourself? And do you imagine that yours is the only baby in the world worth looking at?"

"You are right, Young," returned Christian, with the nearest approach to a laugh he had made for years. "Come now," he added, sitting down on a rock, and placing little Moll tenderly in the hollow of his left arm, so as to make her face his friend, "let's set them up, and compare notes; isn't she a beauty?"

"No doubt of it whatever; and isn't mine ditto?" asked the midshipman, sitting down, and placing little Poll in a similar position on his right arm.

"But, I say, if you and I are to get on amicably, we mustn't praise our own babies. Let it be an agreement that you praise my Poll, and I'll praise your Moll. Don't they make lovely pendants! Come, let us change them for a bit."

Christian agreeing to this, the infants were exchanged, and thereupon these two fathers lay down on the soft grass, and perpetrated practical jokes upon, and talked as much ineffable nonsense to, those two whitey-brown balls, as if they had been splendid specimens of orthodox pink and white. It was observed, however, by the more sagacious of the wondering gulls that circled round them, that a state of perfect satisfaction was not attained until the babies were again exchanged, and each father had become exclusively engrossed with his own particular ball.

"Now, I say, Fletcher," remarked Young, rising, and placing himself nearer his friend, "it's all very well for you and me to waste our time and make fools of ourselves here; but I didn't merely come to show off my Polly. I came to ask what you think of that rumour we heard last night, that there has been some sort of plotting going on among the Otaheitan men."

"I don't think anything of it at all," replied Christian, whose countenance at once assumed that look of gravity which had become habitual to him since the day of the mutiny. "They have had too good reason to plot, poor fellows, but I have such faith in their native amiability of disposition, that I don't believe they will ever think of anything beyond a brief show of rebellion."

"I also have had faith in their amiability," rejoined Young; "but some of us, I fear, have tried them too severely. I don't like the looks they sometimes give us now. We did wrong at the first in treating them as servants."

"No doubt we did, but it would have been difficult to do otherwise," said Christian; "they fell so naturally into the position of servants of their own accord, regarding us, as they did, as superior beings. We should have considered their interests when we divided the land, no doubt. However, that can't well be remedied now."

"Perhaps not," remarked Young, in an absent tone. "It would be well, however, to take some precautions."

"Come, we can discuss this matter as we go home," said Christian, rising. "I have to work in my yam-plot to-day, and must deliver Molly to her mother."

They both rose and descended the slope that led to the village, chatting as they went.

Now, although the native men were of one mind as to the slaying of the Englishmen, they seemed to have some difference of opinion as to the best method of putting their bloody design in execution. Menalee, especially, had many objections to make to the various proposals of his countrymen. In fact, this wily savage was deceitful. Like Quintal and McCoy among the whites, he was among the blacks a bad specimen of humanity.

The consequence was that Timoa and Nehow, being resolved to submit no longer to the harsh treatment they had hitherto received, ran away from their persecutors, and took refuge in the bush.

To those who have travelled much about this world, it may sound absurd to talk of hiding away in an island of such small size; but it must be borne in mind that the miniature valleys and hills of the interior were, in many places, very rugged and densely clothed with jungle, so that it was, in reality, about as difficult to catch an agile native among them as to catch a rabbit in a whin-field.

Moreover, the two desperate men carried off two muskets and ammunition, so that it was certain to be a work of danger to attempt their recapture. In these circumstances, Christian and Young thought it best to leave them alone for a time.

"You may be sure," said the former, as they joined their comrades, "that they'll soon tire of rambling, especially when their ammunition is spent."

Quintal, who stood with all the other men by the forge watching John Williams as he wrought at a piece of red-hot iron, and overheard the remark, did not, he said, feel so sure of that. Them niggers was fond o' their liberty, and it was his opinion they should get up a grand hunt, and shoot 'em down off-hand. There would be no peace till that was done.

"There would be no peace even after that was done," said Isaac Martin, with a leer, "unless we shot you along wi' them."

"It's impossible either to shoot or drown Matt Quintal, for he's born to be hanged," said McCoy, sucking viciously at his cocoa-nut-loaded pipe, which did not seem to draw well.

"That's true," cried Mills, with a laugh, in which all the party except Christian joined more or less sarcastically according to humour.

"Oh, mother," exclaimed Otaheitan Sally, going into her hut on tiptoe a few minutes later, with her great eyes dilated in horror, "the white mens is talkin' of shootin' Timoa and Nehow!"

"Never mind, dear," replied her mother in her own language, "it's only talk. They'll never do such a thing. I'm sure Mr Young did not agree to help in such a deed, did he?"

"O no, mother," answered Sally, with tremendous emphasis; "he said it would be very very, wicked to do such tings."

"So it would, dear. No fear. It's only talk."

Satisfied with this assurance, Sally went off with a cleared visage to superintend some operation in connection with her ever-increasing infantry charge, probably to pay some special attention to her favourite Charlie, or to chaff "that booby" Thursday October, though, to say truth, Thursday was no booby, but a smart intelligent fellow.

The very next day after that, Timoa and Nehow came down to Edward Young as he was at work alone in his yam-field. This field was at a considerable distance from the settlement, high up on the mountain-side. The two men had left their weapons behind them.

"We's comed for give you a helpin' hand, Missr Yong, if you no lay hands on us," said Nehow.

"I have no wish to lay hands on you," replied Young; "besides, I have no right to do so. You know I never regarded you as slaves, nor did I approve of your bad treatment. But let me advise you to rejoin us peaceably, and I promise to do what I can to make things go easier."

"Nebber!" exclaimed Nehow, fiercely.

"Well, it will be the worse for yourselves in the long-run," said Young, "for Quintal and McCoy will be sure to go after you at last and shoot you."

The two men looked at each other when he said that, and smiled intelligently.

"However, if you choose to help me now," continued Young, "I'll be obliged to you, and will pay you for what you do."

The men set to work with a will, for they were fond of the kindly midshipman; but they kept a bright look-out all the time, lest any of the other Englishmen should come up and find them there.

For two or three evenings in succession Timoa and Nehow came to Young's field and acted in this way. Young made no secret of the fact, and Quintal, on hearing of it, at once suggested that he and McCoy should go up and lie in ambush for them.

"If you do," said Young, with indignation, "I'll shoot you both. I don't jest. You may depend on it, if I find either of you fellows skulking near my field when these men are at work there, your lives won't be worth a sixpence."

At this Quintal and McCoy both laughed, and said they were jesting. Nevertheless, while walking home together after that conversation, they planned the carrying out of their murderous intention.

Thus, with plot and counterplot, did the mutineers and Otaheitans render their lives wretched. What with the bitter enmity existing between the whites and blacks, and the mutual jealousies among themselves, both parties were kept in a state of perpetual anxiety, and the beautiful isle, which was fitted by its Maker to become a paradise, was turned into a place of torment.

Sometimes the other native men, Tetaheite and Menalee, joined Nehow and Timoa in working in Young's garden, and afterwards went with them into the bush, where they planned the attack which was afterwards made.

At last the lowering cloud was fully charged, and the thunderbolt fell.



Chapter Fifteen.

Murder!

The planting time came round at Pitcairn, and all was busy activity in the little settlement at Bounty Bay. The women, engaged in household work and in the preparation of food, scarcely troubled themselves to cast an anxious eye on the numerous children who, according to age and capacity, rolled, tumbled, staggered, and jumped about in noisy play. The sun, streaming through the leaves of the woods, studded shady places with balls of quivering light, and blazed in fierce heat in the open where the men were at work, each in his respective garden. We have said that those gardens lay apart, at some distance from each other, and were partially concealed by shrubs or undulating knolls.

The garden of John Williams was farthest off from the settlement. He wrought in it alone on the day of which we write. Next to it was that of Fletcher Christian. He also worked alone that day.

About two hundred yards from his garden, and screened from it by a wooded rising ground, was a piece of plantation, in which John Mills, William McCoy, and Menalee were at work together. John Adams, William Brown, and Isaac Martin were working in their own gardens near their respective houses, and Quintal was resting in his hut. So was Edward Young, who, having been at work since early morning, had lain down and fallen into a deep slumber.

The three native men, Timoa, Nehow, and Tetaheite, were still away in the woods. If the unfortunate Englishmen had known what these men were about, they would not have toiled so quietly on that peaceful morning!

The Otaheitans met in a cocoa-nut grove at some distance to the eastward of the settlement. Each had a musket, which he loaded with ball. They did not speak much, and what they did say was uttered in a suppressed tone of voice.

"Come," said Timoa, leading the way through the woods.

The others followed in single file, until they reached the garden where Williams was at work. Here their movements were more cautious. As they advanced, they crept along on their knees with the motion of cats, and with as little noise. They could hear the sound of the armourer's spade, as he turned up the soil. Presently they came to an opening in the bushes, through which they could see him, not thirty yards off.

Timoa drew himself together, and in a crouching attitude levelled his musket.

During their absence in the woods, these men had practised shooting at a mark, doubtless in preparation for the occasion which had now arrived. The woods and cliffs rang to the loud report, and Williams fell forward without a cry or groan, shot through the heart.

The murderers rose and looked at each other, but uttered not a word, while Timoa recharged his gun.

The report had, of course, been heard by every one in the settlement, but it was a familiar sound, and caused neither surprise nor alarm. McCoy merely raised himself for a moment, remarked to Mills that some one must have taken a fancy for a bit of pork to supper, and then resumed his work.

Christian also heard the shot, but seemed to pay no regard to it. Ceasing his labour in a few minutes, he raised himself, wiped his forehead, and resting both hands on his spade, looked upwards at the bright blue sky. Fleecy clouds passed across it now and then, intensifying its depth, and apparently riveting Christian's gaze, for he continued motionless for several minutes, with his clear eye fixed on the blue vault, and a sad, wistful expression on his handsome face, as if memory, busy with the past and future, had forgotten the present. It was his last look. A bullet from the bushes struck him at that moment on the breast. Uttering one short, sharp cry, he threw both hands high above his head, and fell backwards. The spasm of pain was but momentary. The sad, wistful look was replaced by a quiet smile. He never knew who had released his spirit from the prison-house of clay, for the eyes remained fixed on the bright blue sky, clear and steadfast, until death descended. Then the light went out, just as his murderers came forward, but the quiet smile remained, and his spirit returned to God who gave it.

It seemed as if the murderers were, for a few moments, awestruck and horrified by what they had done; but they quickly recovered. What they had set their faces to accomplish must now be done at all hazards.

"Did you hear that cry?" said McCoy, raising himself from his work in the neighbouring garden.

"Yes; what then?" demanded Quintal.

"It sounded to me uncommon like the cry of a wounded man," said McCoy.

"Didn't sound like that to me," returned Quintal; "more like Mainmast callin' her husband to dinner."

As he spoke, Tetaheite appeared at the edge of the garden with a musket in his hand, the other two natives remaining concealed in the bushes.

"Ho, Missr Mills," he called out, in his broken English, "me have just shoot a large pig. Will you let Menalee help carry him home?"

"Yes; -- you may go," said Mills, turning to Menalee.

The Otaheitan threw down his tools, and joined his comrades in the bush, where he was at once told what had been done.

Menalee did not at first seem as much pleased as his comrades had expected, nevertheless, he agreed to go with them.

"How shall we kill Mills and McCoy?" asked Timoa, in a low whisper.

"Shoot them," answered Menalee; "you have three muskets."

"But they also have muskets," objected Tetaheite, "and are good shots. If we miss them, some of us shall be dead men at once."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Nehow, who thereupon hastily detailed a plan, which they proceeded at once to carry out.

Creeping round through the woods, they managed to get into McCoy's house by a back window, unobserved. Menalee then ran down to the garden, as if in a state of great excitement.

"Oh, Missr McCoy, Timoa and Nehow hab come down from mountain, an' is robbin' you house!"

The bait took. McCoy ran up to his house. As soon as he reached the door there was a volley from within, but McCoy remained untouched.

Seeing this, and, no doubt, supposing that he must be badly wounded, Menalee, who had followed him, seized him from behind. But McCoy, being the stronger man, twisted himself suddenly round, grasped Menalee by the waist with both hands, and flung him headlong into a neighbouring pig-sty. He then turned and ran back to his garden to warn Mills.

"Run for it, Mills," he cried; "run and take to the bush. All the black scoundrels have united to murder us."

He set the example by at once disappearing in the thick bush. But Mills did not believe him. He and Menalee had always been good friends, and he seemed to think it impossible that they would kill him. He hesitated, and the hesitation cost him his life, for next moment a bullet laid him low.

Meanwhile McCoy ran to warn Christian. Reaching his garden, he found him there, dead, with the tranquil smile still on his cold lips, and the now glazed eyes still gazing upwards. One glance sufficed. He turned and ran back to Christian's house to tell his wife what he had seen, but the poor woman was sick in bed at the time and could not move. Running then to Quintal's garden, he found him alive, but quite ignorant of what was going on.

"They seem to be wastin' a deal of powder to-day," he growled, without raising himself, as McCoy came up; "but -- hallo! you're blowing hard. What's wrong?"

As soon as he heard the terrible story he ran to his wife, who chanced to be sitting near the edge of his garden.

"Up, old girl," he cried, "your nigger countrymen are murderin' us all. If you want to see any of us escape you'd better go and warn 'em. I shall look after number one."

Accordingly, with his friend of kindred spirit, he sought refuge in the bush.

Mrs Quintal had no desire to see all the white men slaughtered by her countrymen. She therefore started off at once, and in passing the garden of John Adams, called to him to take to the bush without delay, and ran on.

Unfortunately Adams did not understand what she meant. He, like the others, had heard the firing, but had only thought of it as a foolish waste of ammunition. Nothing was further from his thoughts on that peaceful day and hour than deeds of violence and bloodshed. He therefore continued at work.

The four murderers, meanwhile, ran down to Isaac Martin's house, found him in the garden, and pointing their muskets at him, pulled the triggers. The pieces missed fire, and poor Martin, thinking probably that it was a practical joke, laughed at them. They cocked again, however, and fired. Martin, although he fell mortally wounded, had strength to rise again and fly towards his house. The natives followed him into it. There was one of the sledge-hammers of the Bounty there. One of them seized it, and with one blow beat in the poor man's skull.

Roused, apparently, to madness by their bloody work, the Otaheitans now rushed in a body to Brown's garden. The botanist had been somewhat surprised at the frequent firing, but like his unfortunate fellow-countrymen, appeared to have not the remotest suspicion of what was going on. The sight of the natives, however, quickly opened his eyes. He turned as if to fly, but before he could gain the bushes, a well-aimed volley killed him.

Thus in little more than an hour were five of the Englishmen murdered.

It now seemed as if the revenge of the Otaheitans had been sated, for after the last tragic act they remained for some time in front of Brown's house talking, and resting their hands on the muzzles of their guns.

All this time Edward Young was lying asleep in ignorance of what was being done, and purposely kept in ignorance by the women. Having been told by Quintal's wife, they knew part of the terrible details of the massacre, but they had no power to check the murderers. They, however, adopted what means they could to shield Young, who, as we have said, was a favourite with all the natives, and closed the door of the hut in which he lay to prevent his being awakened.

The suspicions of Adams having at length been aroused, he went down to Brown's house to see what all the firing could be about. The children, meanwhile, having some vague fears that danger threatened, had run into their mother's huts. Everything passed so quickly, in fact, that few of the people had time to understand or think, or take action in any way.

Reaching the edge of Brown's garden, and seeing the four Otaheitans standing as we have described, Adams stopped and called out to know what was the matter.

"Silence," shouted one of them, pointing his gun. Being unarmed, and observing the body of Brown on the ground, Adams at once leaped into the bush and ran. He was hotly pursued by the four men, but being strong and swift of foot, he soon left them behind. In passing Williams's house, he went towards it, intending to snatch up some thick garments, and, if possible, a musket and ammunition, for he had no doubt now that some of his countrymen must have been killed, and that he would have to take to the bush along with them. An exclamation of horror escaped him when he came upon the armourer's body. It needed no second glance to tell that his comrade was dead. Passing into the house, he caught up an old blanket and a coat, but there was no musket. He knew that without arms he would be at the mercy of the savages. Being a cool and courageous man, he therefore made a long detour through the bush until he reached his own house, and entered by a back window. His sick wife received him with a look of glad surprise.

"Is it true they have killed some of the white men?" she asked.

"Ay, too true," he replied, quickly; "and I must take to the bush for a while. Where can I find a bag to hold some yams? Ah, here you are. There's no fear o' them hurting you, lass."

As he spoke a shot was heard. The natives had seen and followed him. A ball, coming through the window, entered the back of his neck and came out at the front. He fell, but instantly sprang up and leaped through the doorway, where he was met by the four natives.

Besides being a powerful man, Adams was very active, and the wound in his neck was only a flesh one. He knocked down Timoa, the foremost of the band, with one blow of his fist, and grappling with Nehow, threw him violently over his prostrate comrade; but Menalee, coming up at the moment, clubbed his musket and made a furious blow at Adams's head. He guarded it with one hand, and in so doing had one of his fingers broken. Tetaheite and Menalee then both sprang upon him, but he nearly throttled the one, tripped up the other, and, succeeding by a violent wrench in breaking loose, once more took to his heels.

In running, the Otaheitans were no match for him. He gradually left them behind. Then Timoa called out to him to stop.

"No, you scoundrels," he shouted back in reply, "you want to kill me; but you'll find it a harder job than you think."

"No, no," cried Nehow, vehemently, "we don't want to kill you. Stop, and we won't hurt you."

Adams felt that loss of blood from his wound was quickly reducing his strength. His case was desperate. He formed a quick resolve and acted promptly. Stopping, he turned about and walked slowly but steadily back towards the natives, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed sternly upon them.

"Well, I have stopped, you see," he said, on coming up. "I will take you at your word."

"We will do you no harm if you will follow us," said Timoa.

They then went together to the house of Young. Here they found its owner, just roused by the noise of the scuffle with Adams, listening to the explanations of the women, who were purposely trying to lead him astray lest he should go out and be shot. The entrance of the four natives, armed and covered with blood, and Adams unarmed and wounded, at once showed him how matters stood.

"This is a terrible business," he said in a low tone to Adams, while the murderers were disputing noisily about going into the woods to hunt down McCoy and Quintal. "Have they killed many of our comrades?"

"God knows," said Adams, while Quintal's wife bound up the wound in his neck. "There has been firin' enough to have killed us all twice over. I thought some of you were spending the ammunition foolishly on hogs or gulls. Williams is dead, I know, and poor Brown, for I saw their bodies, but I can't say -- "

"Fletcher Christian is killed," said Quintal's wife, interrupting.

"Fletcher Christian!" exclaimed Adams and Young in the same breath.

"Ay, and Isaac Martin and John Mills," continued the woman.

While she was speaking, the four Otaheitans, having apparently come to an agreement as to their future proceedings, loaded their muskets hastily, and rushing from the house soon disappeared in the woods.

We shall not harrow the reader's feelings by following farther the bloody details of this massacre. Let it suffice to add, briefly, that after retiring from a fruitless search for the white men in the bush, Menalee quarrelled with Timoa and shot him. This roused the anger of the other two against Menalee, who fled to the bush and tried to make friends with McCoy and Quintal. This he appeared to succeed in doing, but when he was induced by them to give up his musket, he found out his mistake, for they soon turned it on himself and killed him. Then Young's wife, Susannah, was induced to kill Tetaheite with an axe, and Young himself immediately after shot Nehow.

When McCoy and Quintal were told that all the Otaheitan men were dead they returned to the settlement. It was a terrible scene of desolation and woe. Even these two rough and heartless men were awed for a time into something like solemnity.

The men now left alive on the island were Young, Adams, Quintal, and McCoy. In the households of these four the widows and children of the slain were distributed. The evidences of the bloody tragedy were removed, the murdered men were buried, and thus came to a close the first great epoch in the chequered history of Pitcairn Island.



Chapter Sixteen.

Matt Quintal Makes A Tremendous Discovery.

Upwards of four years had now elapsed since the mutiny of the Bounty, and of the nine mutineers who escaped to Pitcairn Island, only four remained, with eleven women and a number of children.

These latter had now become an important and remarkably noisy element in the colony. They and time together did much to efface the saddening effects of the gloomy epoch which had just come to a close. Time, however, did more than merely relieve the feelings of the surviving mutineers and widows. It increased the infantry force on the island considerably, so that in the course of a few years there were added to it a Robert, William, and Edward Young, with a little sister named Dolly Young, to keep them in countenance. There also came a Jane Quintal and an Arthur Quintal, who were closely followed by a Rebecca Adams and a James Young. So that the self-imposed cares and burdens of that pretty, active, and self-denying little creature, Otaheitan Sally, increased with her years and stature.

Before the most of these made their appearance, however, the poor Otaheitan wives and widows became downcast and discontented. One cannot wonder at this. Accustomed though they no doubt had been to war and bloodshed on their native island, they must have been shocked beyond measure by the scenes of brutality and murder through which they had passed. The most of them being now without husbands, and the men who remained being not on very amicable terms among themselves, these poor creatures seem to have been driven to a state of desperation, for they began to pine for their old home, and actually made up their minds to quit the island in one of the Bounty's old boats, and leave the white men and even the children behind them. See Note 1.

The old boat turned out to be so leaky, however, that they were compelled to return. But they did not cease to repine and to desire deliverance. Gentle-spirited and tractable though they undoubtedly were, they had evidently been tried beyond their powers of endurance. They were roused, and when meek people are roused they not unfrequently give their friends and acquaintances, (to say nothing of those nearer), a considerable surprise.

Matthew Quintal, who had a good deal of sly humour about him, eventually hit on a plan to quiet them, at least for a time.

"What makes you so grumpy, old girl?" he said one day to his wife, while eating his dinner under the shade of a palm-tree.

"We wiss to go home," she replied, in a plaintive tone.

"Well, well, you shall go home, so don't let your spirits go down. If you've got tired of me, lass, you're not worth keeping. We'll set to work and build you a new boat out o' the old un. We'll begin this very day, and when it's finished, you may up anchor and away to Otaheite, or Timbuctoo for all that I care."

The poor woman seemed pleased to hear this, and true to his word, Quintal set to work that very day, with McCoy, whom he persuaded to assist him. His friend thought that Quintal was only jesting about the women, and that in reality he meant to build a serviceable boat for fishing purposes. Young and Adams took little notice of what the other two were about; but one day when the former came down to the beach on Bounty Bay, he could not help remarking on the strange shape of the boat.

"It'll never float," he remarked, with a look of surprise.

"It's not wanted to float," replied Quintal, "at least not just yet. We can make it float well enough with a few improvements afterwards."

Young looked still more surprised, but when Quintal whispered something in his ear, he laughed and went away.

The boat was soon ready, for it was to some extent merely a modification of the old boat. Then all the women were desired to get into it and push off, to see how it did.

"Get in carefully now, old girls," said Quintal, with a leer. "Lay hold of the oars and we'll shove you through the first o' the surf. Lend a hand, McCoy. Now then, give way all -- hi!"

With a vigorous shove the two men sent the boat shooting through the surf, which was unusually low that day. Young and Adams, with some of the children, stood on the rocks and looked on. The women lay to their oars like men, and the boat leaped like a flying-fish through the surf into deep water. Forgetting, in the excitement of the moment, the object they had in view, the poor things shouted and laughed with glee; but they dipped their oars with sad irregularity, and the boat began to rock in a violent manner. Then Young's wife, Susannah, caught what in nautical parlance is called "a crab;" that is, she missed her stroke and fell backwards into the bottom of the boat.

With that readiness to render help which was a characteristic of these women, Christian's widow, Mainmast, leaped up to assist the fallen Susannah. It only wanted this to destroy the equilibrium of the boat altogether. It turned bottom up in a moment, and left the female crew floundering in the sea.

To women of civilised lands this might have been a serious accident, but to these Otaheitan ladies it was a mere trifle. Each had been able to swim like a duck from earliest childhood. Indeed, it was evident that some of their own little ones were equally gifted, for several of them, led by Sally, plunged into the surf and went out to meet their parents as they swam ashore.

The men laughed heartily, and, after securing the boat and hauling it up on the beach, returned to the settlement, whither the women had gone before them to change their garments.

This incident effectually cured the native women of any intention to escape from the island, at least by boat, but it did not tend to calm their feelings. On the contrary, it seemed to have the effect of filling them with a thirst for vengeance, and they spent part of that day in whispered plottings against the men. They determined to take their lives that very night.

While they were thus engaged, their innocent offspring were playing about the settlement at different games, screaming at times with vehement delight, and making the palm-groves ring with laughter. The bright sun shone equally upon the heads that whirled with merriment and those that throbbed with dark despair.

Suddenly, in the midst of her play, little Sally came to an abrupt pause. She missed little Matt Quintal from the group.

"Where's he gone, Charlie?" she demanded of her favourite playmate, whose name she had by that time learned to pronounce.

"I dunno," answered Charlie, whose language partook more of the nautical tone of Quintal than of his late father.

"D'you know, Dan'l?" she asked of little McCoy.

"I dunno nuffin'," replied Dan, "'xcep' he's not here."

"Well, I must go an' seek 'im. You stop an' play here. I leave 'em in your care, Toc. See you be good."

It would have amused you, reader, if you had seen with your bodily eyes the little creatures who were thus warned to be good. Even Dan McCoy, who was considered out and out the worst of them, might have sat to Rubens for a cherub; and as for the others, they were, we might almost say, appallingly good. Thursday October, in particular, was the very personification of innocence. It would have been much more appropriate to have named him Sunday July, because in his meek countenance goodness and beauty sat enthroned.

Of course we do not mean to say that these children were good from principle. They had no principle at that time. No, their actuating motive was selfishness; but it was not concentrated, regardless selfishness, and it was beautifully counteracted by natural amiability of temperament.

But they were quite capable of sin. For instance, when Sally had left them to search for her lost sheep, little Dan McCoy, moved by a desire for fun, went up behind little Charlie Christian and gave him an unmerited kick. It chanced to be a painful kick, and Charlie, without a thought of resentment or revenge, immediately opened his mouth, shut his eyes, and roared. Horrified by this unexpected result, little Dan also shut his eyes, opened his mouth, and roared.

The face that Charlie made in these circumstances was so ineffably funny, that Toc burst into uncontrollable laughter. Hearing this, the roarers opened their eyes, slid quickly into the same key, and tumbled head over heels on the grass, in which evolutions they were imitated by the whole party, except such as had not at that time passed beyond the staggering age.

Meanwhile Sally searched the neighbouring bush in vain; then bethinking her that Matt Quintal, who was fond of dangerous places, might have clambered down to the rocks to bathe, she made the best of her way to the beach, at a place which, being somewhat difficult of access from above, was seldom visited by any save the wild and venturesome.

She had only descended a few yards when she met the lost one clambering up in frantic haste, panting violently, his fat cheeks on fire, and his large eyes blazing.

"Oh, Matt, what is it?" she exclaimed, awestruck at the sight of him.

"Sip! -- sip!" he cried, with labouring breath, as he pointed with one hand eagerly to the sea and with the other to the shore; "bin men down dare! -- look, got suffin'! Oh!"

A prolonged groan of despair escaped the child as he fumbled in a trousers-pocket and pushed three fingers through a hole in the bottom of it.

"It's hoed through!"

"What's hoed through?" asked Sally, with quick sympathy, trying to console the urchin for some loss he had sustained.

"De knife!" exclaimed little Dan, with a face of blank woe.

"The knife! what knife? But don't cry, dear; if you lost it through that hole it must be lying on the track, you know, somewhere between us and the beach."

This happy thought did not seem to have occurred to Matt, whose cheeks at once resumed their flush and his eyes their blaze.

Taking his hand, Sally led him down the track.

They looked carefully as they went, and had not gone far when Matt sprang forward with a scream of delight and picked up a clasp-knife. It was by no means a valuable one. It had a buckhorn handle, and its solitary blade, besides being broken at the point, was affected with rust and tobacco in about equal proportions.

"Oh, Matt, where did you find it?"

"Come down and you see," he exclaimed, pointing with greater excitement than ever to the beach below.

They were soon down, and there, on the margin of the woods, they found a heap of cocoa-nut shells scattered about.

"Found de knife dere," said Matt, pointing to the midst of the shells, and speaking in a low earnest voice, as if the subject were a solemn one.

"Oh!" exclaimed Sally, under her breath.

"An' look here," said Matt, leading the girl to a sandy spot close by. They both stood transfixed and silent, for there were strange foot-prints on the sand.

They could not be mistaken. Sally and Matt knew every foot and every shoe, white or black, in Pitcairn. The marks before them had been made by unknown shoes.

Just in proportion as youth is more susceptible of astonishment than age, so was the surprise of those little ones immeasurably greater than that of Robinson Crusoe in similar circumstances. With awestruck faces they traced the foot-prints down to the water's edge. Then, for the first time, it struck Matt that he had forgotten something.

"Oh, me forget de sip -- de sip!" he cried, and pointed out to sea.

Sally raised her eyes and uttered an exclamation of fresh astonishment, as well she might, for there, like a seagull on the blue wave, was a ship under full sail. It was far-off, nearly on the horizon, but quite distinct, and large enough to be recognised.

Of course the gazers were spellbound again. It was the first real ship they had ever seen, but they easily recognised it, being familiar with man's floating prisons from the frequent descriptions given to them by John Adams, and especially from a drawing made by him, years ago, on the back of an old letter, representing a full-rigged man-of-war. This masterpiece of fine art had been nailed up on the walls of John Adams's hut, and had been fully expounded to each child in succession, as soon after its birth as was consistent with common-sense -- sometimes sooner.

Suddenly Otaheitan Sally recovered herself.

"Come, Matt, we must run home an' tell what we've seen."

Away they went like two goats up the cliffs. Panting and blazing, they charged down on their amazed playmates, shouting, "A sip! a sip!" but never turning aside nor slacking their pace until they burst with the news on the astonished mutineers.

Something more than astonishment, however, mingled with the feelings of the seamen, and it was not until they had handled the knife, and visited the sandy cove, and seen the foot-prints, and beheld the vessel herself, that they became fully convinced that she had really been close to the island, that men had apparently landed to gather cocoa-nuts, and had gone away without having discovered the settlement, which was hid from their view by the high cliffs to the eastward of Bounty Bay.

The vessel had increased her distance so much by the time the men reached the cove, that it was impossible to make out what she was.

"A man-o'-war, mayhap, sent to search for us," suggested Quintal.

"Not likely," said Adams. "If she'd bin sent to search for us, she wouldn't have contented herself with only pickin' a few nuts."

"I should say she is a trader that has got out of her course," said Young; "but whatever she is, we've seen the last of her. I'm not sure that I wouldn't have run the risk of having our hiding-place found out, and of being hung, for the sake of seeing once more the fresh face of a white man."

He spoke with a touch of sadness in his tone, which contrasted forcibly with the remark that followed.

"It's little I would care about the risk o' bein' scragged," said Quintal, "if I could only once more have a stiff glass o' grog an' a pipe o' good, strong, genuine baccy!"

"You'll maybe have the first sooner than you think," observed McCoy, with a look of intelligence.

"What d'ye mean?" asked Quintal.

"Ax no questions an' you'll be told no lies," was McCoy's polite rejoinder, to which Quintal returned a not less complimentary remark, and followed Young and Adams, who had already begun to reascend the cliffs.

This little glimpse of the great outer world was obtained by the mutineers in 1795, and was the only break of the kind that occurred during a residence of many years on the lonely island.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

Note 1. We are led to this conclusion in regard to the children by the fact that in the various records which tell us of these women attempting their flight, no mention is made of the children being with them.



Chapter Seventeen.

The Clouds Grow Thicker And Blacker.

This glimpse of a stray vessel left a deep impression on the minds of the exiles for many days, and it so far influenced the women that they postponed their scheme of vengeance for some time.

It must not be supposed, however, that all of those women, whom we have described as being so gentle in character, were suddenly transformed into demons. It was only two or three of the more energetic and passionate among them who stirred up the rest, and forced them to fall in with their views. These passionate ones were the widows of the men who had been slain. They not only felt their loss most bitterly, but became almost mad with the despair caused by their forlorn condition, and the apparent hopelessness of deliverance.

The sight of the passing ship had diverted their thoughts for a time, perhaps had infused a little hope; but when the excitement died down they renewed their plots against the men and at last made a desperate attempt to carry them out.

It was on a dark and stormy night. Thunder was rolling in the sky. Lightning flashed among the mountain-peaks. Rain, the first that had descended for many days, fell in fitful showers. It must have seemed to the women either that the elements sympathised with them, or that the extreme darkness was favourable to the execution of their plan, for about midnight one of them rose from her bed, and crept noiselessly to the corner of her hut, where she had seen Quintal deposit a loaded musket the previous day. Possessing herself of the weapon, she went straight to the widow of Fletcher Christian, and wakened her. She rose, somewhat reluctantly, and followed the woman, whose face was concealed in a kerchief of native cloth. The two then went cautiously to another hat, where two of the wives of the murdered Otaheitans awaited them, the one with a long knife, the other with an axe in her hand.

They whispered together for a few seconds. As they did so there came a tremendous crash of thunder, followed by a flash which revealed the dark heads and glistening eyeballs drawn together in a group.

"We had better not try to-night," said one voice, timidly.

"Faint heart, you may stay behind," replied another voice, firmly. "Come, let us not delay. They were cruel; we will be cruel too."

They all crouched down, and seemed to melt into the dark earth. When the next lightning-flash rent the heavens they were gone.

Lying in his bunk, opposite the door of his house, that night, John Adams lay half asleep and half-conscious of the storm outside. As he lay with closed eyes there came a glaring flash of light. It revealed in the open doorway several pallid faces and glistening eyeballs.

"A strange dream," thought Adams; "stranger still to dream of dreaming."

The thunder-clap that followed was mingled with a crash, a burst of smoke, and a shriek that caused Adams to leap from his couch as a bullet whistled past his ear. In the succeeding lightning-flash he beheld a woman near him with an uplifted axe, another with a gleaming knife, and Edward Young, who slept in his house that night, in the act of leaping upon her.

Adams was prompt to act on all occasions. He caught the uplifted axe, and wrenching it from her grasp, thrust the woman out of the door.

"There," he said, quietly, "go thy way, lass. I don't care to know which of 'ee's done it. Let the other one go too, Mr Young. It's not worth while making a work about it."

The midshipman obeyed, and going to a shelf in a corner, took down a torch made of small nuts strung on a palm-spine, struck a light, and kindled it.

"Poor things," he said, "I'm sorry for them. They've had hard times here."

"They won't try it again," remarked Adams, as he closed the door, and quietly turned again into his sleeping-bunk.

But John Adams was wrong. Foiled though they were on this occasion, and glad though some of them must have been at their failure, there were one or two who could not rest, and who afterwards made another attempt on the lives of the men. This also failed. The first offence had been freely forgiven, but this time it was intimated that if another attempt were made, they should all be put to death. Fortunately, the courage of even the most violent of the women had been exhausted. To the relief of the others they gave up their murderous designs, and settled down into that state of submission which was natural to them.

One might have thought that now, at last, the little colony of Pitcairn had passed its worst days, most of the disturbing elements having been removed; but there was yet one other cloud, the blackest of all, to burst over them. One of the world's greatest curses was about to be introduced among them. It happened thus: -- 

One night William McCoy went to his house up on the mountain-side, entered it, and shut and bolted the door. This was an unusual proceeding on his part, and had no connection with the recent attempts at murder made by the women, because he was quite fearless in regard to that, and scoffed at the possibility of being killed by women. He also carefully fastened the window-shutters. He appeared to be somewhat excited, and went about his operations with an air at once of slyness and of mystery.

A small torch or nut-candle which he lighted and set on a bracket on the wall gave out a faint flickering light, which barely rendered darkness visible, and from its position threw parts of the chamber into deepest gloom. It looked not unlike what we suppose would be the laboratory of an alchemist of the olden time, and McCoy himself, with his eager yet frowning visage, a native-made hat slouched over his brows, and a piece of native cloth thrown over his shoulders like a plaid, was no bad representative of an old doctor toiling for the secrets that turn base metal into gold, and old age into youth -- secrets, by the way, which have been lying open to man's hand for centuries in the Word of God.

Taking down from a shelf a large kettle which had formed part of the furniture of the Bounty, and a twisted metal pipe derived from the same source, he fitted them up on a species of stove or oven made of clay. The darkness of the place rendered his movements not very obvious; but he appeared to put something into the kettle, and fill it with water. Then he put charcoal into the oven, kindled it, and blew it laboriously with his mouth until it became red-hot. This flameless fire did not tend much to enlighten surrounding objects; it merely added to them a lurid tinge of red. The operator's face, being close in front of the fire as he blew, seemed almost as hot as the glowing coals.

With patient watchfulness he sat there crouching over the fire for several hours, occasionally blowing it up or adding more fuel.

As the experiment went on, McCoy's eyes seemed to dilate with expectation, and his breathing quickened. After a time he rose and lifted a bottle out of a tub of water near the stove. The bottle was attached to one end of the twisted tube, which was connected with the kettle on the fire. Detaching it therefrom, he raised it quickly to the light. Then he put it to his nose and smelt it. As he did so his face lit up with an expression of delight. Taking down from a shelf a cocoa-nut cup, he poured into it some sparkling liquid from the bottle. It is a question which at that moment sparkled most, McCoy's eyes or the liquid.

He sipped a little, and his rough visage broke into a beaming smile. He drank it all, and then he smacked his lips and laughed -- not quite a joyous laugh, but a wild, fierce, triumphant laugh, such as one might imagine would issue from the panting lips of some stout victor of the olden time as he clutched a much-coveted prize, after slaying some half-dozen enemies.

"Ha ha! I've got it at last!" he cried aloud, smacking his lips again.

And so he had. Long and earnestly had he laboured to make use of a fatal piece of knowledge which he possessed. Among the hills of Scotland McCoy had learned the art of making ardent spirits. After many failures, he had on this night made a successful attempt with the ti-root, which grew in abundance on Pitcairn. The spirit was at last produced. As the liquid ran burning down his throat, the memory of a passion which he had not felt for years came back upon him with overwhelming force. In his new-born ecstasy he uttered a wild cheer, and filling more spirit into the cup, quaffed it again.

"Splendid!" he cried, "first-rate. Hurrah!"

A tremendous knocking at the door checked him, and arrested his hand as he was about to fill another cup.

"Who's that?" he demanded, angrily.

"Open the door an' you'll see."

The voice was that of Matthew Quintal. McCoy let him in at once.

"See here," he cried, eagerly, holding up the bottle with a leer, "I've got it at last!"

"So any deaf man might have found out by the way you've bin shoutin' it. Why didn't you open sooner?"

"Never heard you, Matt. Was too much engaged with my new friend, I suppose. Come, I'll introdooce him to you."

"Look alive, then," growled Quintal, impatiently, for he seemed to have smelt the spirit, as the warhorse is said to smell the battle from afar. "Give us hold o' the cup and fill up; fill up, I say, to the brim. None o' your half measures for me."

He took a mouthful, rolled it round and round with his tongue once or twice, and swallowed it.

"Heh, that's it once more! Come, here's your health, McCoy! We'll be better friends than ever now; good luck to 'ee."

McCoy thought that there was room for improvement in their friendship, but said nothing, as he watched his comrade pour the fiery liquid slowly down his throat, as if he wished to prolong the sensation.

"Another," he said, holding out the cup.

"No, no; drink fair, Matt Quintal; wotever you do, drink fair. It's my turn now."

"Your turn?" retorted Quintal, fiercely; "why, you've bin swillin' away for half-an-hour before I came."

"No, Matt, no; honour bright. I'd only just begun. But come, we won't quarrel over it. Here's the other half o' the nut, so we'll drink together. Now, hold steady."

"More need for me to give you that advice; you shake the bottle as if you'd got the ague. If you spill a drop, now, I'll -- I'll flatten your big nose on your ugly face."

Not in the least hurt by such uncomplimentary threats, McCoy smiled as he filled the cup held by his comrade. The spirit was beginning to tell on him, and the smile was of that imbecile character which denotes perfect self-satisfaction and good-will. Having poured the remainder into his own cup, he refixed the bottle to the tube of the "still," and while more of the liquid was being extracted, the cronies sat down on low stools before the stove, to spend a pleasant evening in poisoning themselves!

It may be interesting and instructive, though somewhat sad, to trace the steps by which those two men, formed originally in God's image, reduced themselves, of their own free will, to a level much lower than that of the brutes.

"Doesn't the taste of it bring back old times?" said McCoy, holding his cup to the light as he might have held up a transparent glass.

"Ay," assented Quintal, gradually becoming amiable, "the good old times before that fool Fletcher Christian indooced us to jine him. Here's to 'ee, lad, once more."

"Why, when I think o' the jolly times I've had at the Blue Boar of Plymouth," said McCoy, "or at the Swan wi' the two throttles, in -- in -- I forget where, I feel -- I feel -- like -- like -- here's your health again, Matt Quintal. Give us your flipper, man. You're not a bad feller, if you wasn't given to grumpin' so much."

Quintal's amiability, even when roused to excess by drink, was easily dissipated. The free remarks of his comrade did not tend to increase it, but he said nothing, and refreshed himself with another sip.

"I really do think," continued McCoy, looking at his companion with an intensity of feeling which is not describable, "I really do think that --  that -- when I think o' that Blue Boar, I could a'most become poetical."

"If you did," growled Quintal, "you would not be the first that had become a big fool on a worse subjec'."

"I shay, Matt Quintal," returned the other, who was beginning to talk rather thickly, so powerful was the effect of the liquor on his unaccustomed nerves; "I shay, ole feller, you used to sing well once. Come g-give us a stave now."

"Bah!" was Quintal's reply, with a look of undisguised contempt.

"Jus-so. 'Xactly my opinion about it. Well, as you won't sing, I'll give you a ditty myself."

Hereupon McCoy struck up a song, which, being deficient in taste, while its execution was defective as well as tuneless, did not seem to produce much effect on Quintal. He bore it with equanimity, until McCoy came to a note so far beyond his powers that he broke into a shriek.

"Come, get some more drink," growled his comrade, pointing to the still; "it must be ready by this time."

"Shum more drink!" exclaimed McCoy, with a look of indignant surprise. Then, sliding into a smile of imbecile good-humour, "You shl-'ave-it, my boy, you shl-'ave-it."

He unfixed the bottle with an unsteady hand, and winking with dreadful solemnity, filled up his companion's cup. Then he filled his own, and sat down to resume his song. But Quintal could stand no more of it; he ordered his comrade to "stop his noise."

"Shtop my noise!" exclaimed McCoy, with a look of lofty disdain.

"Yes, stop it, an' let's talk."

"Well, I'm w-willin' t' talk," returned McCoy, after a grave and thoughtful pause.

They chose politics as a light, agreeable subject of conversation.

"Now, you see, 's my 'pinion, Matt, that them coves up't th' Admiralty don't know no more how to guv'n this country than they knows how to work a Turk's head on a man-rope."

"P'r'aps not," replied Quintal, with a look of wise solemnity.

"Nor'-a-bit -- on it," continued McCoy, becoming earnest. "An' wot on earth's the use o' the Lords an' Commons an' War Office? W'y don't they slump 'em all together into one 'ouse, an' get the Archbishop o' Cantingbury to bless 'em all, right off, same as the Pope does. That's w'ere it is. D'ye see? That's w'ere the shoe pinches."

"Ah, an' what would you make o' the King?" demanded Quintal, with an argumentative frown.

"The King, eh?" said McCoy, bringing his fuddled mind to bear on this royal difficulty; "the King, eh? Why, I'd -- I'd make lop-scouse o' the King."

"Come, that's treason. You shan't speak treason in my company, Bill McCoy. I'm a man-o'-war's man. It won't do to shove treason in the face of a mar-o'-wa-a-r. If I am a mutineer, w'at o' that? I'll let no other man haul down my colours. So don't go shovin' treason at me, Bill McCoy."

"I'll shove treason w'erever I please," said McCoy, fiercely.

"No you shan't."

"Yes I shall."

From this point the conversation became very contradictory in tone, then recriminative, and after that personally abusive. At last Quintal, losing temper, threw the remains of his last cup of spirits in his friend's face. McCoy at once hit Quintal on the nose. He returned wildly on the eye, and jumping up, the two grappled in fierce anger.

They were both powerful men, whose natural tendency to personal violence towards each other had, up to this time, been restrained by prudence; but now that the great destroyer of sense and sanity was once again coursing through their veins, there was nothing to check them. All the grudges and bitternesses of the past few years seemed to have been revived and concentrated on that night, and they struggled about the little room with the fury of madmen, striking out savagely, but with comparatively little effect, because of excessive passion, coupled with intoxication, clutching and tugging at each other's whiskers and hair, and cursing with dreadful sincerity.

There was little furniture in the room, but what there was they smashed in pieces. Quintal flung McCoy on the table, and jumping on the top of him, broke it down. The other managed to get on his legs again, clutched Quintal by the throat, and thrust him backward with such violence that he went crashing against the little window-shutters, split them up, and drove them out. In one of their wildest bursts they both fell into the fireplace, overturned the still, and scattered the fire. Fortunately, the embers were nearly out by this time. Tumbling over the stools and wreck, these men -- who had begun the evening as friends, continued it as fools, and ended it as fiends -- fell side by side into one of the sleeping-bunks, the bottom of which was driven down by the shock as they sank exhausted amid the wreck, foaming with passion, and covered with blood. This was the climax; they fell into a state of partial insensibility, which degenerated at last into a deep lethargic slumber.

Hitherto the quarrels and fights that had so disturbed the peace of Pitcairn, and darkened her moral sky, had been at least intelligently founded on hatred or revenge, with a definite object and murderous end in view. Now, for the first time, a furious battle had been fought for nothing, with no object to be gained, and no end in view; with besotted idiots for the champions, and with strong drink for the cause.



Chapter Eighteen.

Aquatic Amusements.

Now, it must not be supposed that the wives and widows of these mutineers gave themselves up to moping or sadness after the failure of their wild attempt to make their condition worse by slaying all the men. By no means. By degrees they recovered the natural tone of their mild yet hearty dispositions, and at last, we presume, came to wonder that they had ever been so mad or so bad.

Neither must it be imagined that these women were condemned to be the laborious drudges who are fitly described as "hewers of wood and drawers of water." They did indeed draw a good deal of water in the course of each day, but they spent much time also in making the tapa cloth with which they repaired the worn-out clothes of their husbands, or fabricated petticoats for themselves and such of the children as had grown old enough to require such garments. But besides these occupations, they spent a portion of their time in prattling gossip, which, whatever the subject might be, was always accompanied with a great deal of merriment and hearty laughter. They also spent no small portion of their time in the sea, for bathing was one of the favourite amusements of the Pitcairners, young and old.

Coming up one day to Susannah, the wife of Edward Young, Thursday October Christian begged that she would go with him and bathe.

Susannah was engaged in making the native cloth at the time, and laid down her mallet with a look of indecision. It may be remarked here that a mallet is used in the making of this cloth, which is not woven, but beaten out from a state of pulp; it is, in fact, rather a species of tough paper than cloth, and is produced from the bark of the paper mulberry.

"I's got to finish dis bit of cloth to-day, Toc," said Susannah, in broken English, for she knew that Master Thursday October preferred that tongue to Otaheitan, though he could speak both, "an' it's gettin' late."

"Oh, what a pity!" said TOC, with a look of mild disappointment.

Now Susannah was by far the youngest and most girlish among the Otaheitan women, and could not resist an appeal to her feelings even when uttered only by the eyes. Besides, little Toc was a great favourite with her. She therefore burst into a merry laugh, gently pulled Thursday's nose, and said, "Well, come along; but we'll git some o' the others for go too, an' have some fun. You go klect de jumpers. Me git de womans." Susannah referred to the older children by the term "Jumpers."

Highly pleased, the urchin started off at once. He found one of the jumpers, namely, Otaheitan Sally, nursing Polly Young, while she delivered an oracular discourse to Charlie Christian, who sat at her feet, meekly receiving and believing the most outrageous nonsense that ever was heard. It is but just to Sally, however, to say that she gave her information in all good faith, having been previously instructed by John Adams, whose desire for the good of the young people was at that period stronger than his love of truth. Wishing to keep their minds as long as possible ignorant of the outer world, he had told them that ships came out of a hole in the clouds on the horizon.

"Yes, Charlie, it's quite true; father Adams says so. They comes out of a hole on the horizon."

Charlie's huge eyes gazed in perplexity from his instructor's face to the horizon, as if he expected to behold a ship emerging from a hole then and there. Then, turning to Sally again with a simple look, he asked -- 

"But why does sips come out of holes on de 'rizon?"

Sally was silenced. She was not the first knowing one who had been silenced by a child.

Little Daniel McCoy came up at the moment. Having passed the "staggering" period of life, he no longer walked the earth in a state of nudity, but was decorated with a pair of very short tapa trousers, cut in imitation of seafaring ducks, but reaching only to the knees. He also wore a little shirt.

"Me kin tell why ships come out ob de hole in de horizon," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes; "just for notin' else dan to turn about an' go back into de hole again."

"Nonsense, Dan'l!" cried Sally, with a laugh.

"Nonsense!" repeated Dan, with an injured look. "Didn't you saw'd it happen jus' t'other day?"

"Well, I did saw the ship go farer an' farer away, an' vanish," admitted Sall; "but he didn't go into a hole that time."

"Pooh!" ejaculated little Dan, "dat's 'cause de hole was too far away to be seen."

Further discussion of the subject was prevented by the arrival of Thursday.

"Well, Toc, you's in a hurry to-day," said little Dan, with a look of innocent insolence.

"We're all to go an' bathe, child'n," cried Thursday, with a look of delight; "Susannah's goin', an' all the 'oomans, an' she send me for you."

"Hurrah!" shouted Dan and Sally.

"Goin' to bave," cried Charlie Christian to Lizzie Mills, who was attracted by the cheering, which also brought up Matt Quintal, who led his little sister Sarah by the hand. Sarah was yet a staggerer, and so was Dinah Adams, also Mary Christian; Polly Young and John Mills had not yet attained even to the staggering period -- they were only what little Dan McCoy called sprawlers.

Before many minutes had elapsed, the whole colony of women, jumpers, staggerers, and sprawlers, were assembled on the beach at Bounty Bay.

It could scarcely be said that the women undressed -- they merely threw off the light scarf or bodice that covered their shoulders, but kept on the short skirts, which were no impediment to their graceful movements in the water. The jumpers, of course, were only too glad of the excuse to get out of their very meagre allowance of clothing, and the rest were, so to speak, naturally ready for the plunge.

It was a splendid forenoon. There was not a zephyr to ruffle the calm breast of the Pacific, nevertheless the gentle undulation of that mighty bosom sent wave after wave like green liquid walls into the bay in ceaseless regularity. These, toppling over, and breaking, and coming in with a succession of magnificent roars, finally hissed in harmless foam on the shingly beach.

"Now, T'ursday," said Mrs Adams, "you stop here an' take care o' de sprawlers."

Adams's helpmate was the oldest of the women, and defective in vision. Her commands were law. Thursday October would as soon have thought of disobeying Adams himself as his wife. It was not in his nature, despite its goodness, to help feeling disappointed at being left in charge of the little ones. However, he made up his mind at once to the sacrifice.

"Never mind, Toc," said Young's wife, with a bright smile, "I'll stay an' keep you company."

This was ample compensation to Thursday. He immediately flung himself into the shallow surf, and turning his face to the land, held out his arms and dared the little ones to come to him. Two of them instantly accepted the challenge, crept down to the water, and were beaten back by the next rush of foam. But they were caught up and held aloft with a shout of glee by Susannah.

Meanwhile, the women advanced into the deep surf with the small children on their shoulders, while the others, being able to look after themselves, followed, panting with excitement for although able to swim like corks they found it extremely difficult to do battle with the rushing water.

Deeper and deeper the foremost women went, until they neared the unbroken glassy billows.

"I'll go at de nixt," muttered Mrs Adams to Mary Christian, who was on her back, clutching tight round her neck.

The "nixt" was a liquid wall that came rolling grandly in with ever-increasing force and volume, until it hovered to its fall almost over the heads of the daring women. Mrs Adams, Mainmast, and Mills's widow, who were the foremost of the group, bent their heads forward, and with a graceful but vigorous plunge, sprang straight into the wall of water and went right through it. The others, though a moment later, were quite in time. The children also, uttering wild screams in varied keys, faced the billow gallantly, and pierced it like needles. Another moment, and they were all safe in deep water on the seaward side, while the wave went thundering to the shore in a tumultuous wilderness of foam, and spent its weakened force among the babies.

The moment the women were safe beyond the rolling influence of these great waves, in the calm sea beyond, they threw the staggerers from their shoulders and let them try their own unaided powers, while the jumpers swam and floated around to watch the result.

These wonderful infants disported themselves variously in the sea. Mary Christian wobbled about easily, as if too fat to sink, and Bessy Mills supported herself bravely, being much encouraged by the presence and the cheering remarks of that humorous imp Dan McCoy. But Charlie Christian showed symptoms of alarm, and losing heart after a few moments, threw up his fat little arms and sank. Like the swooping eagle, his mother plunged forward, placed a hand under him, and lifted him on her shoulders, where he recovered equanimity in a few minutes, and soon wanted to be again sent afloat. When this had gone on for a little time, the women reshouldered their babies and swam boldly out to sea, followed at various distances by the youngsters. Of these latter, Sall of Otaheite was by far the best. She easily outstripped the other children, and could almost keep pace with the women.

Meanwhile Thursday October Christian and Susannah Young performed amazing feats with the infants in the shallow water on the beach. Sarah Quintal and Johnny Mills gave them some trouble, having a strong disposition to explore places beyond their depth; but Dinah Adams and Polly Young were as good as gold, spluttering towards their guardians when called, and showing no tendency to do anything of their own immediate free will, except sit on the sand and let the foam rush round and over them like soap-suds.

Now, it is well-known that every now and then there are waves of the sea which seem to have been born on a gigantic scale, and which, emerging somewhere from the great deep, come to shore with a grander roar and a higher rush than ordinary waves.

One such roller came in while no one was on the look-out for it. Its deep-toned roar first apprised Susannah of its approach, but before she could run to the rescue its white crest was careering up the beach in magnificent style. It caught the infants, each sitting with a look of innocent surprise on the sand. It turned them head over heels, and swept them up the shingly shore. It tumbled Susannah herself over in its might, and swept Thursday October fairly off his legs. Having terminated its career thus playfully, the big wave retired, carrying four babies in its embrace. But Susannah and Thursday had regained their footing and their presence of mind. With a brave and, for him, a rapid spring, Thursday caught little Sarah and Dinah as they were rolling helpless down the strand, the one by an arm, the other by a leg, and held on. At the same instant Susannah sprang forward and grasped Jack Mills by the hair of the head, but poor Polly Young was beyond her reach. Little Polly was the smallest, the neatest, and the dearest of the sprawling band. She was rolling to her doom. The case was desperate. In this emergency Susannah suddenly hurled Jack Mills at Thursday. The poor boy had to drop the other two in order to catch the flying Jack, but the other two, sliding down his body, held each to a Thursday October leg like limpets. The result was that the four remained firm and safe, while Susannah leaped into the surf and rescued little Poll.

It all happened so quickly that the actors had scarcely time to think. Having reached the dry land, they looked seaward, and there saw their more practised companions about to come in on the top of a wave. For a few seconds their heads were seen bobbing now on the top, now between the hollows of the waves. Then they were seen on a towering snowy crest which was just about to fall. On the summit of the roaring wave, as if on a snowy mountain, they came rushing on with railway speed. To an unpractised eye destruction among the rocks was their doom. But they had taken good aim, and came careering to the sandy patch where the little ones sprawled. In another moment they stood safe and sound upon the land.

This was but an everyday feat of the Pitcairners, who went up to their village chatting merrily, and thinking nothing more about the adventure than that it was capital fun.



Chapter Nineteen.

The Darkest Hour.

A long time after the events narrated in the last chapter, John Adams and Edward Young sat together one evening in the cave at the top of the mountain, where poor Fletcher Christian had been wont to hold his lonely vigils.

"I've bin thinkin' of late," said Young, "that it is very foolish of us to content ourselves with merely fishing from the rocks, when there are better fish to be had in deep water, and plenty of material at hand for making canoes."

"You're right, sir; we ought to try our hands at a canoe. Pity we didn't do so before the native men was all killed. They knew what sort o' trees to use, and how to split 'em up into planks, an' all that sort o' thing."

"But McCoy used to study that subject, and talk much about it, when we were in Otaheite," returned Young. "I've no doubt that with his aid we could build a good enough canoe, and the women would be as able as the men, no doubt, to direct us what to do if we were in a difficulty. McCoy is a handy fellow, you know, with tools, as he has proved more than once since the death of poor Williams."

Adams shook his head.

"No doubt, Mr Young, he's handy enough with the tools; but ever since he discovered how to make spirits, neither he nor Quintal, as you know, sir, are fit for anything."

"True," said Young, with a perplexed look; "it never occurred to me before that strong drink was such a curse. I begin now to understand why some men that I have known have been so enthusiastic in their outcry against it. Perhaps it would be right for you and me to refuse to drink with Quintal and McCoy, seeing that they are evidently killing themselves with it."

"I don't quite see that, sir," objected Adams. "A glass of grog don't do me no harm that I knows of, an' it wouldn't do them no good if we was to stop our allowance."

"It might; who can tell?" said Young. "I've not thought much about the matter, however, so we won't discuss it. But what would you say if we were to hide the kettle that McCoy makes it in, and refuse to give it up till the canoe is finished?"

Again Adams shook his head.

"They'd both go mad with DT," said he, by which letters he referred to the drunkard's awful disease, delirium tremens.

"Well, at all events, we will try to persuade him to go to work, and the sooner the better," said Young, rising and leaving the cave.

In pursuance of this plan, Young spoke to McCoy in one of his few sober moments, and got him persuaded to begin the work, and to drink less while engaged in it.

Under the impulse of this novelty in his occupation, the unhappy man did make an attempt to curb himself, and succeeded so far that he worked pretty steadily for several days, and made considerable progress with the canoe.

The wood was chosen, the tree felled, the trunk cut to the proper length and split up into very fair planks, which were further smoothed by means of a stone adze, brought by the natives from Otaheite, and it seemed as if the job would be quickly finished, when the terrible demon by whom McCoy had been enslaved suddenly asserted his tyrannical power. Quintal, who rendered no assistance in canoe-building, had employed himself in making a "new brew," as he expressed it, and McCoy went up to his hut in the mountain one evening to taste.

The result, of course, was that he was absolutely incapable of work next day; and then, giving way to the maddening desire, he and his comrade-in-debauchery went in, as they said, for a regular spree. It lasted for more than a week, and when it came to an end, the two men, with cracked lips, bloodshot eyes, and haggard faces, looked as if they had just escaped from a madhouse.

Edward Young now positively refused to drink any more of the spirits, and Adams, although he would not go quite to that length, restricted himself to one glass in the day.

This at first enraged both Quintal and McCoy. The former cursed his comrades in unmeasured terms, and drank more deeply just to spite them. The latter refused to work at the canoe, and both men became so uproarious, that Young and Adams were obliged to turn them out of the house where they were wont occasionally to meet for a social evening.

Thus things went on for many a day from bad to worse. Bad as things had been in former years, it seemed as if the profoundest depth of sin and misery had not yet been fathomed by these unhappy mutineers.

In all these doings, it would have gone hard with the poor women and children if Adams and Young had not increased in their kindness and consideration for them, as the other two men became more savage and tyrannical.

At last matters came to such a crisis that it became once more a matter of discussion with Young and Adams whether they should not destroy the machinery by which the spirits were made, and it is probable that they might have done this, if events had not occurred which rendered the act unnecessary.

One day William McCoy was proceeding with a very uncertain step along the winding footpath that led to his house up in the mountain. The man's face worked convulsively, and it seemed as if terrible thoughts filled his brain. Muttering to himself as he staggered along, he suddenly met his own son, who had grown apace by that time, being nearly seven years of age. Both father and son stopped abruptly, and looked intently at each other.

"What brings you here?" demanded the father, with a look of as much dignity as it was in his power to assume.

The poor boy hesitated, and looked frightened. His natural spirit of fun and frolic seemed of late to have forsaken him.

"What are 'ee afraid of?" roared McCoy, who had not quite recovered from his last fit of delirium tremens. "Why don't 'ee speak?"

"Mother's not well," said Daniel, softly; "she bid me come and tell you."

"What's that to me?" cried McCoy, savagely. "Come here, Dan." He lowered his tone, and held out his hand, but the poor boy was afraid to approach.

Uttering a low growl, the father made a rush at him, stumbled over a tree-root, and fell heavily to the earth. Little Dan darted into the bush, and fled home.

Rising slowly, McCoy looked half-stunned at first, but speedily recovering himself, staggered on till he reached the hut, when he wildly seized the bottle from its shelf, and put it to his lips, which were bleeding from the fall, and covered with dust.

"Ha ha!" he shouted, while the light of delirium rekindled in his eyes, "this is the grand cure for everything. My own son's afraid o' me now, but who cares? What's that to Bill McCoy! an' his mother's ill too --  ha! -- "

He checked himself in the middle of a fierce laugh, and stared before him as if horror-stricken.

"No, no!" he gasped. "I -- I didn't. Oh! God be merciful to me!"

Again he stopped, raised both hands high above his head, uttered a wild laugh which terminated in a prolonged yell, as he dashed the bottle on the floor, and darted from the hut.

All the strength and vigour which the wretched man had squandered seemed to come back to him in that hour. The swiftness of youth returned to his limbs. He ran down the path by which he had just come, and passed Quintal on the way.

"Hallo, Bill! you're pretty bad to-night," said his comrade, looking after him. He then followed at a smart run, as if some new idea had suddenly occurred to him. Two of the women met McCoy further down, but as if to evade them, he darted away to the right along the track leading to the eastward cliffs. The women joined Quintal in pursuit, but before they came near him, they saw him rush to the highest part of the cliffs and leap up into the air, turning completely over as he vanished from their sight.

At that spot the cliff appeared to overhang its base, and was several hundred feet high. Far down there was a projecting rock, where sea-gulls clustered in great numbers. McCoy, like the lightning-flash, came in contact with the rock, and was dashed violently out into space, while the affrighted sea-birds fled shrieking from the spot. Next moment the man's mangled body cleft the dark water like an arrow, leaving only a little spot of foam behind to mark for a few seconds his watery grave.

It might have been thought that this terrible event would have had a sobering effect upon Matthew Quintal, but instead of that it made him worse. The death of his wife, too, by a fall from the cliffs about the same time, seemed only to have the effect of rendering him more savage; insomuch that he became a terror to the whole community, and frequently threatened to take the lives of his remaining comrades. In short, the man seemed to have gone mad, and Young and Adams resolved, in self-defence, to put him to death.

We spare the reader the sickening details. They accomplished the terrible deed with an axe, and thus the number of the male refugees on Pitcairn was reduced to two. The darkest hour of the lonely island had been reached -- the hour before the dawn.



Chapter Twenty.

The Dawn Of A Better Day.

The eighteenth century passed away, and as the nineteenth began its course, a great and marvellous change came over the dwellers on the lonely island in that almost unknown region of the Southern Seas. It was a change both spiritual and physical, the latter resulting from the former, and both having their roots, as all things good must have, in the blessed laws of God.

The change did not come instantaneously. It rose upon Pitcairn with the sure but gradual influence of the morning dawn, and its progress, like its advent, was unique in the history of the Church of God.

No preacher went forth to the ignorant people, armed with the powers of a more or less correct theology. No prejudices had to be overcome, or pre-existing forms of idolatry uprooted, and the people who had to be changed were what might have been deemed most unlikely soil -- mutineers, murderers, and their descendants. The one hopeful characteristic among them was the natural amiability of the women, for Young and Adams did not display more than the average good-humour of men, yet these amiable women, as we have seen, twice plotted and attempted the destruction of the men, and two of them murdered in cold blood two of their own kinsmen.

It may, perhaps, have already been seen that Young and Adams were of a grave and earnest turn of mind. The terrible scenes which they had passed through naturally deepened this characteristic, especially when they thought of the dreadful necessity which had been forced on them --  the deliberate slaying of Matthew Quintal, an act which caused them to feel like murderers, however justifiable it may have seemed to them.

Like most men who are under deep and serious impressions, they kept their thoughts to themselves. Indeed, John Adams, with his grave matter-of-fact tendencies and undemonstrative disposition, would probably never have opened his lips on spiritual things to his companion if Young had not broken the ice; and even when the latter did venture to do so, Adams resisted at first with the dogged resolution of an unbelieving man.

"We've been awful sinners, John Adams," said Young one afternoon as they were sauntering home from their plantations to dinner.

"Well, sir, no doubt there's some truth in what you say," replied Adams, slowly, "but then, d'ye see, we've bin placed in what you may call awful circumstances."

"That's true, that's true," returned Young, with a perplexed look, "and I've said the same thing, or something like it, to myself many a time; but, man, the Bible doesn't seem to harmonise with that idea somehow. It seems to make no difference between big and little sinners, so to speak, at least as far as the matter of salvation is concerned; and yet I can't help feeling somehow that men who have sinned much ought to repent much."

"Just so, sir," said John Adams, with a self-satisfied air, "you're right, sir. We have been awful sinners, as you say, an' now we've got to repent as hard as we can and lead better lives, though, of course, we can't make much difference in our style o' livin', seein' that our circumstances don't allow o' much change, an' neither of us has bin much given to drink or swearin'."

"Strange!" rejoined Young. "You almost echo what I've been saying to myself over and over again, yet I can't feel quite easy, for if we have only got to repent and try to lead better lives, what's the use of our talking about 'Our Saviour?' and what does the Bible mean in such words as these: 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.' 'Only believe.' 'By grace are ye saved, through faith, and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God.' 'By the works of the law shall no flesh living be justified.'"

"Do you mean to say, sir, that them words are all out of the Bible?" asked Adams.

"Yes, I know they are, for I read them all this morning. I had a long hunt after the Bible before I found it, for poor Christian never told me where he kept it. I turned it up at last under a bit of tarpaulin in the cave, and I've been reading it a good deal since, and I confess that I've been much puzzled. Hold on a bit here," he added, stopping and seating himself on a flowering bank beside the path; "that old complaint of mine has been troubling me a good deal of late. Let's rest a bit."

Young referred here to an asthmatic affection to which he was subject, and which had begun to give him more annoyance since the catching of a severe cold while out shooting among the hills a year before.

"From what you say, sir," said Adams, thoughtfully, after they had sat down, "it seems to me that if we can do nothing in the matter o' workin' out our salvation, and have nothin' to do but sit still an' receive it, we can't be to blame if we don't get it."

"But we may be to blame for refusing it when it's offered," returned Young. "Besides, the Bible says, 'Ask and ye shall receive,' so that knocks away the ground from under your notion of sitting still."

"P'r'aps you're right, sir," continued Adams, after a few minutes' thought, during which he shook his head slowly as if not convinced; "but I can't help thinkin' that if a man only does his best to do his dooty, it'll be all right with him. That's all that's required in His Majesty's service, you know, of any man."

"True, but if a man doesn't do his best, what then? Or if he is so careless about learning his duty that he scarce knows what it is, and in consequence falls into sundry gross mistakes, what then? Moreover, suppose that you and I, having both done our duty perfectly up to the time of the mutiny, were now to go back to England and say, like the bad boys, 'We will never do it again,' what would come of it, think you?"

"We'd both be hanged for certain," answered Adams, with emphasis.

"Well, then, the matter isn't as simple an you thought it, at least according to your view."

"It is more puzzlin' than I thought it," returned Adams; "but then that's no great wonder, for if it puzzles you it's no wonder that it should puzzle me, who has had no edication whatever 'xcep what I've picked up in the streets. But it surprises me -- you'll excuse me, Mr Young -- that you who's bin at school shouldn't have your mind more clear about religion. Don't they teach it at school?"

"They used to read a few verses of the Bible where I was at school," said Young, "and the master, who didn't seem to have any religion in himself, read over a formal prayer; but I fear that that didn't do us much good, for we never listened to it. Anyhow, it could not be called religious teaching. But were you never at school, Adams?"

"No, sir, not I," answered the seaman, with a quiet laugh; "leastwise not at a reg'lar true-blue school. I was brought up chiefly in the streets of London, though that's a pretty good school too of its kind. It teaches lads to be uncommon smart, I tell you, and up to a thing or two, but it don't do much for us in the book-larnin' way. I can scarcely read even now, an' what I have of it was got through spellin' out the playbills in the public-house windows. But what d'ye say, sir, now that we both seem inclined to turn over a new leaf, if you was to turn schoolmaster an' teach me to read and write a bit better than I can do at present? I'd promise to be a willin' scholar an' a good boy."

"Not a bad idea," said Young, with a laugh, as he rose and continued the descent of the track leading to the settlement.

The village had by this time improved very much in appearance, good substantial cottages, made of the tafano or flower wood, and the aruni, having taken the place of the original huts run up at the period of landing. Some of the cottages were from forty to fifty feet long, by fifteen wide and thirteen high. It was evident that ships were, partly at least, the model on which they had been constructed; for the sleeping-places were a row of berths opposite the door, each with its separate little window or porthole. There were no fireplaces, the range of the thermometer on the island being from 55 degrees to 85 degrees, and all cooking operations were performed in detached outhouses and ovens.

In the chief of these cottages might have been found, among the many miscellaneous objects of use and ornament, two articles which lay apart on a shelf, and were guarded by Young and Adams with almost reverential care. These were the chronometer and the azimuth compass of the Bounty.

The cottages, some of which had two stories, were arranged so as to enclose a large grassy square, which was guarded by a strong palisade from the encroachments of errant hogs, goats, and fowls. This spot, among other uses, served as a convenient day-nursery for the babies, and also a place of occasional frolic and recreation to the elder children.

To the first of these was added, not long after the death of their respective fathers, Edward Quintal and Catherine McCoy. To John Adams, also, a daughter was born, whom he named Hannah, after a poor girl who had been in the habit of chucking him under the chin, and giving him sugar-plums when he was an arab in the streets of London -- at least so he jestingly remarked to his spouse on the day she presented the new baby to his notice.

On the day of which we write, Young and Adams found the square above-mentioned in possession of the infantry, under command of their self-elected captain, Otaheitan Sally, who was now, according to John Adams, "no longer a chicken." Being in her eleventh year, and, like her country-women generally at that age, far advanced towards big girlhood, she presented a tall, slight, graceful, and beautifully moulded figure, with a sweet sprightly face, and a smile that was ever disclosing her fine white teeth. Her profusion of black hair was gathered into a knot which hung low on the back of her pretty round head. She was crowned with a wreath of wild-flowers, made and presented by her troops. It is needless to say that every one of these, big and little, was passionately attached to Sally.

Chief among her admirers now, as of old, was Charlie Christian, who, being about eight years of age, well grown and stalwart like his father, was now almost as tall as his former nurse.

Charlie had not with years lost one jot of that intensely innocent and guileless look of childhood, which inclined one to laugh while he merely cast earnest gaze into one's face; but years had given to him a certain gravity and air of self-possession which commanded respect, even from that volatile imp, his contemporary, Dan McCoy.

Thursday October Christian, who was less than a year younger than Sally, had also shot up into a long-legged boy, and bade fair to become a tall and sturdy man. He, like his brother, was naturally grave and earnest, but was easily roused to action, and if he did not himself originate fun, was ever ready to appreciate the antics and mild wickedness of Dan McCoy, or to burst into sudden and uproarious laughter at the tumbles or ludicrous doings of the sprawlers, who rolled their plump-made forms on the soft grass.

Not one of the band, however, had yet attained to the age which renders young people ashamed of childish play. When Young and Adams appeared on the scene, Sally, her hair broken loose and the wreath confusedly mingled with it, was flying round the square with Dolly Young on her shoulder, and chased by Charlie Christian, who pretended, in the most obvious manner, that he could not catch her. Toc was sitting on the fence watching them, and perceiving his brother's transparent hypocrisy, was chuckling to himself with great delight.

Matt Quintal and Dan McCoy, at the head of two opposing groups, were engaged in playing French and English, each group endeavouring to pull the other over a rope laid on the grass between them.

Several of the others, being too little, were not allowed to join in the game, and contented themselves with general scrimmaging and skylarking, while Edward Quintal, Catherine McCoy, and Hannah Adams, the most recent additions to the community, rolled about in meaningless felicity.

"Hold on hard," shouted Dan McCoy, whose flushed face and blue eyes beamed and flashed under a mass of curling yellow hair, and who was the foremost boy of the French band.

"I'm holdin' on," cried Matt Quintal, who was intellectually rather obtuse.

"Tight," cried Dan.

"Tight," repeated Matt.

"There, don't let go -- oh! hup!"

The grasp of Dan suddenly relaxed when Matt and his Englishmen were straining their utmost. Of course they went back on the top of each other in a wild jumble, while Dan, having put a foot well back, was prepared, and stood comparatively firm.

"You did that a-purpose," cried Matt, springing up and glaring.

"I know you did it a-purpose," retorted Dan.

"But -- but I said that -- that you did it a-purpose," stammered Matt.

"Well, an' didn't I say that you said that I said you did it a-purpose?"

A yell of delight followed this reply, in which, however, Matt did not join.

Like his father, Matt Quintal was short in the temper -- at least, short for a Pitcairn boy. He suddenly gave Dan McCoy a dab on the nose with his fist. Now, as every one must know, a dab on the nose is painful; moreover, it sometimes produces blood. Dan McCoy, who also inherited a shortish temper from his father, feeling the pain, and seeing the blood, suddenly flushed to the temples, and administered to Matt a sounding slap on the side of the head, which sent him tumbling on the grass. But Matt was not conquered, though overturned. Jumping up, he made a rush at Dan, who stood on the defensive. The other children, being more gentle in their natures, stood by, and anticipated with feelings of awe the threatened encounter; but Thursday October Christian, who had listened with eager ears, ever since his intelligence dawned, to the conversations of the mutineers, here stepped between the combatants.

"Come, come," said he, authoritatively, in virtue of his greater age and superior size, "let's have fair play. If you must fight, do it ship-shape, an', accordin' to the articles of war. We must form a ring first, you know, an' get a bottle an' a sponge and -- "

An appalling yell at this point nearly froze the marrow in everybody's bones. It was caused by a huge pig, which, observing that the gate had been left open, had entered the square, and gone up to snuff at one of the nude babies, who, seated like a whitey-brown petrifaction, gazed with a look of horror in the pig's placid face.

If ever a pig in this sublunary sphere regretted a foolish act, that Pitcairn pig must have been steeped in repentance to the latest day of its life. With one howl in unison, the entire field, minus the infants, ran at that pig like a human tornado. It was of no avail that the pig made straight for the gate by which it had entered. That gate had either removed or shut itself. In frantic haste, the unhappy creature coursed round the square, followed by its pursuers, who soon caught it by the tail, then by an ear, then by the nose and the other ear, and a fore leg and two hind ones, and finally hurled it over the fence, amid a torrent of shrieks which only a Pitcairn pig could utter or a Pitcairn mind conceive. It fell with a bursting squeak, and retired in grumpy silence to ruminate over the dire consequences of a too earnest gaze in the face of a child.

"Well done, child'n!" cried John Adams. "Sarves him right. Come, now, to grub, all of you."

Even though the Pitcairn children had been disobedient by nature, they would have obeyed that order with alacrity. In a few brief minutes a profound silence proclaimed, more clearly than could a trumpet-tongue, that the inhabitants of the lonely island were at dinner.



Chapter Twenty One.

The Last Man.

One morning John Adams, instead of going to work in his garden, as was his wont, took down his musket from its accustomed pegs above the door, and sallied forth into the woods behind the village. He had not gone far when he heard a rustling of the leaves, and looking back, beheld the graceful form of Sally bounding towards him.

"Are you going to shoot, father?" she said, on coming up.

The young people of the village had by this time got into the habit of calling Adams "father," and regarded him as the head of the community; not because of his age, for at this time he was only between thirty and forty years, but because of his sedate, quiet character, and a certain air of elderly wisdom which distinguished him. Even Edward Young, who was about the same age, but more juvenile both in feeling and appearance, felt the influence of his solid, unpretending temperament, and laughingly acknowledged him King of Pitcairn.

"No, dear, I'm not goin' to shoot," said Adams, in reply, "I'm only going up to Christian's outlook to try if I can find somethin' there, an' I always like to have the old blunderbuss with me. It feels sort of company, you know, an' minds me of old times; but you'll not understand what I mean, Sall."

"No, because I've no old times to mind about," said Sally, with a peculiar smile. "May I go with you, father?"

"Of course you may. Come along, lass."

Adams held out his strong hand. Sally put her peculiarly small one into it, and the two went slowly up the mountain-track together.

On reaching the top of a little knoll or plateau, they stopped, and turned to look back. They could see over the tops of the palm-groves from that place. The track by which they had ascended was visible here and there, winding among the flowering shrubs and trees. The village lay far below, like a gem in a setting of bright green, which contrasted pleasantly with the warm clouds and the blue sea beyond. The sun was bright and the air was calm -- so calm that the voices of the children at play came up to them distinctly in silvery ripples.

"How comes it, Sall, that you've deserted your post to-day?"

"Because the guard has been relieved; same as you say they do on board a man-of-war. I left the sprawlers in charge of Bessy Mills, and the staggerers are shut into the green. You see, I'm feeling a little tired to-day, and thought I would like to have a quiet walk in the woods."

She finished this explanation with a little sigh.

"Dear, dear me!" exclaimed Adams, with a look of amused surprise, "you're not becomin' sentimental are you, Sally?"

"What is sentimental, father!"

"Why, it's a -- it's a sort of a feelin' -- a sensation, you know, a kind of all-overishness, that -- d'ye see -- "

He stopped short and stared with a perplexed air at the girl, who burst into a merry laugh.

"That's one of your puzzlers, I think," she said, looking up slyly from the corners of her eyes.

"Well, Sall, that is a puzzler," returned Adams, with a self-condemning shake of the head. "I never before felt so powerfully the want o' dictionary knowledge. I'll be shot if I can tell you what sentimental is, though I know what it is as well as I know what six-water grog or plum-duff is. We must ask Mr Young to explain it. He's bin to school, you know, an' that's more than I have -- more's the pity."

"Well," said Sally, as they proceeded on their way, "whatever senti --  senti -- "

"Mental," said Adams.

"Whatever sentimental is, I'm not that, because I'm just the same as ever I was, for I often want to be quiet and alone, and I often am quiet and alone in the bush."

"And what do you think about, Sall, when you're alone in the bush?" said the seaman, looking down with more interest than usual at the innocent face beside him.

"Oh, about heaps and heaps of things. I couldn't tell you in a month all I think about; but one thing I think most about is a man-of-war."

"A man-of-war, Sall?"

"Yes; I would give anything to see a man-of-war, what you've so often told us about, with all its masts and sails, and bunks and guns and anchors, and officers and men. I often wonder so much what new faces would be like. You see I'm so used to the faces of yourself and Mr Young, and Mainmast and Susannah, and Toc and Matt and Dan and -- "

"Just say the rest o' the youngsters, dear," interrupted Adams. "There's no use in goin' over 'em all by name."

"Well, I'm so used to them that I can't fancy how any other faces can be different, and yet I heard Mr Young say the other day that there's no two faces in the world exactly alike, and you know there must be hundreds and hundreds of faces in the world."

"Ay, there's thousands and thousands -- for the matter o' that, there's millions and millions of 'em -- an it's quite true that you can't ever pick out two that would fit into the same mould. Of course," continued Adams, in an argumentative tone, "I'm not goin' for to say but that you could find a dozen men any day with hook noses an' black eyes an' lanky hair, just as you can find another dozen with turn-up noses an' grey eyes an' carroty hair; but what I mean to say is, that you won't find no two of 'em that han't got a difference of some sort somewheres. It's very odd, but it's a fact."

"Another puzzler," said Sally, with a laugh.

"Just so. But what else do you think about, Sall?"

"Sometimes I think about those fine ladies you've told us of, who drive about in grand carriages with horses. Oh, these horses; what I would give to see horses! Have they got tails, father?"

"Tails!" cried Adams, with a laugh, "of course they have; long hairy ones, and manes too; that's hair down the back o' their necks, dear. See here, fetch me that bit of red stone and I'll draw you a horse."

Sally brought the piece of red stone, and her companion, sitting down beside a smooth rock, from which he wiped the dust with the sleeve of his shirt, began, slowly and with compressed lips, frowning eyebrows, and many a hard-drawn sigh, to draw the portrait of a horse.

Adams was not an artist. The drawing might have served almost equally well for an ass, or even for a cow, but Sally watched it with intense interest.

"You see, dear," said the artist, commenting as the work proceeded, "this is his head, with a turn-up -- there -- like that, for his nose. A little too bluff, no doubt, but no matter. Then comes the ears, two of 'em, somewhat longish -- so, not exactly fore an' aft, as I've made 'em, but ath'ort ships, so to speak, only I never could understand how painters manage to make one thing look as if it was behind another. I can't get behind the one ear to put on the other one nohow."

"A puzzler!" ejaculated Sally.

"Just so. Well, you have them both, anyhow, only fore an' aft, as I said before. Well, then comes his back with a hollow -- so, for people to sit in when they go cruisin' about on shore; then here's his legs --  somethin' like that, the fore ones straight an' the aft ones crooked."

"Has he only two legs," asked Sally, in surprise, "one before an' one behind?"

"No, dear, he's got four, but I've the same difficulty wi' them that I had wi' the ears -- one behind the other, you know. However, there you have 'em -- so, in the fore-an'-aft style. Then he's got hoofs at the end o' the legs, like the goats, you know, only not split up the middle, though why they're not split is more than I can tell; an' there's a sort o' curl behind, a little above it -- the fetlock I think they call it, but that's far beyond my powers o' drawin'."

"But you've forgot the tail," said Sally.

"So I have; think o' that now, to forget his tail! He'd never do that himself if he was alive. It sticks out from hereabouts. There you have it, flowin' quite graceful down a'most to his heels. Now, Sally, that's a horse, an' not much to boast of after all in the way of a likeness, though I say it that shouldn't."

"How I should like to see a real one!" said the girl, gazing intently at the wild caricature, while her instructor looked on with a benignant smile.

"Then I often think of the poor people Mr Young is so fond of telling us stories about," continued Sally, as they resumed their upward path, "though I'm much puzzled about them. Why are they poor? Why are they not rich like other people?"

"There's a many reasons why, dear," continued Adams, whose knowledge of political economy was limited; "some of 'em don't work, an' some of 'em won't work, and some of 'em can't work, an' what between one thing an' another, there's a powerful lot of 'em everywhere."

Sally, whose thirst for knowledge was great, continued to ply poor John Adams with questions regarding the poor, until he became so involved in "puzzlers" that he was fain to change the subject, and for a time they talked pleasantly on many themes. Then they came to the steep parts of the mountains, and relapsed into silence. On reaching another plateau or flat knoll, where they turned to survey the magnificent panorama spread out before them, Sally said, slowly -- 

"Sometimes when I'm alone in the bush I think of God. Mr Young has been talking to me about Him lately, and I am wondering and wanting to know more about Him. Do you know anything about Him, father?"

John Adams had looked at his simple interrogator with surprise and not a little perplexity.

"Well, to tell you the honest truth," said he, "I can't say that I do know much about Him, more shame to me; an' some talks I've had lately with Mr Young have made me see that I know even less than I thought I did. But we'll ask Mr Young to explain these matters to us when we return home. As it happens. I've come up here to search for the very book that tells us about God -- His own book, the Bible. Mr Christian used to read it, an' kept it in his cave."

Soon afterwards the man and child reached the cave referred to. On entering, they were surprised to find Young himself there before them. He was reading the Bible, and Adams could not help recalling his previous visit, when he had found poor Fletcher Christian similarly occupied.

"I didn't know you was here, Mr Young, else I wouldn't have disturbed you," said Adams. "I just came up to see if I could find the book, for it seems to me that if you agree to carry out your notion of turnin' schoolmaster, it would be as well to have the school-book down beside us."

"My notion of turning schoolmaster," said Young, with a faint smile; "it was your notion, Adams. However, I've no objection to fall in with it, and I quite agree about carrying the Bible home with us, for, to say truth, I don't feel the climbing of the mountain as easy as I used to."

Again the faint smile played on the midshipman's lips for a moment or two.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, sir," said Adams, with a look of concern.

"And it can't be age, you know," continued Young, in a tone of pleasantry, "for I'm not much above thirty. I suspect it's that asthmatic affection that has troubled me of late. However," he added, in a heartier tone, "it won't do to get downhearted about that. Come, what say you to begin school at once? We'll put you at the bottom of the class, being so stupid, and we'll put Sally at the top. Will you join, Sall?"

We need scarcely say that Sally, who was always ready for anything, whether agreeable to her or otherwise, assented heartily to the proposition, and then and there began to learn to read out of the Bible, with John Adams for a class-fellow.

Of course it was uphill work at first. It was found that Adams could blunder on pretty well with the small words, but made sad havoc among the long ones. Still his condition was pronounced hopeful. As to Sally, she seemed to take up the letters at the first sitting, and even began to form some correct notion of the power of syllables. After a short trial, Young said that that was quite enough for the first day, and then went on to read a passage or two from the Bible himself.

And now, for the first time, Otaheitan Sally heard the old, old story of the love of God to man in the gift of Jesus Christ. The name of Jesus was, indeed, not quite unfamiliar to her; but it was chiefly as an oath that her associations presented it to her. Now she learned that it was the name of Immanuel, God with us, the Just One, who died that sinful man might be justified and saved from the power of sin.

She did not, indeed, learn all this at that time; but she had her receptive mind opened to the first lessons of the glorious truth on than summer evening on the mountain-top.

From this date forward, Edward Young became a real schoolmaster; for he not only taught Adams to read better than he had ever yet read, but he daily assembled all the children, except the very little ones, and gave them instruction in reading out of the Word of God. In all this John Adams gave him hearty assistance, and, when not acting as a pupil, did good service in teaching the smaller children their letters.

But Young went a step further.

"John Adams," said he, one morning, "it has been much on my mind of late that God has spared you and me in order that we may teach these women and children the way of salvation through Jesus Christ."

"It may be as you say, sir," returned Adams, "but I can't exactly feel that I'm fit to say much to 'em about that. I can only give the little uns their A B C, an' p'r'aps a little figurin'. But I'll go in with you, Mr Young, an' do my best."

"Thank you, Adams, thank you. I feel sure that you will do well, and that God will bless our efforts. Do you know, John, I think my difficulties about the way are somewhat cleared up. It's simpler than I thought. The whole work of our salvation is already accomplished by our blessed Lord Jesus. All we have got to do is, not to refuse it. You see, whatever I know about it is got from the Bible, an' you can judge of that as well as I. Besides the passages that I have already shown you about believing, I find this, 'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest;' and this, 'Whosoever will, let him come;' and this, 'Turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die.' So you see there's no doubt the offer is made to every one who will; and then it is written that the Holy Spirit is able to make us willing. If God entreats us to 'come,' and provides the 'way,' what is it that hinders but unwillingness? Indeed, the Word says as much, for I find it written, 'Ye will not come to me, that ye might have life.'"

"What you say seems very true, sir," replied Adams, knitting his brows and shaking his head dubiously; "but then, sir, do you mean to say a man's good behaviour has nothin' to do with his salvation at all?"

"Nothing whatever, John, as far as I can make out from the Bible -- at least, not in the matter of procuring his salvation. As a consequence of salvation, yes. Why, is it not said by the Lord, 'If ye love me, keep my commandments?' What could be plainer or stronger than that? If I won't behave myself because of love to my Lord, I'll not do it on any lower ground."

Still John Adams shook his head. He admitted that the arguments of his friend did seem unanswerable, but, -- in short, he became an illustration of the truth of the proverb, 'A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.' He had promised, however, to render all the aid in his power, and he was not the man to draw back from his word. When, therefore, Edward Young proposed to read daily prayers out of the Church of England Prayer-book, which had been taken from the Bounty with the Bible and Carteret's Voyages, he made no objection; and he was similarly 'agreeable,' as he expressed it, when Young further proposed to have service forenoon and afternoon on Sundays.

For some months these various occupations and duties were carried on with great vigour, much to the interest of all concerned, the native women being quite as tractable scholars as the children.

We cannot tell now whether it was the extra labour thus undertaken by Young, or some other cause, that threw him into bad health; but certain it is, that a very few months later, he began to feel his strength give way, and a severe attack of his old complaint, asthma, at last obliged him to give up the work for a time. It is equally certain that at this important period in the history of the lonely island, the 'good seed' was sown in 'good ground,' for Young had laboured in the name of the Lord Jesus, and the promise regarding such work is sure: "Your labour is not in vain in the Lord."

"I must knock under for a time, John," he said, with a wearied look, on the occasion of his ceasing to work. He had of late taken to calling Adams by his Christian name, and the latter had been made unaccountably uneasy thereby.

"Never mind, sir," said the bluff seaman, in an encouraging tone. "You just rest yourself for a bit, an' I'll carry on the school business, Sunday services an' all. I ain't much of a parson, no doubt, but I'll do my best, and a man can't do no more."

"All right, John, I hand it over to you. A short time of loafing about and taking it easy will set me all to rights again, and I'll resume office as fresh as ever."

Alas! poor Edward Young's day of labour was ended. He never more resumed office on earth.

Shortly after the above conversation he had another and extremely violent attack of asthma. It prostrated him completely, so that for several days he could not speak. Afterwards he became a little better, but it was evident to every one that he was dying, and it was touching to see the earnest way in which the tearful women, who were so fond of him, vied with each other in seeking to relieve his sufferings.

John Adams sat by his bedside almost continually at last. He seemed to require neither food nor rest, but kept watching on hour after hour, sometimes moistening the patient's lips with water, sometimes reading a few verses out of the Bible to him.

"John," said the poor invalid one afternoon, faintly, "your hand. I'm going -- John -- to be -- for ever with the Lord -- the dear Lord!"

There was a long pause, then -- 

"You'll -- carry on -- the work, John; not in your own strength, John -- in His?"

Adams promised earnestly in a choking voice, and the sick man seemed to sink to rest with a smile on his lips. He never spoke again. Next day he was buried under the palm-trees, far from the home of his childhood, from the land which had condemned him as a heartless mutineer.



Chapter Twenty Two.

John Adams Longs For A Chum And Becomes A Story-Teller.

Faithful to his promise, John Adams, after the death of Young, did his best to carry on the good work that had been begun.

But at first his spirit was very heavy. It had not before occurred to him that there was a solitude far more profound and overwhelming than anything he had hitherto experienced. The difference between ten companions and one companion is not very great, but the difference between one and none is immeasurable. Of course we refer to that companionship which is capable of intelligent sympathy. The solitary seaman still had his Otaheitan wife and the bright children of the mutineers around him, and the death of Young had drawn out his heart more powerfully than ever towards these, but they could not in any degree fill the place of one who could talk intelligently of home, of Old England, of British battles fought and won, of ships and men, and things that might have belonged, as far as the women and children were concerned, to another world. They could only in a slight degree appreciate the nautical phraseology in which he had been wont to convey some of his strongest sentiments, and they could not in any degree enter into his feelings when, forgetting for a moment his circumstances, he came out with a pithy forecastle allusion to the politics or the Government of his native land.

"Oh, you meek-faced brute, if you could only speak!" he exclaimed one day, dropping his eyes from the sea, on which he had been gazing, to the eyes of a pet goat that had been looking up in his face. "What's the use of having a tongue in your head if you can't use it!"

As may be imagined, the goat made no reply to this remark, but continued its gaze with somewhat of the solemnity of the man himself.

For want of a companion, poor Adams at this time took to talking frequently in a quiet undertone to himself. He also fell a good deal into Fletcher Christian's habit of retiring to the cave on the mountain-top, but he did not read the Bible while there. He merely communed with his own spirit, meditated sadly on the past, and wondered a good deal as to the probable future.

"It's not that I ain't happy enough here," he muttered softly to himself one evening, while he gazed wistfully at the horizon as Christian had been wont to gaze. "I'm happy enough -- more so than what I deserve to be, God knows -- with them good -- natured women an' jolly bit things of child'n, but -- but I'm awful hard up for a chum! I do believe that if Bill McCoy, or even Matt Quintal, was here, I'd get along pretty well with either of 'em. Ah, poor Quintal! I feel as if I'd never git over that. If it wasn't murder, it feels awful like it; an' yet I can't see that they could call it murder. If we hadn't done it he would certainly have killed both me an' Mr Young, for Matt never threatened without performin', and then he'd have gone mad an' done for the women an' child'n as well. No, it wasn't murder. It was necessity."

He remained silent for some time, and then his thoughts appeared to revert to the former channel.

"If only a ship would come an' be wrecked here, now, we could start fresh once more with a new lot maybe, but I'm not so sure about that either. P'r'aps we'd quarrel an' fight an' go through the bloody business all over again. No, it's better as it is. But a ship might touch in passin', an' we could prevail on two or three of the crew, or even one, to stop with us. What would I not give to hear a man's voice once more, a good growlin' bass. I wouldn't be partickler as to sentiments or grammar, not I, if it was only gruff, an' well spiced with sea-lingo an' smelt o' baccy. Not that I cares for baccy myself now, or grog either. Humph! it do make me a'most laugh to think o' the times I've said, ay, and thought, that I couldn't git along nohow without my pipe an' my glass. Why, I wouldn't give a chip of a brass farden for a pipe now, an' as to grog, after what I've seen of its cursed natur', I wouldn't taste a drop even if they was to offer to make me Lord High Admiral o' the British fleet for so doin'. But I would like once more to see a bearded man; even an unbearded one would be better than nothin'. Ah, well, it's no manner o' use sighin', any more than cryin', over spilt milk. Here I am, an' I suppose here I shall be to the end o' the chapter."

Again he was silent for a long time, while his eyes remained fixed, as usual, on the horizon. Suddenly the gaze became intent, and, leaning forward with an eager expression, he shaded his eyes with his hand.

"It's not creditable," he murmured, as he fell back again into his former listless attitude, "it's not creditable for an old salt like me to go mistakin' sea-gulls for sails, as I've bin doin' so often of late. I'm out o' practice, that's where it is."

"Come, John Adams," he added, after another pause, and jumping up smartly, "this will never do. Rouse yourself, John, an' give up this mumble-bumble style o' thing. Why, it'll kill you in the long-run if you don't. Besides, you promised Mr Young to carry on the work, and you must keep your promise, old boy."

"Yes," rang out a clear sweet voice from the inner end of the cave, "and you promised to give up coming here to mope; so you must keep your promise to me as well, father."

Otaheitan Sally tripped into the cave, and seating herself on the stone ledge opposite, beamed up in the sailor's face.

"You're a good girl, Sall, an' I'll keep my promise to you from this day forth; see if I don't. I'll make a note of it in the log."

The log to which Adams here referred was a journal or register, which Edward Young had begun to keep, and in which were inserted the incidents of chief interest, including the births and deaths, that took place on the island from the day of landing. After Young's death, John Adams continued to post it up from time to time.

The promise to Sally was faithfully kept. From that time forward, Adams gave up going to the outlook, except now and then when anything unusual appeared on the sea, but never again to mope. He also devoted himself with increased assiduity to the instruction of the women and children in Bible truths, although still himself not very clear in his own mind as to the great central truth of all. In this work he was ably assisted by Sally, and also by Young's widow, Susannah.

We have mentioned this woman as being one of the youngest of the Otaheitans. She was also one of the most graceful, and, strange to say, though it was she who killed Tetaheite, she was by nature one of the gentlest of them all.

The school never became a prison-house to these islanders, either women or children. Adams had wisdom enough at first to start it as a sort of play, and never fell into the civilised error of giving the pupils too much to do at a time. All the children answered the daily summons to school with equal alacrity, though it cannot be said that their performances there were equally creditable. Some were quick and intelligent, others were slow and stupid, while a few were slow but by no means stupid. Charlie Christian was among these last.

"Oh, Charlie, you are such a booby!" one day exclaimed Otaheitan Sally, who, being advanced to the dignity of monitor, devoted much of her time to the instruction of her old favourite. "What can be the matter with your brains?"

The innocent gaze of blank wonder with which the "Challie" of infancy had been wont to receive his companion's laughing questions, had not quite departed; but it was chastened by this time with a slight puckering of the mouth and a faint twinkle of the eyes that were suggestive.

Sitting modestly on the low bench, with his hands clasped before him, this strapping pupil looked at his teacher, and said that really he did not know what was wrong with his brains.

"Perhaps," he added, looking thoughtfully into the girl's upturned orbs, "perhaps I haven't got any brains at all."

"O yes, you have," cried Sall, with a laugh; "you have got plenty, if you'd only use them."

"Ah!" sighed Charlie, stretching out one of his strong muscular arms and hands, "if brains were only things that one could lay hold of like an oar, or an axe, or a sledge-hammer, I'd soon let you see me use them; but bein' only a soft kind o' stuff in one's skull, you know -- "

A burst of laughter from Sally not only cut short the sentence, but stopped the general hum of the school, and drew the attention of the master.

"Hallo, Sall, I say, you know," said Adams, in remonstrative tone, "you forget that you're a monitor. If you go on like that we'll have to make a school-girl of you again."

"Please, father, I couldn't help it," said Sally, while her cheeks flushed crimson, "Charlie is such a -- "

She stopped short, covered her face with both hands, and bending forward till she hid her confusion on her knees, went into an uncontrollable giggle, the only evidences of which, however, were the convulsive movements of her shoulders and an occasional squeak in the region of her little nose.

"Come now, child'n," cried Adams, seating himself on an inverted tea-box, which formed his official chair, "time's up, so we'll have a slap at Carteret before dismissing. Thursday October Christian will bring the book."

There was a general hum of satisfaction when this was said, for Carteret's Voyages, which, with the Bible and Prayer-book, formed the only class-books of that singular school, were highly appreciated by young and old alike, especially as read to them by Adams, who accompanied his reading with a free running commentary of explanation, which infused great additional interest into that old writer's book. TOC rose with alacrity, displaying in the act the immense relative difference between his very long legs and his ordinary body, in regard to which Adams used to console him by saying, "Never mind, Toc, your legs'll stop growin' at last, and when they do, your body will come out like a telescope. You'll be a six-footer yet. Why, you're taller than I am already by two inches."

In process of time Carteret was finished; it was then begun a second time, and once more read through. After that Adams felt a chill feeling of helplessness steal over him, for Carteret could not be read over and over again like the Bible, and he could not quite see his way to reading the Church of England prayers by way of recreation. In his extremity he had recourse to Sally for advice. Indeed, now that Sall was approaching young womanhood, not only the children but all the grown people of the island, including their chief or "father," found themselves when in trouble gravitating, as if by instinct, to the sympathetic heart and the ready hand.

"I'll tell you what to do," said Sally, when appealed to, as she took the seaman's rough hand and fondled it; "just try to invent stories, and tell them to us as if you was readin' a book. You might even turn Carteret upside down and pretend that you was readin'."

Adams shook his head.

"I never could invent anything, Sall, 'xcept w'en I was tellin' lies, an' that's a long while ago now -- a long, long while. No; I doubt that I couldn't invent, but I'll tell 'ee what; I'll try to remember some old yarns, and spin them off as well as I can."

The new idea broke on Adams's mind so suddenly that his eyes sparkled, and he bestowed a nautical slap on his thigh.

"The very thing!" cried Sally, whose eyes sparkled fully more than those of the sailor, while she clapped her hands; "nothing could be better. What will you begin with?"

"Let me see," said Adams, seating himself on a tree-stump, and knitting his brows with a severe strain of memory. "There's Cinderella; an' there's Ally Babby or the fifty thieves -- if it wasn't forty -- I'm not rightly sure which, but it don't much matter; an' there's Jack the Giant-killer, an' Jack and the Pea-stalk -- no; let me see; it was a beanstalk, I think -- anyhow, it was the stalk of a vegetable o' some sort. Why, I wonder it never struck me before to tell you all about them tales."

Reader, if you had seen the joy depicted on Sally's face, and the rich flush of her cheek, and her half-open mouth with its double row of pearls, while Adams ran over this familiar list, you would have thought it well worth that seaman's while to tax his memory even more severely than he did.

"And then," he continued, knitting his brows still more severely, "there's Gulliver an' the Lillycups or putts, an' the Pilgrim's Progress -- though, of course, I don't mean for to say I knows 'em all right off by heart, but that's no odds. An' there's Robinson Crusoe --  ha! that's the story for you, Sall; that's the tale that'll make your hair stand on end, an' a'most split your sides open, an' cause the very marrow in your spine to wriggle. Yes; we'll begin with Robinson Crusoe."

Having settled this point to their mutual and entire satisfaction, the two went off for a short walk before supper. On the way, they met Elizabeth Mills and Mary Christian, both of whom were now no longer staggerers, but far advanced as jumpers. They led between them Adams's little daughter Dinah, who, being still very small, could not take long walks without assistance and an occasional carry.

"Di, my pet," cried her father, seizing the willing child, and hoisting her on his shoulder. "Come, you shall go along with us. And you too, lassies, if you have no other business in hand."

"Yes, we'll go with you," cried Bessy Mills. "May was just saying it was too soon to go home to supper."

"Come along, then," cried Adams, tossing his child in the air as he went. "My beauty, you'll beat your mammy in looks yet, eh? an' when you're old enough we'll tell you all about Rob -- "

He checked himself abruptly, cleared his voice, and looked at Sally.

"Well, father," said May Christian, quickly, "about Rob who?"

"Ahem! eh? well, yes, about Rob -- ha, but we won't talk about him just now, dear. Sally and I were havin' some private conversation just now about Rob, though that isn't the whole of his name neither, but we won't make it public at present. You'll hear about him time enough -- eh, Sall?"

The girls were so little accustomed to anything approaching to mystery or secrecy in John Adams, that they looked at him in silent wonder. Then they glanced at Sally, whose suppressed smile and downcast eyes told eloquently that there was, as Adams would have said, "something in the wind," and they tried to get her to reveal the secret, but Sall was immovable. She would not add a single syllable to the information given inadvertently by Adams, but she and he laughed a good deal in a quiet way, and made frequent references to Rob in the course of the walk.

Of course, when the mysterious word was pronounced in the village in the evening, and what had been said and hinted about it was repeated, curiosity was kindled into a violent flame; and when the entire colony was invited to a feast that night, the excitement was intense. From the oldest to the youngest, excluding the more recently arrived sprawlers, every eye was fixed on John Adams during the whole course of supper, except at the commencement, when the customary blessing was asked, at which point every eye was tightly closed.

Adams, conscious of increased importance, spoke little during the meal, and maintained an air of profounder gravity than usual until the dishes were cleared away. Then he looked round the assembled circle, and said, "Women an' child'n, I'm goin' to tell 'ee a story."



Chapter Twenty Three.

The Pitcairners Have A Night Of It.

Although John Adams had often, in the course of his residence on Pitcairn, jested and chatted and taken his share in relating many an anecdote, he had never up till that time resolved to "go in," as he said, "for a regular story, like a book."

"Women an' child'n," he began, "it may be that I'm goin' to attempt more than I'm fit to carry out in this business, for my memory's none o' the best. However, that won't matter much, for I tell 'ee, fair an' aboveboard at the beginnin', that when I come to gaps that I can't fill up from memory, I'll just bridge 'em over from imagination, d'ye see?"

"What's imagination?" demanded Dan McCoy, whose tendency to pert interruption and reply nothing yet discovered could restrain.

"It's a puzzler," said Otaheitan Sally, in a low tone, which called forth a laugh from the others.

It did not take much to make these people laugh, as the observant reader will have perceived.

"Well, it is a puzzler," said Adams, with a quiet smile and a perplexed look. "I may say, Dan McCoy, in an off-hand rough-an'-ready sort o' way, that imagination is that power o' the mind which enables a man to tell lies."

There was a general opening of juvenile eyes at this, as if recent biblical instruction had led them to believe that the use of such a power must be naughty.

"You see," explained Adams, "when a man, usin' his imagination, tells what's not true, just to deceive people an' mislead 'em, we call it lyin', but when his imagination invents what's not true merely for the fun o' the thing, an' tells it as a joke, never pretendin' that it's true, he ain't lyin', he's only tellin' a story, or a anecdote, or a parable. Now, Dan, put that in your pipe an' smoke it. Likewise shut your potato-trap, and let me go on wi' my story, which is, (he looked impressively round, while every eye gazed, and ear listened, and mouth opened in breathless attention), the Adventure of Robinson Crusoe an' his man Friday!"

All eyes were turned, as if by magic, on Thursday, -- as if there must be some strange connection here. Toc suddenly shut his mouth and hung his head in confusion at this unexpected concentration of attention on himself.

"You've no need to be ashamed, Thursday," said Adams, with a laugh. "You've got the advantage of Friday, anyhow, bein' a day in advance of him. Well, as I was about to say, boys an' girls, this Robinson Crusoe was a seafarin' man, just like myself; an' he went to sea, an' was shipwrecked on a desolate island just like this, but there was nobody whatever on that island, not even a woman or a babby. Poor Robinson was all alone, an' it wasn't till a consid'rable time after he had gone ashore that he discovered Friday, (who was a black savage), through seein' his footprint in the sand."

Adams having burst thus suddenly into the very marrow of his story, had no reason thereafter to complain either of interruption or inattention. Neither had he reason to find fault with the wealth of his prolific imagination. It would have done the soul of a painter good to have watched the faces of that rapt, eager, breathless audience, and it would have afforded much material for reflection to a student of mind, had he, knowing the original story of Robinson Crusoe, been permitted to trace the ingenious sinuosities and astounding creations by which Adams wove his meagre amount of original matter into a magnificent tale, which not only thrilled his audience, but amazed himself.

In short, he quite justified the assurance formerly given to Sally, that the story of Robinson Crusoe would make the hair of his hearers stand on end, their sides almost split open, and the very marrow in their spines wriggle. Indeed, his version of the tale might have caused similar results in Robinson Crusoe himself, had he been there to hear it, besides causing his eyebrows to rise and vanish evermore among the hair of his head with astonishment.

It was the same with the Pilgrim's Progress, which he often told to them afterwards. Simple justice to Adams, however, requires us to state that he was particularly careful to impress on his hearers that the Pilgrim's Progress was a religious tale.

"It's a allegory, you must know," he said, on first introducing it, "which means a story intended to teach some good lesson -- a story which says one thing and means another."

He looked pointedly at Dan McCoy here, as if to say, "That's an exhaustive explanation, which takes the wind out o' your sails, young man," but Dan was not to be so easily silenced.

"What's the use, father," he asked, with an air of affected simplicity, "of a story sayin' one thing an' meanin' another? Wouldn't it be more honest like if it said what it meant at once, straight off?"

"P'r'aps it would," returned Adams, who secretly enjoyed Dan's irrepressible impudence; "but, then, if it did, Dan, it would take away your chance of askin' questions, d'ye see? Anyhow, this story don't say what it means straight off, an' that gives me a chance to expound it."

Now, it was in the expounding of the Pilgrim's Progress that John Adams's peculiar talents shone out brilliantly, for not only did he "misremember," jumble, and confuse the whole allegory, but he so misapprehended its meaning in many points, that the lessons taught and the morals drawn were very wide of the mark indeed. In regard to some particular points, too, he felt himself at liberty to let his genius have free untrammelled scope, as, for instance, in the celebrated battle between Christian and Apollyon. Arguing with himself that it was not possible for any man to overdo a fight with the devil, Adams made up his mind to "go well in" for that incident, and spent a whole evening over it, keeping his audience glaring and on the rack of expectation the whole time. Taking, perhaps, an unfair advantage of his minute knowledge as a man-of-war's-man of cutlass-drill and of fighting in general, from pugilistic encounters to great-gun exercise, including all the intermediate performances with rapiers, swords, muskets, pistols, blunderbusses, and other weapons for "general scrimmaging," he so wrought upon the nerves of his hearers that they quivered with emotion, and when at last he drove Apollyon discomfited from the field, like chaff before the wind, there burst forth a united cheer of triumph and relief, Dan McCoy, in particular, jumping up with tumbled yellow locks and glittering eyes in a perfect yell of exultation.

But, to return from this digression to the story of Robinson Crusoe. It must not be supposed that Adams exhausted that tale in one night. No; soon discovering that he had struck an intellectual vein, so to speak, he resolved to work it out economically, and with that end in view, devoted the first evening to a minute dissection of Crusoe's character as a man and a seaman, to the supposed fitting out and provisioning of his ship, to the imaginary cause of the disaster to the ship, which, (with Bligh, no doubt, in memory), he referred to the incompetence and wickedness of the skipper, and to the terrible incidents of the wreck, winding up with the landing of his hero, half-dead and alone, on the uninhabited island.

"Now, child'n," he concluded, "that'll do for one night; and as it's of no manner of use sending you all to bed to dream of bein' shipwrecked and drownded, we'll finish off with a game of blind-man's-buff."

Need we say that the disappointment at the cutting short of the story was fully compensated by the game? Leaping up with another cheer, taught them by the best authorities, and given with true British fervour, they scattered about the room.

Otaheitan Sally was, as a matter of course, the first to be blindfolded.

And really, reader, it was wonderful how like that game, as played at Pitcairn, was to the same as performed in England. To justify this remark, let us describe it, and see whether there were any points of material difference.

The apartment, let it be understood, was a pretty large one, lighted by two nut-candles in brackets on the walls. There was little furniture in it, only a few stools and two small tables, which were quickly thrust into a corner. Then Sally was taken to the centre of the room by Adams, and there blindfolded with a snuff-coloured silken bandana handkerchief, which had seen much service on board of the Bounty.

"Now, Sall, can you see?" asks Adams.

"No, not one bit."

"Oh, yes you can," from Charlie Christian, who hovers round her like the moth round the candle.

"No, really, I can't."

"Yes you can," from Dan McCoy, who is on the alert; "I see your piercin' black eyes comin' right through the hankitchif."

"Get along, then," cries Adams, twirling Sally round, and skipping out of the way.

It is not the first time the women have played at that game, and their short garments, reaching little below the knees, seem admirably adapted to it, while they glide about with motions little less easy and agile than those of the children, and cause the roof to ring with laughter at the various misadventures that occur.

Mrs Adams, however, does not join. Besides being considerably older than her husband, that good woman has become prematurely short-sighted and deaf. This being so, she sits in a corner, not inappropriately, to act the part of grandmother to the players, and to serve as an occasional buffer to such of the children as are hurled against her.

Now, Otaheitan Sally, having gone rather cautiously about without catching any one except Charlie -- whom she pretends not to know, examines from head to foot, and then guesses wrong on purpose -- becomes suddenly wild, makes a desperate lunge, as she thinks, at Dan McCoy, and tumbles into Mrs Adams's lap, amid shouts of delight.

Of course Dan brought about this incident by wise forethought. His next success is unpremeditated. Making a pull at Sally's skirt, he glides quickly out of her way as she wheels round, and hits Mainmast an unintentional backhander on the nose. This is received by Mainmast with a little scream, and by the children with an "Oh! o-o" of consternation, while Sally, pulling down the handkerchief, hastens to give needless assurance that she is "so vexed," etcetera. Susannah joins her in condoling, and so does widow Martin; but Mainmast, with tears in her eyes, (drawn by the blow), and a smile on her lips, declares that she "don't care a button." Sally is therefore blindfolded again. She catches Charlie Christian immediately, and feeling that there is no other way of escaping from him, names him.

Then Charlie, being blindfolded, sets to work with one solitary end in view, namely, to capture Sally. The injustice to the others of this proceeding never enters his innocent mind. He hears no voice but Sally's; he clutches at nobody but Sally. When he is compelled to lay hold of any one else, he guesses wrong, not on purpose, but because he is thinking of Sally. Perceiving this, Sally retires quietly behind Mrs Adams's chair, and Charlie, growing desperate, makes wild dashes, tumbling into the corner among the tables and stools, sending the staggerers spinning in all directions, and finally pitching headlong into Mrs Adams's lap.

At last he catches John Adams himself and as there is no possibility of mistaking him, the handkerchief is changed, and the game becomes more sedate, at the same time more nervous, for the stride of the seaman is awful, and the sweep of his outstretched arms comprehensive. Besides, he has a way of listening and making sudden darts in unexpected directions, which is very perplexing.

After a few failures, Adams makes what he calls a wild roll to starboard, followed instantly by a heavy lurch to port, and pins Dan McCoy into a corner.

"Ha! I've grabbed you at last, have I?" says he.

"Who is it?" shout half-a-dozen voices.

"Who but Dan'l? There's impudence in the very feel of his hair."

So Dan is blindfolded. And now comes the tug of war. If it was fast and furious before, it is maniacal madness now. The noise is indescribable, yet it fails to waken two infants, who, with expressions of perfect peace on their innocent faces, repose in two bunks at one side of the room.

At last Thursday October tumbles into one of these bunks, and all but immolates an infant. Mrs Adams is fairly overturned; one table comes by a damaged leg, the other is split lengthwise, and one of the candles is blown out. These symptoms are as good as a weather-glass to Adams.

"Now, then, one and all, it's time for bed," he says.

Instantly the rioting comes to a close, and still panting from their exertions, the elder children carry out the tables and rectify their damages as well as may be, while the younger range the stools round the wall and sit down on them or on the floor.

"Fetch the Bible and Prayer-book, Matt Quintal," says Adams.

They are about to close the evening with worship. It has become habitual now, and there is no difficulty in calming the spirits of the children to the proper tone, for they have been trained by a man who is unaffected and sincere. They slide easily, because naturally, from gay to grave; and they would as soon think of going to work without breakfast, as of going to rest without worship.

A chapter is read with comparative ease by John Adams, for he has applied himself heartily to his task, and overcome most of his old difficulties. Then he reads a short prayer, selected from the Prayer-book. The Lord's Prayer follows, in which they all join, and the evening comes to a close.

Trooping from Adams's house, they dispersed to their respective homes. The lights are extinguished. Only the quiet stars remain to shed a soft radiance over the pleasant scene; and in a few minutes more the people of Pitcairn are wrapped in deep, healthy, sound repose.



Chapter Twenty Four.

Refers To Things Spiritual And Physical.

It was not until some years had elapsed after the death of Edward Young, that John Adams became seriously impressed with the great responsibility of his position.

In the year 1804 a son was born to him, whom he named George, whether after the King of England or a relative of his own we are not prepared to state. After the King very likely, for Adams, although a mutineer, was a loyal subject at heart, and never ceased to condemn and deplore the act of mutiny into which, after all, he had been surprised rather than willingly led.

This infant, George, was the last of this first generation, and his father was extremely proud and fond of him. Having already three daughters, he seemed to have peculiar satisfaction in the advent of a son; and having latterly acquired the habit of mingling a dash of Scriptural language with his usual phraseology, he went about the first day or two after the child's birth, murmuring, "I've gotten a man-child from the Lord -- a man-child, let's be thankful; an' a regular ship-shape, trim little craft he is too."

There can be no doubt that the seaman's naturally serious mind became more profoundly impressed with religion shortly after this event. A dream which he appears to have had deepened his impressions. Like most dreams, it was not in itself very definite or noteworthy, but we have no doubt it was used as a means towards perfecting the good work which had been already begun. At all events, it is certain that about this time Adams began to understand the way of life more clearly, and to teach it more zealously to the little community which was fast growing up around him. The duties which he had undertaken to fulfil were now no longer carried on merely because of his promise to Edward Young and a sense of honour. While these motives did indeed continue to operate with all their original force, he was now attracted to his labour out of regard to the commands of God, and a strong desire for the welfare of the souls committed to his charge.

Naturally he fell into one or two errors of judgment. Among other things, he at first imagined that it was his duty to attempt the keeping of all the Jewish festivals, and to institute a fast twice in the week. These errors were, however, corrected by increased knowledge in the course of time.

But it must not be supposed that this earnest searcher after truth became ascetic or morose. Despite his mistakes, and the somewhat severe discipline which he was thereby led to impose on himself and the community, the effect on him and his large family of the Scriptures --  pure, unadulterated, and without note or comment -- was to create love to God, to intensify their love for each other, to render them anxious to imitate the example and walk in the footsteps of Jesus, and to cause them to rejoice at all times. It was quite evident, ere long, that the whole community had drunk deeply into the spirit of such passages in the Word as these: -- "Delight thyself in the Lord," -- "By love serve one another," -- "Rejoice in the Lord alway: and again I say, rejoice," -- "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, as unto the Lord and not unto men," -- "Ask and ye shall receive, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you," -- "Let each esteem other better than himself." -- "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them." -- "Love is the fulfilling of the law," -- "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath."

The last text was a favourite one with Adams, who occasionally found that even among the tractable and kindly troop he had to deal with, sin was by no means extinct.

Do not suppose, good reader, that we are now attempting to depict a species of exceptional innocence which never existed, an Arcadia which never really had a local habitation. On the contrary, we are taking pains to analyse the cause of a state of human goodness and felicity, springing up in the midst of exceptionally unpromising circumstances, which has no parallel, we think, in the history of mankind; which not only did exist, but which, with modifications, does still exist, and has been borne witness to through more than half a century by men of varied and unquestionable authority, including merchant-skippers, discoverers, travellers, captains and admirals in the Royal Navy. The point that we wish to press is, not that the enviable condition of things we have described is essentially true, but that this condition has been brought about by the unaided Word of God; that Word which so many now-a-days would fain underrate, but which for those who are taught by the Holy Spirit is still the power of God unto salvation.

The hilarity of the Pitcairners increased rather than diminished as their love for the Bible deepened. Fun and solemnity are not necessarily, and never need be, antagonistic. Hand in hand these two have walked the earth together since Adam and Eve bid each other good-morning in the peaceful groves of Paradise. They are subject, no doubt, to the universal laws which make it impossible for two things to fill the same place at the same time, and they sometimes do get, as it were, out of step, and jostle each other slightly, which calls forth a gentle shake of the head from the one and a deprecatory smile from the other; but they seldom disagree, and never fight.

Thus it came to pass that though John Adams, as time went on, read more than ever of the Bible to his audiences, and dilated much on the parables, he did not dismiss Robinson Crusoe, or expel Gulliver, or put a stop to blind-man's-buff. On the contrary, waxing courageous under the influence of success, he cast off his moorings from the skeletons of the stories to which he had at first timidly attached himself, and crowding all sail alow and aloft, swept out into the unexplored seas of pure, unadulterated, and outrageous fiction of his own invention.

"Them's the stories for me," Daniel McCoy was wont to say, when commenting on this subject. "Truth is all very well in its way, you know, but it's a great bother when you've got to stick to it; of course I mean when story-tellin'."

Neither John Adams nor his pupils knew at that time, though doubtless their descendants have learned long ere now, that after all truth is in very deed stranger than fiction.

As time passed changes more or less momentous occurred in the lonely island. True, none of those convulsions which rack and overturn the larger communities of men on earth visited that favoured spot; but forces of Nature were being slowly yet surely developed, which began to tell with considerable effect on the people of Pitcairn.

They were not, however, much troubled by the ills that flesh is heir to. Leading, as they did, natural and healthy lives, eating simple and to a large extent vegetable fare, and knowing nothing of the abominations of tobacco or strong drink, their maladies were few and seldom fatal.

John Adams himself had the constitution of a horse. Nevertheless, he was troubled now and then with a bad tooth, and once had a regular attack of raging toothache. As none of the people had ever even heard of this malady, they were much alarmed and not a little solemnised by its effects on their chief.

Walking up and down the floor of his house, holding his afflicted jaw with both hands, the poor man endeavoured to endure it with fortitude; but when the quivering nerve began, as it were, to dance a hornpipe inside of his tooth, irrepressible groans burst from him and awed the community.

"Is it very bad, John?" asked his sympathetic wife, who was cleaning up the house at the time.

"Ho-o-o-rible!" answered John.

"I'm very sorry, John," said the wife.

"Oh-o-o-o-oh!" groaned the husband.

When it became known in the village that Adams was suffering from some mysterious complaint that nearly drove him mad, two or three of the children, unable to restrain their curiosity, ran to his house and peeped in at the open door and windows. The sufferer either disregarded or did not see them.

In a few minutes the poor man's steps became more frantic, and another groan burst from him. Then he stopped in the middle of the room, uttered a deep growl, and stamped.

At this the heads of the peeping children disappeared. They gazed at each other in solemn wonder. They had never seen the like of this before. To stamp on the floor without an apparent reason, and without being done in fun, was beyond their comprehension.

"Where's the tool-box, lass?" gasped Adams suddenly.

His helpmate brought to him an old hand-box for nails and small tools, which had once done service in the Bounty.

With eager haste Adams selected a pair of pincers, and, seizing his tooth therewith, he began to twist.

At the same time his features began to screw up into an expression of agony.

"Howgh!" he exclaimed, between a gasp and a short roar, as the pincers slipped. And no wonder, for it was a three-fanged grinder of the largest size, situate in the remote backwoods of the under jaw.

He tried again, and again failed. Then a third time, and then discovered that, up to a certain point, his will was free to act, but that beyond that point, the agony was so intense that the muscles of the hand and arm refused to act responsive to the will. In other circumstances he might have moralised on this curious fact. As it was he only moaned aloud. Two of the children, of peculiarly sympathetic natures, echoed the moan unintentionally. They immediately vanished, but soon peeped up again in irresistible curiosity.

"Old 'ooman," said Adams, "this is out o' sight the worst fit as ever I had. Just fetch me a bit of that small strong cord out o' the cupboard there."

Mrs Adams did as she was bid, and her husband, making a sailor-like loop on it, fastened the same round his tooth, which was not difficult, for the evil grinder stood unsupported and isolated in the jaw.

"Now," said her husband, "you take hold o' the end o' this and haul; haul hard, -- don't be afraid."

Mrs Adams felt nervous, and remonstrated, but being persuaded after a time to try again, she gave a vigorous pull, which drew from the unhappy man a terrible yell, but did not draw the tooth.

"This'll never do," groaned John, feeling the rebellious molar with his finger; "it's as firm as a copper bolt yet. Come, wife, I'll try another plan. You go outside that door an' do what I bid you. Mind, never you heed what it means; you just obey orders exactly."

It was not necessary thus to caution poor tractable Mrs Adams. She went outside the door as bid.

"Now, then," said her husband, "when I cry, 'Pull,' you shut the door with all your might -- with a bang. D'ye hear?"

"Yes," replied the wife, faintly.

Fastening the cord once more round the tooth, the wretched sailor attached the other end to the handle of the door, and retiring till there was only about eight inches or a foot of "slack" cord left, stood up and drew a long breath. The glaring children also drew long breaths. One very small one, who had been lifted on to the window-sill by an amiable companion, lay there on his breast visibly affected by alarm.

"Shut the door!" cried Adams.

There was a tremendous bang, followed by an instantaneous yell. The children jumped nearly out of their own skins, and the little one on the window-sill fell flat on the ground in speechless horror; but the tooth was not yet out. The cord had slipped again.

"This is becomin' terrible," said Adams, with a solemn look. "I'll tell 'ee what, lass; you run round to the smiddy an' tell Thursday that I want him d'rectly, an' look alive, old girl."

Mrs Adams hastened out, and scattering the children, soon returned with the desired youth.

And a most respectable youth had Thursday October Christian become at that time. He was over six feet high, though not quite sixteen years of age, with a breadth of shoulder and depth of chest that would have befitted a man of six-and-twenty. He had no beard, but he possessed a deep bass voice, which more than satisfied John Adams's oft-expressed wish of earlier days to hear the "sound of a man."

"Toc," said Adams, holding his jaw with one hand and the pincers in the other, "I've got a most astoundin' fit o' the toothache, and must git rid o' this grinder; but it's an awful one to hold on. I've tried it three times myself wi' them pincers, an' my old 'ooman has tried it wi' this here cable -- once with her fist an' once wi' the door as a sort o' capstan; but it's still hard an' fast, like the sheet-anchor of a seventy-four. Now, Toc, my lad, you're a stout young chap for your age. Just you take them pincers, lay hold o' the rascally thing, an' haul him out. Don't be afeared. He must come if you only heave with a will."

"What, father, do you mean that I'm to lay hold o' that tooth wi' them pincers an' wrench it bodily out of your head?"

"That's just about what I do mean, Toc," returned Adams, with a grim smile. "Moreover, I want you to make no bungle of it. Don't let your narves come into play. Just take a grip like a brave man, heave away wi' the force of a windlass, an' don't stop for my yellin'."

Thus adjured, Thursday October took the pincers, and gazed with a look of great anxiety into the cavernous mouth that Adams opened to his view.

"Which one is it, father, asked Toc," rolling up his shirt sleeves to the shoulder and displaying arms worthy of Vulcan.

"Man alive! don't you see it? The one furthest aft, with a black hole in it big enough a'most to stuff my George into."

Thursday applied the pincers gently. Adams, unable to use clear speech in the circumstances, said chokingly, "'At's 'e un -- 'ool away!" which, interpreted, is, "That's the one -- pull away."

Toc pulled, Adams roared, the children quaked, and the pincers slipped.

"Oh, Toc, Toc!" cried Adams, with a remonstrative look, such as martyrs are said to give when their heads are not properly cut off; "is that all you can do with your big strong arms? Fie, man, fie!"

This disparaging reference to his strength put poor Thursday on his mettle.

"I'll try again, father," he said.

"Well, do; an' see you make a better job of it this time."

The powerful youth got hold of the tooth a second time, and gave it a terrible wrench. Adams roared like a bull of Bashan, but Toc's heart was hardened now; he wrenched again -- a long, strong, and steady pull. The martyr howled as if his spinal marrow were being extracted. Toc suddenly staggered back; his arm flew up, displaying a bloody tooth with three enormous fangs. The "old 'ooman" shrieked, the child on the window-sill fell again therefrom in convulsions, and the others fled panic-struck into the woods, where they displayed their imitative tendencies and relieved their feelings by tearing up wild shrubs by the roots, amid yells and roars of agony, during the remainder of the day.



Chapter Twenty Five.

Tells Of An Important Matter.

Not very long after this, Thursday October Christian experienced at the hands of John Adams treatment which bore some slight resemblance to a species of tooth-drawing. In fact, Adams may be said to have had his revenge. It happened thus: -- 

Adams was seated, one afternoon, in front of his house on a low stool, where he was wont to sun himself and smoke an imaginary pipe, while the children were at play in the grassy square. He was absorbed, apparently, in what he used to term a brown study. Thursday October, making his appearance from among the bushes on the opposite side of the square, leaped the four-foot fence like a greyhound, without a run, and crossed over.

Whether it was the leap or the rate at which he had walked home through the woods, we cannot say; but his handsome face was unusually flushed, and he stopped once or twice on nearing Adams, as if undecided what to do. At last he seemed to make up his mind, walked straight up to the seaman, and stood before him with folded arms.

"Hallo, Toc," said Adams, rousing himself; "you've caught me napping. The truth is, I've bin inventin' a lot of awful whackers to spin a yarn out o' for the child'n. This is Friday, you know, an' as they've bin fastin', poor things, I want to give 'em what you may call mental food, to keep their bread-baskets quiet, d'ye see? But you've got somethin' to tell me, Toc; what is it?"

"Father," said Thursday, -- and then followed a long pause, during which the youth shifted from one leg to the other.

"Well, now, Toc," said Adams, eyeing the lad with a twinkling expression, "d'ye know, I have heard it said or writ somewhere, that brevity is the soul of wit. If that sayin's true, an' I've no reason for to suppose that it isn't, I should say that that observation of yours was wit without either soul or body, it's so uncommon short; too witty, in short. Couldn't you manage to add something more to it?"

"Yes, father," said Thursday, with a deprecating smile, "I have come to ask -- to ask you for leave to -- to -- to -- "

"Well, Toc, you have my cheerful leave to -- to -- to, and tootle too, as much as you please," replied Adams, with a bland smile.

"In short," said Thursday, with a desperate air, "I -- I -- want leave to marry."

"Whew!" whistled Adams, with a larger display of eyeball than he had made since he settled on the island. "You've come to the point now, and no mistake. You -- want -- leave -- to -- marry, Thursday October Christian, eh?"

"Yes, father, if you've no objection."

"Hem! no objection, marry -- eh?" said Adams, while his eyebrows began to return slowly to their wonted position. "Ha! well, now, let's hear; who do you want to marry?"

Having fairly broken the ice, the bashful youth said quickly, "Susannah."

Again John Adams uttered a prolonged whistle, while his eyebrows sprang once more to the roots of his hair.

"What! the widdy?"

"Yes, Mr Young's widow," replied Thursday, covered with confusion.

"Well, I never! But this does beat cock-fightin'." He gave his thigh a sounding slap, and seemed about to give way to irrepressible laughter, when he suddenly checked himself and became grave.

"I say, Toc," said he, earnestly, "hand me down the Prayer-book."

Somewhat surprised, the lad took the book from its shelf, and placed it on the sailor's knees.

"Look 'ee here, Toc; there's somethin' here that touches on your case, if I don't misremember where. Let me see. Ah, here it is, 'A man may not marry his grandmother,' much less a boy," he added, looking up.

"But, father, Susannah ain't my grandmother," said Toc, stoutly feeling that he had got an advantage here.

"True, lad, but she might be your mother. She's to the full sixteen years older than yourself. But seriously, boy, do you mean it, and is she willin'?"

"Yes, father, I do mean it, an' she is quite willin'. Susannah has bin kinder to me than any one else I ever knew, and I love her better than everybody else put together. She did laugh a bit at first when I spoke to her about it, an' told me not to talk so foolishly, an' said, just as you did, that she might be my mother; but that made no odds to me, for she's not one bit like my mother, you know."

"No, she's not," said Adams, with an assenting nod. "She's not like Mainmast by any means, bein' a deal younger an' better lookin'. Well, now, Toc, you've given me matter to put in my pipe, (if I had one), an' smoke it for some time to come -- food for reflection, so to speak. Just you go to work, my lad, as if there was nothin' in the wind, an' when I've turned it over, looked at it on all sides, gone right round the compass with it, worked at it, so to speak, like a cooper round a cask, I'll send for you an' let you know how the land lies."

When Adams had anything perplexing on his mind, he generally retired to the outlook cave at the mountain-top. Thither he went upon this occasion. The result was, that on the following day he sent for Thursday, and made him the following oration: -- 

"Thursday, my lad, it's not for the likes o' me to fly in the face o' Providence. If you still remain in earnest about this little matter, an' Susannah's mind ain't changed, I'll throw no difficulty in your way. I've bin searchin' the Book in reference to it, an' I see nothin' particular there regardin' age one way or another. It's usual in Old England, Toc, for the man to be a deal older than the wife, but there's no law against its bein' the other way, as I knows on. All I can find on the subject is, that a man must leave his father and mother, an' cleave to his wife. You han't got no father to leave, my boy, more's the pity, an' as for Mainmast, you can leave her when you like, though, in the circumstances, you can't go very far away from her, your tether bein' somewhat limited. As to the ceremony, I can't find nothin' about that in the Bible, but there's full directions in the Prayer-book; so I'll marry you off all ship-shape, fair an' above board, when the time comes. But there's one point. Toc, that I feel bound to settle, and it's this: That you can't be married till you've got a good bit of ground under cultivation, so that you may be able to keep your wife comfortably without callin' on her to work too hard. You've bin a busy enough fellow, I admit, since ever you was able to do a hand's turn, but you haven't got a garden of your own yet. Now, I'll go up with you to-morrow, an' mark off a bit o' your father's property, which you can go to work on, an' when you've got it into something of a for'ard state, I'll marry you. So -- that's a good job settled."

When Adams finished, he turned away with a profound sigh of relief, as if he felt that he had not only disposed of a particular and knotty case, but had laid down a great general principle by which he should steer his course in all time to come.

It need scarcely be said that Thursday October was quite prepared to undertake this probationary work; that the new garden was quickly got into a sufficiently "for'ard state;" and that, ere long, the first wedding on Pitcairn was celebrated under circumstances of jubilant rejoicing.



Chapter Twenty Six.

Treats Of A Birth And Of Devastation.

More than eighteen years had now elapsed without the dwellers on that little isle of the Southern Sea having beheld a visitant from the great world around them. That world, meanwhile, had been convulsed with useless wars. The great Napoleon had run through a considerable portion of his withering career, drenching the earth with blood, and heaping heavy burdens of debt on the unfortunate nations of Europe. Nelson had shattered his fleets, and Wellington was on the eve of commencing that victorious career which was destined, ere long, to scatter his armies; but no echo of the turmoil in which all this was being accomplished had reached the peaceful dwellers on Pitcairn, who went on the even tenor of their way, proving, in the most convincing and interesting manner, that after all "love is the fulfilling of the law."

But the year 1808 had now arrived, a year fraught with novelty, interest, and importance to the Pitcairners.

The first great event of that year was the birth of a son to Thursday October Christian, and if ever there was a juvenile papa who opened his eyes to the uttermost, stared in sceptical wonder, pinched himself to see if he were awake, and went away into the bush to laugh and rejoice in secret, that man was TOC.

"Boys and girls," said Thursday, about a month after the birth, "we'll celebrate this event with a picnic to Martin's Cove, if you would like it."

There was an assumption of fine paternal dignity about Toc when he said this, which was quite beautiful to behold. His making the proposal, too, without any reference to John Adams, was noted as being unusual.

"Don't you think we'd better ask father first?" suggested Otaheitan Sally.

"Of course I do," said Toc, on whose ear the word "father" fell pleasantly. "You don't suppose, do you, that I'd propose to do anything of importance without his consent?"

It may strike the supercilious reader here that a picnic, even on Pitcairn, was not a matter of profound importance, but he must remember that that particular picnic was to be held in honour of Thursday's baby. It may be that this remark is thrown away on those who are not in the position of Thursday. If so, let it pass.

"We will invite Father Adams to go with us," continued Toc, ingeniously referring to Adams in a manner suggestive of the idea that there were other fathers on the island as well as he.

When Father Adams was invited, he accepted the invitation heartily, and, slapping Toc on his huge broad back, wished him joy of the "noo babby," and hoped he might live to see it grow up to have "a babby of its own similar to itself, d'ye see?" at which remark Toc laughed with evident delight.

Well, the whole thing was arranged, and they proceeded to carry the picnic into effect. It was settled that some were to go by land, though the descent from the cliffs to the cove was not an easy or safe one. Others were to go by water, and the water-party was sub-divided into two bands. One band, which included Susannah and the amazing baby, was to go in canoes; the other was to swim. The distance by water might be about eight miles, but that was a mere trifle to the Pitcairners, some of whom could swim right round their island.

It turned out, however, that that charming island was not altogether exempt from those vicissitudes of weather which play such a prominent part in the picnicry of other and less favoured lands, for while they were yet discussing the arrangements of the day, a typhoon stepped in unexpectedly to arrest them.

It may be that there are some persons in Britain who do not know precisely what a typhoon is. If they saw or felt one, they would not be apt to forget it. Roughly speaking, a typhoon is a terrific storm. Cyclopaedias, which are supposed to tell us about everything, say that the Chinese name such a storm "Tei-fun," or "hot-wind." No-fun would seem to be a more appropriate term, if one were to name it from results. One writer says of typhoons, "They are storms which rage with such intensity and fury that those who have never seen them can form no conception of them; you would say that heaven and earth wished to return to their original chaos."

Obviously, if this writer be correct, there would be no use in our attempting to enlighten those "who can form no conception" of the thing. Nevertheless, in the hope that the writer referred to may be as ignorant on this point as he is in regard to the "wishes" of "heaven and earth," we will attempt a brief description of the event which put such a sudden stop to what may be called the Toc-baby-picnic.

For several days previously the weather had been rather cloudy, and there had been a few showers; but this would not have checked the proceedings if the wind had not risen so as to render it dangerous to launch the canoes into the surf on the beach of Bounty Bay. As the day advanced it blew a gale, and Toc congratulated himself on having resisted the urgent advice of the volatile Dan McCoy to stick at nothing.

About sunset the gale increased to a hurricane. John Adams, with several of the older youths, went to the edge of the precipice, near the eastern part of the village, where a deep ravine ran up into the mountains. There, under the shelter of a rock, they discussed the situation.

"Lucky that you didn't go, Toc," said Adams, pointing at the sea, whose waves were lashed and churned into seething foam.

"Yes, thanks be to God," replied Thursday.

"It will blow harder yet, I think," said Charlie Christian, who had grown into a tall stripling of about seventeen. He resembled his father in the bright expression of his handsome face and in the vigour of his lithe frame.

"Looks like it, Charlie. It minds me o' a regular typhoon we had when you was quite a babby, that blew down a lot o' trees, an' almost took the roofs off our huts."

As he spoke it seemed as if the wind grew savage at having been recognised, for it came round the corner of the rock with a tremendous roar, and nearly swept Adams's old seafaring hat into the rising sea.

"I'd ha' bin sorry to lose 'ee," muttered John, as he thrust the glazed and battered covering well down on his brows. "I wore you in the Bounty, and I expect, with care, to make you last out my time, an' leave you as a legacy to my son George."

"Look-out, father!" shouted Matt Quintal and Jack Mills in the same breath.

The whole party crouched close in beside the rock, and looked anxiously upwards, where a loud rending sound was going on. Another moment and a large cocoa-nut palm, growing in an exposed situation, was wrenched from its hold and hurled like a feather over the cliffs, carrying a mass of earth and stones along with it.

"It's well the rock overhangs a bit, or we'd have got the benefit o' that shower," said Adams. "Come, boys, it's clear that we're goin' to have a dirty night of it, an' I think we'd better look to our roofs an' make all snug. If our ground-tackle ain't better than that o' the tree which has just gone by the board, we shall have a poor look-out."

There was much cause for the anxiety which the seaman expressed regarding the roofs of the houses. Already, before they got back to the village, part of the roof of one of the oldest huts had been stripped off, and the women were beginning to look anxiously upwards as they heard the clattering overhead.

"Now, lads, all hands to work. Not a moment too soon either. Out wi' the old tacklin' o' the Bounty. Get the tarpaulins up. Lash one over Toc's hut. Clap some big stones on Quintal's. Fetch the ladders, some o' you youngsters. Out o' the way, boys. Here, Mainmast; you get the little 'uns off to their bunks. Fetch me the big sledge-hammer, Charlie. Look alive, lads!"

While he shouted these directions, John Adams went to work as actively as the youngest among them. Every one wrought with a will. In a few minutes all moveables were carried under shelter, heavy stones were placed where they were required, tarpaulins and stout ropes were lashed over roofs and pegged to the ground, shutters and doors were made fast, and, in short, the whole village was "made snug" for a "dirty night" with almost as much celerity as if it had been a fully-manned and well-disciplined ship of the line.

As John Adams had said, it was not begun a moment too soon. They had barely finished, indeed, when the heavens appeared to rend with a blinding flash of lightning. Then came a thunder crash, or, rather, a series of crashes and flashes, that seemed to imply the final crack of doom. This was followed by rain in sheets so heavy that it seemed as if the ocean had been lifted and poured upon the island. To render the confusion worse confounded, the wind came in what may be called swirls, overturning trees as if they were straws, and mixing up rain, mud, stones, and branches in the great hurly-burly, until ancient chaos seemed to reign on land and sea.

"It's an awful night," said John Adams, as he sat beside his wife and listened, while the children, unable to sleep, peeped in awe and wonder from their several bunks round the room. "God save them that's at sea this night."

"Amen!" said Mrs Adams.

By midnight the typhoon had reached its height. The timbers of the houses appeared to groan under the strain to which they were subjected. The whole heavens seemed in a continual blaze, and the thunder came, not in bursts, but in one incessant roar, with intermittent cracks now and then. Occasionally there were louder crashes than usual, which were supposed to be only more violent thunder, but they were afterwards found to be the results of very different causes.

"Now, old 'ooman, you turn in," said Adams, when the small hours of morning had advanced a little. "You'll only be unfit for work to-morrow if you sit up bobbin' about on your stool like that."

Mrs Adams obediently and literally tumbled into her bunk without taking the trouble to undress, while her anxious husband trimmed the lamp, took down the Bounty's Bible, and made up his mind to spend the remainder of the night in study.

Away at the other end of the village, near the margin of the ravine before referred to, there stood a cottage, in which there was evidently a watcher, for the rays of his light could be seen through the chinks of the shutters. This was the house occupied by Thursday October Christian and his wife and baby.

Thursday, like Adams, felt the anxieties of fatherhood strong upon him, and was unable to sleep. He therefore, also like Adams, made up his mind to sit up and read. Carteret's Voyages claimed his attention, and he was soon deep in this old book, while his wife lay sound asleep, with the baby in her arms in the same condition. Both were quite deaf to the elemental turmoil going on around them.

The watchful husband and father was still poring over his book, when there came a noise so deafening that it caused him to start to his feet, and awoke his wife. "That can't be thunder," he exclaimed, and sprang to the door.

The sight that met his gale when he looked out was sufficiently terrible. Day had begun to dawn, and the grey light showed him a large mass of earth and trees moving down the ravine. The latter were crashing and overturning. As he gazed they went bodily over the cliffs, a mighty avalanche, into the sea. The whole had evidently been loosened from the rocks by the action of the wind on the trees, coupled with the deluges of rain.

But this was not the worst of it. While Thursday was gazing at this sight, another crash was heard higher up the ravine. Turning quickly in that direction, he saw the land moving slowly towards him. Immense masses of rock were borne along with slow but irresistible violence. Many cocoa-nut trees were torn up by the roots and carried bodily along with the tough stream of mud and stones and general debris. Some of these trees advanced several yards in an upright position, and then fell in dire confusion.

Suddenly Toc observed to his horror that the mass was slowly bearing down straight towards his hut. Indeed, so much had his mind been impressed with the general wreck, that he had failed to observe a few tons of stones and rubbish which even then appeared on the point of overwhelming him.

Without uttering a word he sprang into the hut.

"What's wrong, Thursday?" asked his wife, in some alarm.

"Never mind. Hold your tongue, an' hold tight to Dumplin'."

The baby had been named Charles, after Toc's young brother, and the inelegant name of "Dumplin'" had been given him to prevent his being confounded with Charlie, senior.

Susannah did as she was bid, and the young giant, rolling her and the baby and the bedclothes into one bundle, lifted them in his wide-spreading arms and rushed out of the house.

He had to pass a neighbour's house on the way, which also stood dangerously near the ravine. Kicking its door open, he shouted, "All hands, ahoy! Turn out! turn out!" and passed on.

A few seconds later John Adams, who had gone to sleep with his nose flattened on the Bible, was startled by the bursting in of his door.

"Hallo, Toc!" he cried, starting up; "what's wrong, eh?"

"All right, father, but the ravine is bearin' down on us."

Thrusting his living bundle into an empty bunk, the stout youth left it to look after itself, and rushed out with Adams to the scene of devastation.

The avalanche was still advancing when they reached the spot, but a fortunate obstruction had turned it away from the houses. It moved slowly but steadily downwards like genuine lava, and in the course of a few hours swept some hundreds of cocoa-nut trees, a yam ground, containing nearly a thousand yams, one of the canoes, and a great mass of heterogeneous material, over the cliffs into the sea. Then the stream ceased to flow, the consternation of the people began to abate, and they commenced to repair, as far as possible, the damage caused by that memorable typhoon.



Chapter Twenty Seven.

A Picnic And A Surprise.

But the cyclone, terrible though it was, did not altogether put an end to the Dumplin' picnic, if we may be allowed the phrase. It only delayed it. As soon as the weather cleared up, that interesting event came off.

"Who'll go by land and who'll go by water?" asked Thursday, when the heads of houses were assembled in consultation on the morning of the great day, for great it was in more ways than one in the annals of Pitcairn.

"I'll go by water," said Charlie Christian, who was one of the "heads," inasmuch as he had been appointed to take charge of the hut which had been nearly carried away.

"Does any one know how the girls are going?" asked Matt Quintal.

"I'm not sure," said John Adams, with one of those significant glances for which he was noted. "I did hear say that Sally meant to go by land, but, of course, I can't tell. Girls will be girls, you know, an' there's no knowing when you have them."

"Well, perhaps the land road will be pleasanter," said Charlie. "Yes, now I think of it, I'll go by land."

"I think, also," continued Adams, without noticing Charlie's remark, "that some one said Bessy Mills was going by water."

"You're all wrong, Charlie, about the land road," said Matt Quintal; "the water is far better. I shall go by water."

"Dan'l, my lad," said Adams, addressing young McCoy, "which way did you say you'd go?"

"I didn't say I'd go any way, father," answered Dan.

"That may be so, lad, but you'll have to go one way or other."

"Not of necessity, father. Mightn't I stay at home and take care of the pigs?"

"You might," said Adams, with a smile, "if you think they would be suitable company for you. Well, now, the sooner we start the better. I mean to go by water myself, for I'm gettin' rather stiff in the legs for cliff-work. Besides, I promised to give Sarah Quintal a lesson in deep-sea fishing, so she's goin' with me."

"Perhaps," observed Dan McCoy, after a pause, "I might as well go by water too, and if you've no objection to take me in your canoe, I would lend you a hand wi' the paddle. I would be suitable company for you, father, you know, and I'm very anxious to improve in deep-sea fishin'."

"It don't take much fishin' to find out how the wind blows, you blessed innocents," thought John Adams, with a quiet chuckle, which somewhat disconcerted Dan; but he only said aloud, "Well, yes, you may come, but only on condition that you swim alongside, for I mean to carry a cargo of staggerers and sprawlers."

"There's only one staggerer and one sprawler now," said Dan, with a laugh; "your own George and Toc's Dumplin'."

"Just so, but ain't these a host in themselves? You keep your tongue under hatches, Dan, or I'll have to lash it to your jaw with a bit o' rope-yarn."

"Oh, what a yarn I'd spin with it if you did!" retorted the incorrigible Dan. "But how are the jumpers to go, and where are they?"

"They may go as they please," returned Adams, as he led the way to the footpath down the cliffs; "they went to help the women wi' the victuals, an' I've no doubt are at their favourite game of slidin' on the waves."

He was right in this conjecture. While the younger women and girls of the village were busy carrying the provisions to the beach, those active little members of the community who were styled jumpers, and of whom there were still half-a-dozen, were engaged in their favourite game. It was conducted amid shouts and screams of delight, which rose above the thunder of the mighty waves that rolled in grand procession into the bay.

Ned Quintal, the stoutest and most daring, as well as the oldest of these jumpers, being over eight years, was the best slider. He was on the point of dashing into the sea when Adams and the others arrived on the scene.

Clothed only with a little piece of tapa cloth formed into breeches reaching to about the knees, his muscular little frame was shown to full advantage, as he stood with streaming curly hair, having a thin board under his arm, about three feet long, and shaped like a canoe.

He watched a mighty wave which was coming majestically towards him. Just as it was on the point of falling, little Ned held up the board in front of him, and with one vigorous leap dived right through the wave, and came out at the other side. Thus he escaped being carried by it to the shore, and swam over the rolling backs of the waves that followed it until he got out to sea. Then, turning his face landward, he laid his board on the water, and pushing it under himself, came slowly in, watching for a larger wave than usual. As he moved along, little Billy Young ranged alongside.

"Here's a big un, Billy," cried Ned, panting with excitement and exertion, as he looked eagerly over his shoulder at a billow which seemed big enough to have wrecked an East Indiaman.

Billy did not reply, for, having a spice of Dan McCoy's fun-loving spirit in him, he was intent on giving Ned's board a tip and turning it over.

As the wave came up under them, it began as it were to boil on the surface, a sure sign that it was about to break. With a shout Ned thrust his board along, and actually mounted it in a sitting posture. Billy made a violent kick, missed his aim, lost hold of his own board, and was left ignominiously behind. Ned, caught on the wave's crest, was carried with a terrific rush towards the shore. He retained his position for a few seconds, then tumbled over in the tumult of water, but got the board under him again as he was swept along.

How that boy escaped being dashed to pieces on the rocks which studded Bounty Bay is more than we can comprehend, much more, therefore, than we can describe. Suffice it to say, that he arrived, somehow, on his legs, and was turning to repeat the manoeuvre, when Adams called to him and all the others to come ashore an' get their sailin' orders.

Things having been finally arranged, Adams said, "By the way, who's stopping to take charge of poor Jimmy Young?"

A sympathetic look from every one and a sudden cessation of merriment followed the question, for poor little James Young, the only invalid on Pitcairn, was afflicted with a complaint somewhat resembling that which carried off his father.

"Of course," continued Adams, "I know that my old 'ooman an' Mainmast are with him, but I mean who of the young folk?"

"May Christian," said Sally, who had come down to see the water-party start. "Two or three of us offered also to stay, father, but Jim wouldn't hear of it, an' said he would cry all the time if we stayed. He said that May was all he wanted."

"Dear little Jim," said Adams, "I do believe he's got more o' God's book into him, small though he is, than all the rest of us put together. An' he's not far wrong, neither, about May. She's worth a dozen or'nary girls. Now then, lend a hand wi' the canoe. Are you ready, Mistress Toc?"

"Quite," replied the heroine of the day, with a pleased glance in Thursday's somewhat sheepish face.

"An' Dumplin', is he ready?" said the seaman.

The hero of the day was held up in the arms of his proud father.

"Now then, lads, shove off!"

In a few minutes the canoe, with its precious freight and Thursday at the steering-paddle, was thrust through the wild surf, and went skimming over the smooth sea beyond. Immediately thereafter another canoe was launched, with John Adams and a miscellaneous cargo of children, women, and girls, including graceful Bessy Mills and pretty Sarah Quintal.

"Now then, here goes," cried Matt Quintal, wading deep into the surf. "Are you coming, Dan?"

"I'm your man," said Dan, following.

Both youths raised their hands and leaped together. They went through the first wave like two stalwart eels, and were soon speeding after the canoes, spurning the water behind them, and conversing as comfortably on the voyage as though the sea were their native element.

Close on their heels went two of the most athletic among the smaller boys, while one bold infant was arrested in a reckless attempt to follow by Otaheitan Sally, who had to rush into the surf after him.

Descended though he was of an amiable race, it is highly probable that this infant would have displayed the presence of white blood in his veins had his detainer been any other than Sally; but she possessed a power to charm the wildest spirit on the island. So the child consented to "be good," and go along with her overland.

"Now, are you ready to go?" said Sally to Charlie, who was the only other one of the band left on the beach besides herself.

Poor Charlie stood looking innocently into the sparkling face of the brunette. He did not know what was the matter with him, still less did he care. He knew that he was supremely happy. That was enough. Sally, who knew quite well what was the matter -- quite as well, almost, as if she had gone through a regular civilised education -- laughed heartily, grasped the infant's fat paw, and led him up the hill.

Truly it was a pleasant picnic these people had that day. Healthy and hearty, they probably came as near to the realisation of heaven upon earth as it is ever given to poor sinful man to know, for they had love in their hearts, and their religion, drawn direct from the pure fountain-head, was neither dimmed by false sentimentality on the one hand, nor by hypocrisy on the other.

Perhaps John Adams was the only one of the band who wondered at the sight, and thanked God for undeserved and unexpected mercy, for he alone fully understood the polluted stock from which they had all sprung, and the terrible pit of heathenish wickedness from which they had been rescued, not by him (the humbled mutineer had long since escaped from that delusion), but by the Word of God.

After proceeding a considerable distance along the rocky coast of their little isle, John Adams ordered the canoes to lie-to, while he made an attempt to catch a fresh cod for dinner.

Of course, Matt Quintal and Dan McCoy ranged up alongside, and were speedily joined by some of the adventurous small boys. Adams took these latter into the canoe, but the former he ordered away.

"No, no," he said, while Sarah Quintal assisted to get out the bait and Bessy Mills to arrange the line. "No, no, we don't want no idlers here. You be off to the rocks, Matt and Dan, an' see what you can catch. Remember, he who won't work shall not eat. There should be lots o' crawfish about, or you might try for a red-snapper. Now, be off, both of you."

"Ay, ay, father," replied the youths, pushing off and swimming shoreward rather unwillingly.

"I don't feel much inclined to go after crawfish or red-snappers to-day, Matt, do you?" asked Dan, brushing the curls out of his eyes with his right hand.

"No, not I; but we're bound to do something towards the dinner, you know."

At that moment there was a loud shouting and screaming from the canoe. They looked quickly back. Adams was evidently struggling with something in the water.

"He has hooked something big," cried Matt; "let's go see."

Dan said nothing, but turned and made for the canoe with the speed of a porpoise. His companion followed.

Adams had indeed hooked a large cod, or something like it, and had hauled it near to the surface when the youths came up.

"Have a care. He bolts about like a mad cracker," cried Adams. "There, I have him now. Stand clear all!"

Gently did the seaman raise the big fish to the surface, and very tenderly did he play him, on observing that he was not well hooked.

"Come along, my beauty! What a wopper! Won't he go down without sauce? Pity I've got no kleek to gaff him. Not quite so close, Dan, he'll get -- Hah!"

The weight of the fish tore it from the hook at that moment, and it dropped.

Dropped, ay, but not exactly into its native element. It dropped into Dan's bosom! With a convulsive grasp Dan embraced it in his strong arms and sank. Matt Quintal dived, also caught hold of the fish with both hands and worked his two thumbs deep into its gills. By the process called treading water, the two soon regained the surface. Sarah Quintal seized Dan McCoy by the hair, Bessy Mills made a grasp at Matt and caught him by the ear, while John Adams made a grab at the fish, got him by the nose, thrust a hand into his mouth, which was wide open with surprise or something else, as well it might be, and caught it by the tongue.

Another moment, and a wild cheer from the boys announced that the fish was safe in the canoe.

"We're entitled to dinner now, father," said Dan, laughing.

"Not a bit of it, you lazy boys; that fish is only big enough for the girls. We want something for the men and child'n. Be off again."

With much more readiness the youths, now gratified by their success, turned to the outlying rocks of a low promontory which jutted from the inaccessible cliffs at that part. Effecting a landing with some difficulty, they proceeded to look for crawfish, a species of lobster which abounds there.

Leaning over a ledge of rock, and peering keenly down into a clear pool which was sheltered from the surf, Dan suddenly exclaimed, "There's one, Matt; I see his feelers."

As he spoke he dived into the water and disappeared. Even a pearl diver might have wondered at the length of time he remained below. Presently he reappeared, puffing like a grampus, and holding a huge lobster-like creature in his hands.

"That'll stop the mouths of two or three of us, Matt!" he exclaimed, looking round.

But Matt Quintal was nowhere to be seen. He, too, had seen a fish, and gone to beard the lobster in his den. In a few seconds he reappeared with another crawfish.

Thus, in the course of a short time, these youths captured four fine fish, and returned to the canoe, swimming on their backs, with one in each hand.

While things were progressing thus favourably at sea, matters were being conducted not less admirably, though with less noise, on land.

The canoe containing Mrs Toc and the celebrated baby went direct to the landing-place at Martin's Cove, which was a mere spot of sand in a narrow creek, where landing was by no means easy even for these expert canoemen.

Here the women kindled a fire and heated the culinary stones, while Toc and some of the others clambered up the cliffs to obtain gulls' eggs and cocoa-nuts.

Meanwhile Charlie Christian and Otaheitan Sally and the staggerer wended their way overland to the same rendezvous slowly -- remarkably slowly. They had so much to talk about; not of politics, you may be sure, nor yet of love, for they were somewhat shy of that, being, so to speak, new to it.

"I wonder," said Charlie, sitting down for the fiftieth time, on a bank "whereon time grew" to such an extent that he seemed to take no account of it whatever; "I wonder if the people in the big world we've heard so much of from father lead as pleasant lives as we do."

"Some of 'em do, of course," said Sally. "You know there are plenty of busy people among them who go about working, read their Bible, an' try to make other people happy, so of course they must be happy themselves."

"That's true, Sall; but then they have many things to worry them, an' you know we haven't."

"Yes, they've many things to worry them, I suppose," rejoined Sall, with a pensive look at the ground. "I wonder what sort of things worry them most? It can't be dressin' up grand, an' goin' out to great parties, an' drivin' in lovely carriages. Nobody could be worried by that, you know."

Charlie nodded his head, and agreed with her entirely.

"Neither can it be money," resumed Sall, "for money buys everything you want, as father says, and that can be nothin' but pleasure. If their yam-fields went wrong, I could understand that, because even you and I know somethin' about such worries; but, you see, they haven't got no yam-fields. Then father says the rich ones among 'em eat an' drink whatever they like, and as much as they like, and sleep as long as they like, an' we know that eatin' an' drinkin' an' sleepin' don't worry us, do they, Charlie?"

Again Charlie accorded unmeasured assent to Sall's propositions.

"I can understand better," continued Sall, "how the poor ones among 'em are worried. It must worry 'em a good deal, I should think, to see some people with far more than they want, when they haven't got half as much as they want; an' father says some of 'em are sometimes well-nigh starvin'. Now, it must be a dreadful worry to starve. Just think how funny it would feel to have nothin' to eat at all, not even a yam! Then it must be a dreadful thing for the poor to see their child'n without enough to eat. Yes, the poor child'n of the poor must be a worry to 'em, though the child'n of the rich never are."

At this point a wild shriek from the little child caused Sally's heart to bound. She looked up, and beheld the fat legs of her charge fly up as he went headlong over a precipice. Fortunately the precipice was only three feet high, so that when Sally and Charlie ran panting to the spot, he was already on his feet, looking much surprised, but none the worse for his tumble.

This incident sobered the inquisitive friends, and brought them back from fanciful to actual life. They hurried over the remainder of the journey, and arrived at Martin's Cove just as the picnic party were beginning dinner.

Feasting is a commonplace and rather gross subject, having many points of similitude in all lands. We shall therefore pass over this part of the day's enjoyment, merely remarking that, what with fish and lobster, and yams and cocoa-nuts, and bananas and plantains, and sundry compounds of the same made into cakes, and clear water from the mountain-side, there was ample provision for the wants of nature. There was no lack, either, of that feast which is said to flow from "reason" and "soul" There was incident, also, to enliven the proceedings; for the child who had come by the overland route with Sally fell into something resembling a yam-pie, and the hero of the day managed to roll into the oven which had cooked the victuals. Fortunately, it had cooled somewhat by that time, and seemed to tickle his fancy rather than otherwise.

Dinner was concluded; and as it had been preceded by asking a blessing, it was now closed with thanksgiving. Then Dinah Adams began to show a tendency to clear up the debris, when Dan McCoy, who had wandered away with Sarah Quintal in search of shells to a neighbouring promontory, suddenly uttered a tremendous and altogether new cry.

"What is he up to now?" said John Adams, rising hastily and shading his eyes with his hand.

Dan was seen to be gesticulating frantically on the rocks, and pointing wildly out to sea.

The whole party ran towards him, and soon became as wildly excited as himself, for there, at long last, was a ship, far away on the horizon!

To launch the canoes and make for home was the work of a very few minutes. No one thought of swimming now. Those who did not go in the canoes went by the land road as fast as they could run and clamber. In a short time the gulls were left in undisturbed possession of Martin's Cove.



Chapter Twenty Eight.

The First Ship, And News Of Home.

No wonder that there was wild excitement on the lonely island at the sight of this sail, for, with the exception of the ship that had been seen years before, and only for a few minutes, by Sally and Matt Quintal, no vessel of any kind had visited them during the space of nineteen years.

"I've longed for it, old 'ooman, as nobody but myself can understand," said Adams, in a low, earnest voice to his wife, who stood on the cliffs beside him. Although nearly blind, Mrs Adams was straining her eyes in the direction of the strange sail. "And now that it's come," continued her husband, "I confess to you, lass, I'm somewhat afeared to face it. It's not that I fear to die more than other men, but I'd feel it awful hard to be took away from you an' all them dear child'n. But God's will be done."

"They'd never take you from us, father," exclaimed Dinah Adams, who overheard this speech.

"There's no sayin', Di. I've forfeited my life to the laws of England. I tell 'ee what it is, Thursday," said Adams, going up to the youth, who was gazing wistfully like the others at the rapidly approaching vessel, "it may be a man-o'-war, an' they may p'r'aps want to ship me off to England on rather short notice. If so, I must go; but I'd rather not. So I'll retire into the bushes, Toc, while you go aboard in the canoe. I'll have time to think over matters before you come back with word who they are, an' where they hail from."

While Thursday went down to the beach, accompanied by Charlie, to prepare a canoe for this mission, the ship drew rapidly near the island, and soon after hove to, just outside of Bounty Bay. As she showed no colours, and did not look like a man-of-war, Adams began to feel easier in his mind, and again going out on the cliffs, watched the canoe as it dashed through the surf.

Under the vigorous strokes of Thursday and Charlie Christian, it was soon alongside the strange ship. To judge from the extent to which the men opened their eyes, there is reason to believe that those on board of that strange ship were filled with unusual surprise; and well they might be, for the appearance of our two heroes was not that which voyagers in the South Pacific were accustomed to expect. The remarks of two of the surprised ones, as the canoe approached, will explain their state of mind better than any commentary.

"I say, Jack, it ain't a boat; I guess it's a canoe."

"Yes, Bill, it's a canoe."

"What d'ye make 'em out to be, Jack?"

"Men, I think; leastwise they're not much like monkeys; though, of coorse, a feller can't be sure till they stand up an' show their tails, -- or the want of 'em."

"Well, now," remarked Bill, as the canoe drew nearer, "that's the most puzzlin' lot I've seen since I was raised. They ain't niggers, that's plain; they're too light-coloured for that, an' has none o' the nigger brick-dust in their faces. One on 'em, moreover, seems to have fair curly hair, an' they wears jackets an' hats with something of a sailor-cut about 'em. Why, I do b'lieve they're shipwrecked sailors."

"No," returned Jack, with a critical frown, "they're not just the colour o' white men. Mayhap, they're a noo style o' savage, this bein' raither an out-o'-the-way quarter."

"Stand by with a rope there," cried the captain of the vessel, cutting short the discussion, while the canoe ranged longside.

"Ship ahoy!" shouted Thursday, in the true nautical style which he had learned from Adams.

If the eyes of the men who looked over the side of the ship were wide open with surprise before, they seemed to blaze with amazement at the next remark by Thursday.

"Where d'ye hail from, an' what's your name?" he asked, as Charlie made fast to the rope which was thrown to them.

"The Topaz, from America, Captain Folger," answered the captain, with a smile.

With an agility worthy of monkeys, and that might have justified Jack and Bill looking for tails, the brothers immediately stood on the deck, and holding out their hands, offered with affable smiles to shake hands. We need scarcely say the offer was heartily accepted by every one of the crew.

"And who may you be, my good fellows?" asked Captain Folger, with an amused expression.

"I am Thursday October Christian," answered the youth, drawing himself up as if he were announcing himself the king of the Cannibal Islands. "I'm the oldest son of Fletcher Christian, one of the mutineers of the Bounty, an' this is my brother Charlie."

The sailors glanced at each other and then at the stalwart youths, as if they doubted the truth of the assertion.

"I've heard of that mutiny," said Captain Folger. "It was celebrated enough to make a noise even on our side of the Atlantic. If I remember rightly, most of the mutineers were caught on Otaheite and taken to England, being wrecked and some drowned on the way; the rest were tried, and some acquitted, some pardoned, and some hanged."

"I know nothin' about all that," said Thursday, with an interested but perplexed look.

"But I do, sir," said the man whom we have styled Jack, touching his hat to the captain. "I'm an Englishman, as you knows, an' chanced to be in England at the very time when the mutineers was tried. There was nine o' the mutineers, sir, as went off wi' the Bounty from Otaheite, an' they've never bin heard on from that day to this."

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Thursday, with sudden animation, "that's us. The nine mutineers came to our island here, Pitcairn, an' remained here ever since, an' we've all bin born here; there's lots more of us, -- boys and girls."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the captain, whose interest was now thoroughly aroused. "Are the nine mutineers all on Pitcairn still?"

Thursday's mobile countenance at once became profoundly sad, and he shook his head slowly.

"No," said he, "they're all dead but one. John Adams is his name."

"Don't remember that name among the nine said to be lost," remarked the Englishman.

"I've heard father say he was sometimes called John Smith," said Thursday.

"Ah, yes! I remember the name of Smith," said Jack. "He was one of 'em."

"And is he the only man left on the island?" asked the captain.

"Yes, the only man," replied Thursday, who had never yet thought of himself in any other light than a boy; "an' if you'll come ashore in our canoe, father'll take you to his house an' treat you to the best he's got. He'll be right glad to see you too, for he's not seen a soul except ourselves for nigh twenty years."

"Not seen a soul! D'ye mean to say no ship has touched here for that length of time?" asked the captain in surprise.

"No, except one that only touched an' went off without discovering that we were here, an' none of us found out she had bin here till we chanced to see her sailin' away far out to sea. That was five years ago."

"That's very strange and interestin'. I'd like well to visit old Adams, lad, an' I thank 'ee for the invitation; but I won't run my ship through such a surf as that, an' don't like to risk leavin' her to go ashore in your canoe."

"If you please, sir, I'd be very glad to go, an' bring off what news there is," said Jack, the English sailor, whose surname was Brace.

At first Captain Folger refused this offer, but on consideration he allowed Jack to go, promising at the same time to keep as near to the shore as possible, so that if there was anything like treachery he might have a chance of swimming off.

"So your father is dead?" asked the captain, as he walked with Thursday to the side.

"Yes, long, long ago."

"But you called Adams 'father' just now. How's that?"

"Oh, we all calls 'im that. It's only a way we've got into."

"What made your father call you Thursday?"

"'Cause I was born on a Thursday."

"H'm I an' I suppose if you'd bin born on a Tuesday or Saturday, he'd have called you by one or other of these days?"

"S'pose so," said Thursday, with much simplicity.

"Are you married, Thursday?"

"Yes, I'm married to Susannah," said Thursday, with a pleased smile; "she's a dear girl, though she's a deal older than me -- old enough to be my mother. And I've got a babby too -- a splendid babby!"

Thursday passed ever the side as he said this, and fortunately did not see the merriment which him remarks created.

Jack Brace followed him into the canoe, and in less than half-an-hour he found himself among the wondering, admiring, almost awestruck, islanders of Pitcairn.

"It's a man!" whispered poor Mainmast to Susannah, with the memory of Fletcher Christian strong upon her.

"What a lovely beard he has!" murmured Sally to Bessy Mills.

Charlie Christian and Matt Quintal chancing, curiously enough, to be near Sally and Bessy, overheard the whisper, and for the first time each received a painful stab from the green-eyed demon, jealousy.

But the children did not whisper their comments. They crowded round the seaman eagerly.

"You've come to live with us?" asked Dolly Young, looking up in his face with an innocent smile, and taking his rough hand.

"To tell us stories?" said little Arthur Quintal, with an equally innocent smile.

"Well, no, my dears, not exactly," answered the seaman, looking in a dazed manner at the pretty faces and graceful forms around him; "but if I only had the chance to remain here, it's my belief that I would."

Further remark was stopped by the appearance of John Adams coming towards the group. He walked slowly, and kept his eyes steadily, yet wistfully, fastened on the seaman. Holding out his hand, he said in a low tone, as if he were soliloquising, "At last! It's like a dream!" Then, as the sailor grasped his hand and shook it warmly, he added aloud a hearty "Welcome, welcome to Pitcairn."

"Thank 'ee, thank 'ee," said Jack Brace, not less heartily; "an' may I ax if you are one o' the Bounty mutineers, an' no mistake?"

"The old tone," murmured Adams, "and the old lingo, an' the old cut o' the jib, an' -- an' -- the old toggery."

He took hold of a flap of Jack's pea-jacket, and almost fondled it.

"Oh, man, but it does my heart good to see you! Come, come away up to my house an' have some grub. Yes, yes -- axin' your pardon for not answerin' right off -- I am one o' the Bounty mutineers; the last one -- John Smith once, better known now as John Adams. But where do you hail from, friend?"

Jack at once gave him the desired information, told him on the way up all he knew about the fate of the mutineers who had remained at Otaheite, and received in exchange a brief outline of the history of the nine mutineers who had landed on Pitcairn.

The excitement of the two men and their interest in each other increased every moment; the one being full of the idea of having made a wonderful discovery of, as it were, a lost community, the other being equally full of the delight of once more talking to a man -- a seaman -- a messmate, he might soon say, for he meant to feed him like a prince.

"Get a pig cooked, Molly," he said, during a brief interval in the conversation, "an' do it as fast as you can."

"There's one a'most ready-baked now," replied Mrs Adams.

"All right, send the girls for fruit, and make a glorious spread --  outside; he'll like it better than in the house -- under the banyan-tree. Sit down, sit down, messmate." Turning to the sailor, "Man, what a time it is since I've used that blessed word! Sit down and have a glass."

Jack Brace smacked his lips in anticipation, thanked Adams in advance, and drew his sleeve across his mouth in preparation, while his host set a cocoa-nut-cup filled with a whitish substance before him.

"That's a noo sort of a glass, John Adams," remarked the man, as he raised and smelt it; "also a strange kind o' tipple."

He sipped, and seemed disappointed. Then he sipped again, and seemed pleased.

"What is it, may I ax?"

"It's milk of the cocoa-nut," answered Adams.

"Milk o' the ko-ko-nut, eh? Well, now, that is queer. If you'd 'a called it the milk o' the cow-cow-nut, I could have believed it. Hows'ever, it ain't bad, tho' raither wishy-washy. Got no stronger tipple than that?"

"Nothin' stronger than that, 'xcept water," said John, with one of his sly glances; "but it's a toss up which is the strongest."

"Well, it'll be a toss down with me whichever is the strongest," said the accommodating tar, as he once more raised the cup to his lips, and drained it.

"But, I say, you unhung mutineer, do you mean for to tell me that all them good-lookin' boys an' girls are yours?"

He looked round on the crowd of open-mouthed young people, who, from six-foot Toc down to the youngest staggerer, gazed at him solemnly, all eyes and ears.

"No, they ain't," answered Adams, with a laugh. "What makes you ask?"

"'Cause they all calls you father."

"Oh!" replied his host, "that's only a way they have; but there's only four of 'em mine, three girls an' a boy. The rest are the descendants of my eight comrades, who are now dead and gone."

"Well, now, d'ye know, John Adams, alias Smith, mutineer, as ought to have bin hung but wasn't, an' as nobody would have the heart to hang now, even if they had the chance, this here adventur is out o' sight one o' the most extraor'nar circumstances as ever did happen to me since I was the length of a marlinspike."

As Mainmast here entered to announce that the pig was ready for consumption, the amazed mariner was led to a rich repast under the neighbouring banyan-tree. Here he was bereft of speech for a considerable time, whether owing to the application of his jaws to food, or increased astonishment, it is difficult to say.

Before the repast began, Adams, according to custom, stood up, removed his hat, and briefly asked a blessing. To which all assembled, with clasped hands and closed eyes, responded Amen.

This, no doubt, was another source of profound wonder to Jack Brace, but he made no remark at the time. Neither did he remark on the fact that the women did not sit down to eat with the males of the party, but stood behind and served them, conversing pleasantly the while.

After dinner was concluded, and thanks had been returned, Jack Brace leaned his back against one of the descending branches of the banyan-tree, and with a look of supreme satisfaction drew forth a short black pipe.

At sight of this the countenance of Adams flushed, and his eyes almost sparkled.

"There it is again," he murmured; "the old pipe once more! Let me look at it, Jack Brace; it's not the first by a long way that I've handled."

Jack handed over the pipe, a good deal amused at the manner of his host, who took the implement of fumigation and examined it carefully, handling it with tender care, as if it were a living and delicate creature. Then he smelt it, then put it in his mouth and gave it a gentle draw, while an expression of pathetic satisfaction passed over his somewhat care-worn countenance.

"The old taste, not a bit changed," he murmured, shutting his eyes. "Brings back the old ships, and the old messmates, and the old times, and Old England."

"Come, old feller," said Jack Brace, "if it's so powerful, why not light it and have a real good pull, for old acquaintance sake?"

He drew from his pocket flint and tinder, matches being unknown in those days, and began to strike a light, when Adams took the pipe hastily from his mouth and handed it back.

"No, no," he said, with decision, "it's only the old associations that it calls up, that's all. As for baccy, I've bin so long without it now, that I don't want it; and it would only be foolish in me to rouse up the old cravin'. There, you light it, Jack. I'll content myself wi' the smell of it."

"Well, John Adams, have your way. You are king here, you know; nobody to contradict you. So I'll smoke instead of you, if these young ladies won't object."

The young ladies referred to were so far from objecting, that they were burning with impatience to see a real smoker go to work, for the tobacco of the mutineers had been exhausted, and all the pipes broken or lost, before most of them were born.

"And let me tell you, John Adams," continued the sailor, when the pipe was fairly alight, "I've not smoked a pipe in such koorious circumstances since I lit one, an' had my right fore-finger shot off when I was stuffin' down the baccy, in the main-top o' the Victory at the battle o' Trafalgar. But it was against all rules to smoke in action, an' served me right. Hows'ever, it got me my discharge, and that's how I come to be in a Yankee merchantman this good day."

At the mention of battle and being wounded in action, the old professional sympathies of John Adams were awakened.

"What battle might that have been?" he asked.

"Which?" said Jack.

"Traflegar," said the other.

Jack Brace took the pipe out of his mouth and looked at Adams, as though he had asked where Adam and Eve had been born. For some time he could not make up his mind how to reply.

"You don't mean to tell me," he said at length, "that you've never heard of the -- battle -- of -- Trafalgar?"

"Never," answered Adams, with a faint smile.

"Nor of the great Lord Nelson?"

"Never heard his name till to-day. You forget, Jack, that I've not seen a mortal man from Old England, or any other part o' the civilised world, since the 28th day of April 1789, and that's full nineteen years ago."

"That's true, John; that's true," said the seaman, slowly, as if endeavouring to obtain some comprehension of what depths of ignorance the fact implied. "So, I suppose you've never heerd tell of -- hold on; let me rake up my brain-pan a bit."

He tilted his straw hat, and scratched his head for a few minutes, puffing the while immense clouds of smoke, to the inexpressible delight of the open-mouthed youngsters around him.

"You -- you've never heerd tell of Lord Howe, who licked the French off Ushant, somewheres about sixteen years gone by?"

"Never."

"Nor of the great victories gained in the '95 by Sir Edward Pellew, an' Admiral Hotham, an' Admiral Cornwallis, an' Lord Bridgeport?"

"No, of coorse ye couldn't; nor yet of Admiral Duncan, who, in the '97, (I think it was), beat the Dutch fleet near Camperdown all to sticks. Nor yet of that tremendous fight off Cape Saint Vincent in the same year, when Sir John Jervis, with nothin' more than fifteen sail o' the Mediterranean fleet, attacked the Spaniards wi' their twenty-seven ships o' the line -- line-o'-battle ships, you'll observe, John Adams -- an' took four of 'em, knocked half of the remainder into universal smash, an' sunk all the rest?"

"That was splendid!" exclaimed Adams, his martial spirit rising, while the eyes of the young listeners around kept pace with their mouths in dilating.

"Splendid? Pooh!" said Jack Brace, delivering puffs between sentences that resembled the shots of miniature seventy-fours, "that was nothin' to what followed. Nelson was in that fight, he was, an' Nelson began to shove out his horns a bit soon after that, I tell you. Well, well," continued the British tar with a resigned look, "to think of meetin' a man out of Bedlam who hasn't heerd of Nelson and the Nile, w'ich, of coorse, ye haven't. It's worth while comin' all this way to see you."

Adams smiled and said, "Let's hear all about it."

"All about it, John? Why, it would take me all night to tell you all about it," (there was an audible gasp of delight among the listeners), "and I haven't time for that; but you must know that Lord Nelson, bein' Sir Horatio Nelson at that time, chased the French fleet, under Admiral Brueys, into Aboukir Bay, (that's on the coast of Egypt), sailed in after 'em, anchored alongside of 'em, opened on 'em wi' both broadsides at once, an' blew them all to bits."

"You don't say that, Jack Brace!"

"Yes, I do, John Adams; an' nine French line-o'-battle ships was took, two was burnt, two escaped, and the biggest o' the lot, the great three-decker, the Orient, was blowed up, an' sent to the bottom. It was a thorough-goin' piece o' business that, I tell you, an' Nelson meant it to be, for w'en he gave the signal to go into close action, he shouted, 'Victory or Westminster Abbey.'"

"What did he mean by that?" asked Adams.

"Why, don't you see, Westminster Abbey is the old church in London where they bury the great nobs o' the nation in; there's none but great nobs there, you know -- snobs not allowed on no account whatever. So he meant, of coorse, victory or death, d'ye see? After which he'd be put into Westminster Abbey. An' death it was to many a good man that day. Why, if you take even the Orient alone, w'en she was blowed up, Admiral Brueys himself an' a thousand men went up along with her, an' never came down again, so far as we know."

"It must have bin bloody work," said Adams.

"I believe you, my boy," continued the sailor, "it was bloody work. There was some of our chaps that was always for reasonin' about things, an' would never take anything on trust, 'xcept their own inventions, who used to argufy that it was an awful waste o' human life, to say nothin' o' treasure, (as they called it), all for nothin'. I used to wonder sometimes why them reasoners jined the sarvice at all, but to be sure most of 'em had been pressed. To my thinkin', war wouldn't be worth a brass farthin' if there wasn't a deal o' blood and thunder about it; an', of coorse, if we're goin' to have that sort o' thing we must pay for it. Then, we didn't do it for nothin'. Is it nothin' to have the honour an' glory of lickin' the Mounseers an' bein' able to sing 'Britannia rules the waves?'"

John Adams, who was not fond of argument, and did not agree with some of Jack's reasoning, said, "P'r'aps;" and then, drawing closer to his new friend with deepening interest, said, "Well, Jack, what more has happened?"

"What more? Why, I'll have to start a fresh pipe before I can answer that."

Having started a fresh pipe he proceeded, and the group settled down again to devour his words, and watch and smell the smoke.

"Well, then, there was -- but you know I ain't a diction'ry, or a cyclopodia, or a gazinteer -- let me see. After the battle o' the Nile there came the Irish Rebellion."

"Did that do 'em much good, Jack?"

"O yes, John; it united 'em immediately after to Old England, so that we're now Great Britain an' Ireland. Then Sir Ralph Abercromby, he gave the French an awful lickin' on land in Egypt at Aboukir, where Nelson had wopped 'em on the sea, and, last of all came the glorious battle of Trafalgar. But it wasn't all glory, for we lost Lord Nelson there. He was killed."

"That was a bad business," said Adams, with a look of sympathy. "And you was in that battle, was you?"

"In it! I should just think so," replied Jack Brace, looking contemplatively at his mutilated finger. "Why, I was in Lord Nelson's own ship, the Victory. Come, I'll give you an outline of it. This is how it began."

The ex-man-of-war's-man puffed vigorously for a few seconds, to get the pipe well alight, he remarked, and collect his thoughts.



Chapter Twenty Nine.

Jack Brace Stirs Up The War Spirit Of Adams.

"You must know, John Adams," said Jack Brace, with a look and a clearing of the throat that raised great expectations in the breasts of the listeners, "you must know that for a long while before the battle Lord Nelson had bin scourin' the seas, far and near, in search o' the French and Spanish fleets, but do what he would, he could never fall in with 'em. At last he got wind of 'em in Cadiz Harbour, and made all sail to catch 'em. It was on the 19th of October 1805 that Villeneuve, that was the French admiral, put to sea with the combined fleets o' France and Spain. It wasn't till daybreak of the 21st that we got sight of 'em, right ahead, formed in close line, about twelve miles to lee'ard, standin' to the s'uth'ard, off Cape Trafalgar.

"Ha, John Adams, an' boys an' girls all, you should have seen that sight; it would have done you good. An' you should have felt our buzzums; they was fit to bust, I tell you! You see, we'd bin chasin' of 'em so long, that we could scarce believe our eyes when we saw 'em at long last. They wor bigger ships and more of 'em than ours; but what cared Nelson for that? not the shank of a brass button! he rather liked that sort o' thing; for, you know, one Englishman is equal to three Frenchmen any day."

"No, no, Jack Brace," said John Adams, with a quiet smile and shake of the head; "'snot quite so many as that."

"Not quite!" repeated Brace, vehemently; "why, it's my opinion that I could lick any six o' the Mounseers myself. Thursday November Christian there -- "

"He ain't November yet," interrupted Adams, quietly, "he's only October."

"No matter, it's all the same. I tell 'ee, John, that he could wallop twenty of 'em, easy. There ain't no go in 'em at all."

"Didn't you tell me, Jack Brace, that Trafalgar was a glorious battle?"

"In coorse I did, for so it was."

"Didn't the Frenchmen stick to their guns like men?"

"No doubt of it."

"An' they didn't haul down their colours, I suppose, till they was about blown to shivers?"

"You're about right there, John Adams."

"Well, then, you can't say they've got no go in 'em. Don't underrate your enemy, whatever you do, for it's not fair; besides, in so doin' you underrate your own deeds. Moreover, we don't allow boastin' aboard of this island; so go ahead, Jack Brace, and tell us what you did do, without referrin' to what you think you could do. Mind, I'm king here, and I'll have to clap you in irons if you let your tongue wag too freely."

"All right, your majesty," replied Brace, with a bow of graceful humility, which deeply impressed his juvenile audience; "I'll behave better in futur' if you'll forgive me this time. Well, as I was about to say, when you sent that round shot across my bows and brought me up, Nelson he would have fought 'em if they'd had ten times the number o' ships that we had. As it was, the enemy had thirty-three sail of the line and seven frigates. We had only twenty-seven sail of the line and four frigates, so we was outnumbered by nine vessels. Moreover the enemy had 4000 lobsters on board -- "

"Lobsters bein' land sodgers, my dears," remarked Adams, in explanation, "so-called 'cause of their bein' all red-coated; but the French sodgers are only red-trousered, coats bein' blue. Axin' your pardon, Brace, go on."

The seaman, who had availed himself of the interruption to stir up and stuff down his pipe, resumed.

"Likewise one of their line-o'-battle ships was a huge four-decker, called the Santissima Trinidad, and they had some of the best Tyrolese riflemen that could be got scattered throughout the fleet, as we afterwards came to find out to our cost.

"Soon after daylight Nelson came on deck. I see him as plain as if he was before me at this moment, for, bein' stationed in the mizzen-top o' the Victory -- that was Nelson's ship, you know -- I could see everything quite plain. He stood there for a minute or so, with his admiral's frock-coat covered with orders on the left breast, and his empty right sleeve fastened up to it; for you must know he had lost his right arm in action before that, and also his right eye, but the arm and eye that were left were quite enough for him to work with. After a word or two with the officers, he signalled to bear down on the enemy in two lines.

"Then it seemed to have occurred to him that the smoke of battle might render the signals difficult or impossible to make out, for he immediately made one that would serve for everything. It was this: 'if signals can't be seen, no captain can do wrong if he places his ship alongside an enemy.' Of coorse we all knew that he meant to win that battle; but, for the matter of that, every soul in the fleet, from the admiral to the smallest powder-monkey, meant -- "

"Boasting not allowed," said Dan McCoy, displaying his fine teeth from ear to ear.

The seaman looked at him with a heavy frown.

"You young slip of a pump-handle, what d'ye mean?"

"The king's orders," said Dan, pointing to Adams, while the rest of the Pitcairners seemed awestruck by his presumption.

The frown slowly left the visage of Jack Brace. He shut his eyes, smiled benignly, and delivered a series of heavy puffs from the starboard side of his mouth.

Then a little squeak that had been bottled up in the nose of Otaheitan Sally forced a vent, and the whole party burst into hilarious laughter.

"Just so," resumed Brace, when they had recovered, "that is exactly what we did in the mizzen-top o' the Victory when we made out the signal, only we stuck a cheer on to the end o' the laugh. After that came another signal, just as we were about to go into action, 'England expects that every man will this day do his duty.' The effect of that signal was just treemendious, I tell you.

"I noticed at this time that some of Nelson's officers were botherin' him, -- tryin' to persuade him, so to speak, to do somethin' he didn't want to. I afterwards found out that they were tryin' to persuade him not to wear his orders, but he wouldn't listen to 'em. Then they tried to convince him it would be wise for him to keep out of action as long as possible. He seemed to give in to this, for he immediately signalled the Temeraire and Leviathan, which were abreast of us, to pass ahead; but in my opinion this was nothin' more than a sly joke of the Admiral, for he kept carrying on all sail on the Victory, so that it wasn't possible for these ships to obey the order.

"We made the attack in two lines. The Victory led the weather-line of fourteen ships, and Collingwood, in the Royal Sovereign, led the lee-line of thirteen ships.

"As we bore down, the enemy opened the ball. We held our breath, for, as no doubt you know, messmate, just before the beginnin' of a fight, when a man is standin' still an' doin' nothin', he's got time to think; an' he does think, too, in a way, mayhap, that he's not much used to think."

"That's true, Jack Brace," responded Adams, with a grave nod; "an', d'ye know, it strikes me that it would be better for all of us if we'd think oftener in that fashion when we've got time to do it."

"You're right, John Adams; you're right. Hows'ever, we hadn't much time to think that morning, for the shot soon began to tell. One round shot came, as it seemed, straight for my head, but it missed me by a shave, an' only took off the hat of a man beside me that was about a fut shorter than myself.

"'You see the advantage,' says he, 'o' bein' a little feller.' 'That's so,' says I, but I didn't say or think no more that I knows on after that, for we had got within musket range, and the small bullets went whistling about our heads, pickin' off or woundin' a man here an' there.

"It was just then that I thought it time to put my pipe in my pocket, for, you see, I had been havin' a puff on the sly as we was bearin' down; an' I put up my fore-finger to shove the baccy down, when one o' them stingin' little things comes along, whips my best cutty out o' my mouth, an' carries the finger along with it. Of coorse I warn't goin' below for such a small matter, so I pulls out my hankerchief, an' says I to the little man that lost his hat, 'Just take a round turn here, Jim,' says I, 'an' I'll be ready for action again in two minutes.' Jim, he tied it up, but before he quite done it, the round shot was pitchin' into us like hail, cuttin' up the sails and riggin' most awful.

"They told me afterwards that Nelson gave orders to steer straight for the bow of the great Santissima Trinidad, and remarked, 'It's too warm work to last long,' but he did not return a single shot, though about fifty of our men had been killed and wounded. You see, he never was fond of wastin' powder an' shot. He generally reserved his fire till it could be delivered with stunnin' effect.

"Just then a round shot carried away our main-topmast with all her stun-s'ls an' booms. By good luck, however, we were close alongside o' the enemy's ship Redoubtable by that time. Our tiller ropes were shot away too, but it didn't matter much now. The word was given, and we opened with both broadsides at once. You should have felt the Victory tremble, John Adams. We tackled the Redoubtable with the starboard guns, and the Bucentaur and Santissima Trinidad with the port guns. Of course they gave it us hot and strong in reply. At the same time Captain Hardy, in the Temeraire, fell on board the Redoubtable on her other side, and the Fougueux, another o' the enemy, fell on board the Temeraire; so there we were four ships abreast -- a compact tier --  blazin' into each other like mad, with the muzzles of the guns touchin' the sides when they were run out, an' men stationed with buckets at the ports, to throw water into the shot-holes to prevent their takin' fire.

"It was awful work, I tell you, with the never-stopping roar of great guns and rattle of small arms, an' the smoke, an' the decks slippery with blood. The order was given to depress our guns and load with light charges of powder, to prevent the shot going right through the enemy into our own ship on the other side.

"The Redoubtable flew no colours, so we couldn't tell when she struck, and twice the Admiral, wishing to spare life, gave orders to cease firing, thinking she had given in. But she had not done so, and soon after a ball from her mizzen-top struck Nelson on the left shoulder, and he fell. They took him below at once.

"Of course we in the mizzen-top knew nothing of this, for we couldn't see almost anything for the smoke, only here and there a bit of a mast, or a yard-arm, or a bowsprit, while the very air trembled with the tremendous and continuous roar.

"We were most of us wounded by that time, more or less, but kept blazing away as long as we could stand. Then there came cheers of triumph mingling with the shouts and cries of battle. The ships of the enemy were beginning to strike. One after another the flags went down. Before long the cry was, 'Five have struck!' then 'Ten, hurrah!' then fifteen, then twenty, hurrah!"

"Hurrah! Old England for ever!" cried Adams, starting to his feet and waving his hat in a burst of irrepressible excitement, which roused the spirits of the youths around, who, leaping up with flushed faces and glittering eyes, sent up from the groves of Pitcairn a vigorous British cheer in honour of the great victory of Trafalgar.

"But," continued Jack Brace, when the excitement had abated, "there was great sorrow mingled with our triumph that day, for Nelson, the hero of a hundred fights, was dead. The ball had entered his spine. He lived just long enough to know that our victory was complete, and died thanking God that he had done his duty."

"That was truly a great battle," said Adams, while Brace, having concluded, was refilling his pipe.

"Right you are, John," said the other; "about the greatest victory we ever gained. It has settled the fleets of France and Spain, I guess, for the next fifty years."

"But what was it all for?" asked Bessy Mills, looking up in the sailor's face with much simplicity.

"What was it for?" repeated Brace, with a perplexed look. "Why, my dear, it was -- it was for the honour and glory of Old England, to be sure."

"No, no, Jack, not quite that," interposed Adams, with a laugh, "it was to clap a stopper on the ambition of the French, as far as I can make out; or rather to snub that rascal Napoleon Bonnypart, an' keep him within bounds."

"But he ain't easy to keep within bounds," said Brace, putting his pipe in his pocket and rising; "for he's been knockin' the lobsters of Europe over like ninepins of late years. Hows'ever, we'll lick him yet on land, as we've licked him already on the sea, or my name's not -- "

He stopped abruptly, having caught sight of Dan McCoy's twinkling eye.

"Now, John Adams, I must go, else the Cap'n'll think I've deserted altogether."

"Oh, don't go yet; please don't!" pleaded Dolly Young, as she grasped and fondled the seaman's huge hand.

Dolly was at that time about nine years of age, and full of enthusiasm. She was seconded in her entreaties by Dinah Adams, who seized the other hand, while several of the older girls sought to influence him by words and smiles; but Jack Brace was not to be overcome.

"I'll be ashore again to-morrow, p'r'aps, with the Captain, if he lands," said Brace, "and spin you some more yarns about the wars."

With this promise they were obliged to rest content. In a few minutes the visitor was carried over the surf by Toc and Charlie in their canoe, and soon put on board the Topaz, which stood inshore to receive him.



Chapter Thirty.

Adams And The Girls.

Great was the interest aroused on board the Topaz when Jack Brace narrated his experiences among the islanders, and Captain Folger resolved to pay them a visit. He did so next day, accompanied by the Englishman and some of the other men, the sight of whom gladdened the eyes and hearts of Adams and his large family.

Besides assuring himself of the truth of Brace's statements, the Captain obtained additional proof of the truth of Adams's account of himself and his community in the form of the chronometer and azimuth compass of the Bounty.

"How many did you say your colony consists of?" asked Folger.

"Thirty-five all told, sir," answered Adams; "but I fear we shall be only thirty-four soon."

"How so?"

"One of our lads, a dear boy of about eight years of age, is dying, I fear," returned Adams, sadly.

"I'm sorry to hear it, and still more sorry that I have no doctor in my ship," said Folger, "but I have a smatterin' of doctors' work myself. Let me see him."

Adams led the way to the hut where poor James Young lay, tenderly nursed by Mary Christian. The boy was lying on his bed as they entered, gazing wistfully out at the little window which opened from the side of it like the port-lights or bull's-eyes of a ship's berth. His young nurse sat beside him with the Bounty Bible open on her knees. She shut it and rose as the strangers entered.

The poor invalid was too weak to take much interest in them. He was extremely thin, and breathed with great difficulty. Nevertheless his face flushed, and a gleam of surprise shot from his eyes as he turned languidly towards the Captain.

"My poor boy," said Folger, taking his hand and gently feeling his pulse, "do you suffer much?"

"Yes, -- very much," said little James, with a sickly smile.

"Can you rest at all?" asked the Captain.

"I am -- always -- resting," he replied, with a pause between each word; "resting -- on Jesus."

The Captain was evidently surprised by the answer.

"Who told you about Jesus?" he asked.

"God's book -- and -- the Holy -- Spirit."

It was obvious that the exertion of thinking and talking was not good for poor little James. Captain Folger therefore, after smoothing the hair on his forehead once or twice very tenderly, bade him good-bye, and went out.

"Doctors could do nothing for the child," he said, while returning with Adams to his house; "but he is rather to be envied than pitied. I would give much for the rest which he apparently has found."

"Give much!" exclaimed Adams, with an earnest look. "Rest in the Lord is not to be purchased by gifts. Itself is the grand free gift of God to man, to be had for the asking."

"I know it," was the Captain's curt reply, as he entered Adams's house. "Where got you the chronometer and azimuth compass?" he said, on observing these instruments.

"They belonged to the Bounty. You are heartily welcome to both of them if you choose; they are of no use to me." [See Note.]

Folger accepted the gift, and promised to write to England and acquaint the Government with his discovery of the colony.

"You see, sir," said Adams, with a grave look, while hospitably entertaining his visitor that afternoon, "we are increasing at a great rate, and although they may perhaps take me home and swing me up to the yard-arm, I think it better to run the risk o' that than to leave all these poor young things here unprotected. Why, just think what might happen if one o' them traders which are little better than pirates were to come an' find us here."

He looked at the Captain earnestly.

"Now, if we were under the protection o' the British flag -- only just recognised, as it were, -- that would go a long way to help us, and prevent mischief."

At this point the importunities of some of the young people to hear about the outside world prevailed, and Folger began, as Jack Brace had done the day before, to tell them some of the most stirring events in the history of his own land.

But he soon found out that the mental capacity of the Pitcairners was like a bottomless pit. However much they got, they wanted more. Anecdote after anecdote, story after story, fact after fact, was thrown into the gulf, and still the cry was, "More! more!"

At last he tore himself away.

"Good-bye, and God bless you all," he said, while stepping into the canoe which was to carry him off. "I won't forget my promise."

"And tell 'em to send us story-books," shouted Daniel McCoy, as the canoe rose on the back of the breakers.

The Captain waved his hand. Most of the women and children wiped their eyes, and then they all ran to the heights to watch the Topaz as she sailed away. They watched her till she vanished over that mysterious horizon which seemed to the Pitcairners the utmost boundary of the world, and some of them continued to gaze until the stars came out, and the gulls retired to bed, and the soft black mantle of night descended like a blessing of tranquillity on land and sea.

Before bidding the Topaz farewell, we may remark that Captain Folger faithfully fulfilled his promise. He wrote a letter to England giving a full account of his discovery of the retreat of the mutineers, which aroused much interest all over the land; but at that time the stirring events of warfare filled the minds of men in Europe so exclusively, that the lonely island and its inhabitants were soon forgotten -- at least no action was taken by the Government -- and six years elapsed before another vessel sailed out of the great world into the circle of vision around Pitcairn.

Meanwhile the Pitcairners, knowing that, even at the shortest, a long, long time must pass before Folger could communicate with the "old country," continued the even tenor of their innocent lives.

The school prospered and became a vigorous institution. The church not less so. More children were born to Thursday October, insomuch that he at last had one for every working-day in the week; more yam-fields were cultivated, and more marriages took place -- but hold, this is anticipating.

We have said that the school prospered. The entire community went to it, male and female, old and young. John Adams not only taught his pupils all he knew, but set himself laboriously to acquire all the knowledge that was to be obtained by severe study of the Bible, the Prayer-book. Carteret's Voyages, and by original meditation. From the first mine he gathered and taught the grand, plain, and blessed truths about salvation through Jesus, together with a few tares of error resulting from misconception and imperfect reasoning. From the second he adopted the forms of worship of the Church of England. From the third he gleaned and amplified a modicum of nautical, geographical, and general information; and from the fourth he extracted a flood of miscellaneous, incomplete, and disjointed facts, fancies, and fallacies, which at all events served the good purpose of interesting his pupils and exercising their mental powers.

But into the midst of all this life death stepped and claimed a victim. The great destroyer came not, however, as an enemy but as a friend, to raise little James Young to that perfect rest of which he had already had a foretaste on the island.

It was the first death among the second generation, and naturally had a deeply solemnising effect on the young people. This occurred soon after the departure of the Topaz. The little grave was made under the shade of a palm-grove, where wild-flowers grew in abundance, and openings in the leafy canopy let in the glance of heaven's blue eye.

One evening, about six months after this event, Adams went up the hill to an eminence to which he was fond of retiring when a knotty problem in arithmetic had to be tackled. Arithmetic was his chief difficulty. The soliloquy which he uttered on reaching his place of meditation will explain his perplexities.

"That 'rithmetic do bother me, an' no mistake," he said, with a grave shake of the head at a lively lizard which was looking up in his face. "You see, history is easy. What I knows I knows an' can teach, an' what I don't know I let alone, an there's an end on't. There's no makin' a better o' that. Then, as to writin', though my hand is crabbed enough, and my pot-hooks are shaky and sprawly, still I know the shapes o' things, an' the youngsters are so quick that they can most of 'em write better than myself; but in regard to that 'rithmetic, it's a heartbreak altogether, for I've only just got enough of it to puzzle me. Wi' the use o' my fingers I can do simple addition pretty well, an' I can screw round subtraction, but multiplication's a terrible business. Unfort'nitely my edication has carried me only the length o' the fourth line, an' that ain't enough."

He paused, and the lively lizard, ready to fly at a moment's notice, put its head on one side as if interested in the man's difficulty.

"Seven times eight, now," continued Adams. "I've no more notion what that is than the man in the moon. An' I've no table to tell me, an' no way o' findin' it out -- eh? Why, yes I have. I'll mark 'em down one at a time an' count 'em up."

He gave his thigh a slap, which sent the lively lizard into his hole, horrified.

"Poor thing, I didn't mean that," he said to the absent animal. "Hows'ever, I'll try it. Why, I'll make a multiplication-table for myself. Strange that that way never struck me before."

As he went on muttering he busied himself in rubbing clean a flat surface of rock, on which, with a piece of reddish stone, he made a row of eight marks, one below another. Alongside of that he made another row of eight marks, and so on till he had put down seven rows, when he counted them up, and found the result to be fifty-six. This piece of acquired knowledge he jotted down in a little notebook, which, with a quantity of other stationery, had originally belonged to that great fountain of wealth, the Bounty.

"Why, I'll make out the whole table in this way," he said, quite heartily, as he sat down again on the flat rock and went to work.

Of course he found the process laborious, especially when he got among the higher numbers; but Adams was not a man to be turned from his purpose by trifles. He persevered until his efforts were crowned with success.

While he was engaged with the multiplication problem on that day, he was interrupted by the sound of merry voices, and soon Otaheitan Sally, Bessy Mills, May Christian, Sarah Quintal, and his own daughter Dinah, came tripping up the hill towards him.

These five, ranging from fifteen to nineteen, were fond of rambling through the woods in company, being not only the older members of the young flock, but like-minded in many things. Sally was looked up to by the other four as being the eldest and wisest, as well as the most beautiful; and truly, the fine clear complexion of the pretty brunette contrasted well with their fairer skins and golden or light-brown locks.

"We came up to have a chat with you, father," said Sally, as they drew near. "Are you too busy to be bothered with us?"

"Never too busy to chat with such dear girls," said the gallant seaman, throwing down his piece of red chalk, and taking one of Sally's hands in his. "Sit down, Sall; sit down, May, on the other side -- there. Now, what have you come to chat about?"

"About that dear Topaz, of course, and that darling Captain Folger, and Jack Brace, and all the rest of them," answered Sarah Quintal, with sparkling eyes.

"Hallo, Sarah! you've sent your heart away with them, I fear," said Adams.

"Not quite, but nearly," returned Sarah. "I would give anything if the whole crew would only have stayed with us altogether."

"Oh! how charming! delightful! so nice!" exclaimed three of the others. Sally said nothing, but gave a little smile, which sent a sparkle from her pearly teeth that harmonised well with the gleam of her laughter-loving eyes.

"No doubt," said Adams, with a peculiar laugh; "but, I say, girls, you must not go on thinking for ever about that ship. Why, it is six months or more since it left us, and you are all as full of it as if it had sailed but yesterday."

"How can we help it, father?" said Sally. "It is about the most wonderful thing that has happened since we were born, and you can't expect us to get it out of our heads easily."

"And how can we help thinking, and talking too," said Bessy Mills, "about all the new and strange things that Jack Brace related to us?"

"Besides, father," said Dinah, "you are quite as bad as we are, for you talk about nothing else now, almost, except Lord Nelson and the battles of the Nile and Trafalgar."

"Come, come, Di; don't be hard on me. I don't say much about them battles now."

"Indeed you do," cried May Christian, "and it is only last night that I heard you muttering something about Trafalgar in your sleep, and you suddenly broke out with a half-muttered shout like this: 'Englan' 'specs every man'll do's dooty!'"

May was not a bad mimic. This was received with a shout of laughter by the other girls.

While they were conversing thus two tall and slim but broad-shouldered youths were seen climbing the hill towards them, engaged in very earnest conversation. And this reference to conversation reminds us of the curious fact that the language of the young Pitcairners had greatly improved of late. As they had no other living model to improve upon than John Adams, this must have been entirely the result of reading. Although the books they had were few, they proved to be sufficient not only to fill their minds with higher thoughts, but their mouths with purer English than that nautical type which had been peculiar to the mutineers.

The tall striplings who now approached were Daniel McCoy and Charlie Christian. These two were great friends and confidants. We will not reveal the subject of their remarkably earnest conversation, but merely give the concluding sentences.

"Well, Charlie," said Dan, as they came in view of the knoll on which Adams and the girls were seated, "we will pluck up courage and make a dash at it together."

"Ye-es," said Charlie, with hesitation.

"And shall we break the ice by referring to Toc's condition, eh?" said Dan.

"Well, it seems to me the easiest plan; perhaps I should say the least difficult," returned Charlie, with a faint smile.

"Come, don't lose heart, Charlie," said Dan, with an attempt to look humorous, which signally failed.

"Hallo, lads! where away?" said Adams, as they came up.

"Just bin havin' a walk and a talk, father," answered Dan. "We saw you up here, and came to walk back with you."

"I'm not so sure that we'll let you. The girls and I have been having a pleasant confab, an' p'r'aps they don't want to be interrupted."

"Oh, we don't mind; they may come," said Di Adams, with a laugh.

So the youths joined the party, and they all descended the mountain in company.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

A footnote in Lady Belcher's book tells us that this chronometer had been twice carried out by Captain Cook on his voyages of discovery. It was afterwards supplied to the Bounty when she was fitted out for what was to be her last voyage, and carried by the mutineers to Pitcairn Island. Captain Folger brought it away, but it was taken from him the same year by the governor of Juan Fernandez, and sold in Chili to A Caldeleugh, Esquire, of Valparaiso, from whom it was purchased by Captain, (afterwards Admiral), Sir T. Herbert for fifty guineas. That officer took it to China, and in 1843 brought it to England and transmitted it to the Admiralty, by which department it was presented to the United Service Museum, in Great Scotland Yard, where the writer saw it only a few days ago, and was told that it keeps excellent time still.



Chapter Thirty One.

Treats Of Interesting Matters.

Of course Charlie Christian gravitated towards Sally, and these two, falling slowly behind the rest, soon turned aside, and descended by another of the numerous paths which traversed that part of the mountain.

Of course, also, Daniel McCoy drew near to Sarah Quintal, and these two, falling slowly behind, sought another of the mountain-paths. It will be seen that these young people were charmingly unsophisticated.

For a considerable time Charlie walked beside Sally without uttering a word, and Sally, seeing that there was something on his mind, kept silence. At last Charlie lifted his eyes from the ground, and with the same innocent gaze with which, as an infant, he had been wont to look up to his guardian, he now looked down at her, and said, "Sally."

"Well, Charlie?"

There was a little smile lurking about the corners of the girl's mouth, which seemed to play hide-and-seek with the twinkle in her downcast eyes.

"Well, Charlie, what are you going to tell me?"

"Isn't Toc -- very -- happy?"

He blushed to the roots of his hair when he said this, and dropped his eyes again on the ground.

"Of course he is," replied Sally, with a touch of surprise.

"But -- but -- I mean, as -- "

"Well, why don't you go on, Charlie?"

"I mean as a -- a married man."

"Every one sees and knows that, Charlie." There was another silence, during which the timid youth cleared his throat several times. At last he became desperate.

"And -- and -- Sally, don't you think that other people might be happy too if they were married?"

"To be sure they might," said the girl, with provoking coolness. "There's Dan McCoy, now, and Sarah Quintal, they will be very happy when -- "

"Why, how do you know?" -- Charlie spoke with a look of surprise and stopped short.

The girl laughed in a low tone, but did not reply, and the youth, becoming still more desperate, said -- 

"But I -- I didn't mean Dan and Sarah, when I -- Oh, Sally, don't you know that I love you?"

"Yes, I know that," replied the girl, with a blush and a little tremulous smile. "I couldn't help knowing that."

"Have I made it so plain, then?" he asked, in surprise.

"Haven't you followed me ever since you were a staggerer?" asked Sally, with a simple look.

"O yes, of course -- but -- but I love you far far more now. In short, I want to marry you, Sally."

He had reached the culminating point at last. "Well, Charlie, why don't you ask father's leave?" said the maiden.

"And you agree?" he exclaimed, timidly taking her hand.

"Oh, Charlie," returned Sally, looking up in his face, with an arch smile, "how stupid you are! Nothing goes into your dear head without such a deal of hammering. Will you never become wise, and -- "

Charlie became wise at last, and stopped her impudent mouth effectively; but she broke from him and ran into the woods, while he went down to the village to tell Adams.

Meanwhile Daniel McCoy led Sarah Quintal by a round-about path to the cliffs above Pitcairn.

Pretty little Sarah was timid, and had a vague suspicion of something that caused her heart to flutter.

"I say, Sarah," said the bold and stalwart Dan, "did you ever see such a jolly couple as Toc and his wife before?"

"I never saw any couple before, you know," replied the girl, simply, "except father Adams and his wife."

"Well, they are an oldish couple," returned Dan, with a laugh; "but it's my opinion that before long you'll see a good many more couples -- young ones, too."

"Indeed," said Sarah, becoming much interested, for this was the first time that any young man had ventured to refer to such a subject, though she and her female companions had often canvassed the possibilities that surrounded them.

"Yes, indeed," returned Dan. "Let me see, now. There's Charlie Christian and Otaheitan Sally -- "

"Why, how did you come to know that?" asked Sarah, in genuine surprise.

Dan laughed heartily. "Come to know what?" he asked.

"That -- that he is fond of Sally," stammered Sarah.

"Why, everybody knows that," returned Dan; "the very gulls must be aware of it by this time, unless they are geese."

"Yes, of course," said the poor girl, blushing crimson at the thought of having been led almost to betray her friend's confidences.

"Well, then," continued Dan, "Charlie and Sall bein' so fond o' one another -- "

"I did not say that Sally was fond of Charlie," interrupted Sarah, quickly.

"Oh dear no!" said Dan, with deep solemnity; "of course you didn't; nevertheless I know it, and it wouldn't surprise me much if something came of it -- a wedding, for instance."

Sarah, being afraid to commit herself in some way if she opened her lips, said nothing, but gazed intently at the ground as they walked slowly among the sweet-scented shrubs.

"But there's one o' the boys that wants to marry you, Sarah Quintal, and it is for him I want to put in a good word to-day."

A flutter of surprise, mingled with dismay at her heart, tended still further to confuse the poor girl. Not knowing what to say, she stammered, "Indeed! Who can it -- it -- " and stopped short.

"They sometimes call him Dan," said the youth, suddenly grasping Sarah's hand and passing an arm round her waist, "but his full name is Daniel McCoy."

Sarah Quintal became as suddenly pale now as she had formerly become red, and struggled to get free.

"Oh, Dan, Dan, don't!" she cried, earnestly; "do let me go, if you love me!"

"Well, I will, if you say I may speak to Father Adams about it."

Sarah's answer was quite inaudible to ordinary ears, but it caused Dan to loosen his hold; and the girl, bounding away like a frightened gazelle, disappeared among the palm-groves.

"Well," exclaimed Dan, thrusting both hands into his trousers-pockets as he walked smartly down the hill, "you are the dearest girl in all the world. There can't be two opinions on that point."

Dan's world was a remarkably small one, as worlds go, but it was quite large enough to fill his heart to overflowing at that time.

In turning into another path he almost ran against Charlie Christian.

"Well?" exclaimed Charlie, with a brilliant smile. "Well?" repeated Dan, with a beaming countenance.

"All right," said Charlie.

"Ditto," said Dan, as he took his friend's arm, and hastened to the abode of John Adams, the great referee in all important matters.

They found him seated at his table, with the big Bible open before him.

"Well, my lads," he said, with a kindly smile as they entered, "you find me meditatin' over a verse that seems to me full o' suggestive thoughts."

"Yes, father, what is it?" asked Dan.

"'A prudent wife is from the Lord.' You'll find it in the nineteenth chapter o' Proverbs."

The youths looked at each other in great surprise. "It is very strange," said Charlie, "that you should hit upon that text to-day."

"Why so, Charlie?"

"Because -- because -- we came to -- that is to say, we want to -- "

"Get spliced, Charlie; out with it, man. You keep shuffling about the edge like a timid boy goin' to dive into deep water for the first time."

"Well, and so it is deep water," replied Charlie; "so deep that we can't fathom it easily; and this is the first time too."

"The fact is, you've come to tell me," said Adams, looking at Charlie, "that you want to marry Otaheitan Sally, and that Dan there wants to marry Sarah Quintal. Is it not so?"

"I think, father, you must be a wizard," said Dan, with a surprised look. "How did you come to guess it?"

"I didn't guess it, lad; I saw it as plain as the nose on your own face. Anybody could see it with half an eye. Why, I've seen it for years past; but that's not the point. The first question is, Are you able to feed your wives without requirin' them to work too hard in the fields?"

"Yes, father," answered Dan, promptly. "Charlie helped me, and I helped him, and so we've both got enough of land enclosed and stocked to keep our -- our -- wives comfortably," (even Dan looked modest here!) "without requiring them to work at all, for a long time at least."

"Well. I don't want 'em not to work at all -- that's good for neither man, nor woman, nor beast. Even child'n work hard, poor things, while playin' at pretendin' to work. However, I'm glad to hear you are ready. Of course I knew what you were up to all along. Now, you'll want to borrow a few odds an' ends from the general stock, therefore go an' make out lists of what you require, and I'll see about it. Is it long since you arranged it wi' the girls?"

"About half-an-hour," returned Dan.

"H'm! sharp practice. You'll be the better of meditation for a week or two. Now, get along with you, lads, and think of the word I have given you from God's book about marriage. I'll not keep you waitin' longer than I think right."

So Dan and Charlie left the presence-chamber of their nautical ruler, quite content to wait for a couple of weeks, having plenty to keep them employed, body and mind, in labouring in their gardens, perfecting the arrangements of their respective cottages, and making out lists of the various things they required to borrow. In all of which operations they were lovingly assisted by their intended wives, with a matter-of-fact gravity that would have been quite touching if it had not been half ridiculous.

The list of things to be borrowed was made out in accordance with a system of barter, exchange, and loan, which had begun in necessity, and was afterwards conducted on regular principles by Adams, who kept a systematic journal and record of accounts, in which he entered the nature and quantity of work performed by each family, what each had received, and what each was due on account. The exchanges also were made in a systematic manner. Thus, when one family had too many salt fish, and another had too much fruit or vegetables, a fair exchange restored the equilibrium to the satisfaction of both parties; and when the stores of one family were exhausted, a fresh supply was raised for it from the general possessions of all the rest, to be repaid, however, in exact measure when the suffering family should be again in affluence, through good harvests and hard work. All details were minutely noted down by Adams, so that injustice to individuals or to the community at large was avoided.

It is interesting to trace, in this well-conducted colony, the great root-principles on which the colossal system of the world's commerce and trade has been reared, and to recognise in John Adams the germs of those principles of equity and method which have raised England to her high commercial position. But still more interesting is it to recognise in him that good seed, the love of God and His truth, spiritual, intellectual, and material, which, originated by the Holy Spirit, and founded in Jesus Christ, produces the "righteousness that exalteth a nation."

When the short period of probation was past, Charlie Christian became the happy husband of the girl whom he had all but worshipped from the earliest rememberable days of infancy, and Dan McCoy was united to Sarah Quintal. As in the first case of marriage, Otaheitan Sall was older than her husband; but in her case the difference was so slight as scarcely to be worth mentioning. As to appearance, tall, serious, strapping Charlie looked old enough to have been Sally's father.

The wedding-day was a day of great rejoicing, considerable solemnity, and not a little fun; for the religion of the Pitcairners, being drawn direct from the inspired Word, was the reverse of dolorous. Indeed, the simplicity of their faith was extreme, for it consisted in merely asking the question, "What does God wish me to do?" and doing it.

Of course the simplicity of this rule was, in Pitcairn as elsewhere, unrecognised by ignorance, or rendered hazy and involved by stupidity. Adams had his own difficulties in combating the effects of evil in the hearts of his children, for, as we have said before, they were by no means perfect, though unusually good.

For instance, one day one of those boys who was passing into the hobbledehoy stage of life, came with a perplexed air, and said -- 

"Didn't you tell us in school yesterday, father, that if we were good Jesus would save us?"

"No, Jack Mills, I told you just the reverse. I told you that if Jesus saved you you would be good."

"Then why doesn't He save me and make me good?" asked Jack, anxious to cast the blame of his indecision about his salvation off his own shoulders.

"Because you refuse to be saved," said Adams, pointedly.

Jack Mills felt and looked somewhat hurt at this. He was one of the steadiest boys at the school, always learned his tasks well, and was generally pretty well behaved; but there was in him an ugly, half-hidden root of selfishness, which he did not himself perceive.

"Do you remember going to the shore yesterday?" asked Adams, replying to the look, -- for the boy did not speak.

"Yes, father."

"And you remember that two little boys had just got into a canoe, and were pushing off to enjoy themselves, when you ran down, turned them out, and took the canoe to yourself?"

Jack did not reply; but his flushed face told that he had not forgotten the incident.

"That's right, dear boy," continued Adam, "Your blood tells the truth for you, and your tongue don't contradict it. So long's you keep the unruly member straight you'll get along. Well, now, Jack, that was a sin of unkindness, and a sort of robbery, too, for the canoe belonged to the boys while they had possession. Did you want to be saved from that sin, my boy?"

Jack was still silent. He knew that he had not wished to be saved at the time, because, if he had, he would have at once returned to the shore and restored the canoe, with an apology for having taken it by force.

"But I was sorry afterwards, father," pleaded the boy.

"I know you were, Jack, and your guilty conscience longed for forgiveness. But Jesus did not come to this world to forgive us. He came to save us -- to save this people from their sins; His people, -- forgiven people, my boy, -- from their sins. If you had looked to Jesus, He would have sent His Spirit into you, and brought His Word to your mind, 'Be ye kind one to another,' or, 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them:' or in some way or other He would have turned you back and saved you from sin, but you did not look to Jesus; in short, you refused to be saved just then, and thought to make up for it by being sorry afterwards. Isn't that the way of it, Jack?"

"Yes, father," said Jack, with downcast but no longer hurt looks, for Adams's tone and manner were very kind.

"Then you know now, Jack Mills, why you're not yet saved, and you can't be good till you are saved, any more than you can fly till you've got wings. But don't be cast down, my lad; He will save you yet. All you've got to do is to cease your opposition, and let Him take you in hand."

Thus, or in some such way, did this God-appointed pastor lead his little flock from day to day and year to year.

But to return from this digression.

We have said that the double wedding-day was one of mingled rejoicing, solemnity, and fun. If you insist on further explanation, good reader, and want to know something more about the rejoicing, we can only direct you to yonder clump of blossoming plants in the shade of the palm-grove. There you will find Charlie Christian looking timidly down into the gorgeous orbs of Otaheitan Sally as they hold sweet converse of things past, present, and to come. They have been so trained in ways of righteousness, that the omission of the world-to-come from their love-making, (not flirtation, observe), would be as ridiculous as the absence of reference to the wedding-day.

On the other side of the same knoll Daniel McCoy sits by the side of modest Sarah Quintal, his only half-tamed spirit torn by the conflicting emotions aroused by a compound of jollity, love, joy, thankfulness, and fun, which render his words too incoherent to be worthy of record.

In regard to solemnity, reader, we refer you to the little school-room, which also serves for a chapel, where John Adams, in tones befitting a bishop and with feelings worthy of an apostle, reads the marriage service in the midst of the assembled population of the island. He has a brass curtain-ring which did duty at the marriage of Thursday October Christian, and which is destined to do duty in similar circumstances in many coming years. The knots are soon tied. There are no sad tears, for at Pitcairn there are no partings of parents and children, but there are many tears of joy, for Adams's words are telling though few, and his prayers are brief but deeply impressive, while the people, young and middle-aged, are powerfully sympathetic. The most of the girls break down when Adams draws to an abrupt close, and most of the youths find it hard to behave like men.

They succeed, however, and then the wedding party goes off to have a spell of fun.

If you had been there, reader, to behold things for yourself, it is not improbable that some of the solemnity of the wedding would have been scattered, (for you, at least), and some of the fun introduced too soon, for the costumes of the chief actors were not perfect; indeed, not quite appropriate, according to our ideas of the fitness of things.

It is not that we could object to the bare feet of nearly all the party, for to such we are accustomed among our own poor. Neither could we find the slightest fault with the brides. Their simple loose robes, flowing hair, and wreaths of natural flowers, were in perfect keeping with the beauty of their faces. But the garb of guileless Charlie Christian was incongruous, to say the least of it. During the visit of the Topaz a few old clothes had been given by the seamen to the islanders, and Charlie had become the proud possessor of a huge black beaver hat, which had to be put on sidewise to prevent its settling down on the back of his neck; also, of a blue dress-coat with brass buttons, the waist and sleeves of which were much too short, and the tails unaccountably long; likewise, of a pair of Wellington boots, the tops of which did not, by four inches, reach the legs of his native trousers, and therefore displayed that amount of brawny, well-made limbs, while the absence of a vest and the impossibility of buttoning the coat left a broad, sunburnt expanse of manly chest exposed to view. But such is the difference of opinion resulting from difference of custom, that not a muscle of any face moved when he appeared, save in open admiration, though there was just the shade of a twinkle for one moment in the eye of John Adams, for he had seen other, though not better, days.

Even Dan's excitable sense of the ridiculous was not touched. Himself, indeed, was a greater guy than Charlie, for he wore a richly-flowered vest, so tight that it would hardly button, and had been split up the back while being put on. As he wore a shell-jacket, much too short for him, this accident to the vest and a portion of his powerful back were clearly revealed.

But these things were trifles on that great day, and when the fun did begin, it was kept up with spirit. First, the greater part of the population went to the beach for a little surf-sliding. It is not necessary to repeat our description of that exercise. The waves were in splendid order.

It seemed as if the great Pacific itself were pulsating with unwonted joy. The billows were bigger grander, almost slower and more sedate than usual. Outside it was dead calm. The fall of each liquid wall was more thunderous, its roar more deep-toned, and the confusion of the surf more riotous than ever. For average rejoicers this exercise might in itself have sufficed for one day, but they were used to it, and wanted variety; so the youths took to racing on the sands, and the maidens to applauding, while the elderly looked on and criticised. The small children went, loosely speaking, mad.

Some there were who went off on their own accounts, and cast a few of those shadows which are said to precede "coming events." Others, less poetically inclined just then, remained in the village to prepare roast pig, yam-pie, and those various delicacies compounded of fruits and vegetables, which they knew from experience would be in great demand ere long.

As evening descended they all returned to the village, and at sunset hauled down their flag.

This flag, by the way, was another souvenir of the Topaz. It was an old Union Jack, for which Adams had set up a flagstaff, having by that time ceased to dread the approach of a ship. By Jack Brace he had been reminded of the date of the king's birthday, and by a strange coincidence that happened to be the very day on which the two couples were united. Hence there was a double, (perhaps we should say a treble), reason for rejoicing. As John Adams was now endeavouring to undo the evils of his former life, he naturally became an enthusiastic loyalist. On passing the flagstaff he called for three cheers for the British king, and with his own voice led off the first verse of the national anthem before hauling down the colours. Thereafter, assembling round the festive board in the school-room, they proceeded to take physical nourishment, with the memory of mental food strong upon them. Before the meal a profound hush fell on all the scene, and the deep voice of Adams was heard asking a blessing on the food they were about to receive. Thanks were returned with equal solemnity after meat. Then the tables were cleared, and games became the order of the evening. When a point of semi-exhaustion was reached, a story was called for, and the nautical pastor at once launched into oceans of imagination and fancy, in which he bid fair to be wrecked and drowned. During the recital of this the falling of a pin would have been heard, if there had been such a thing as a pin at Pitcairn to fall.

Last, but not least, came blind-man's-buff. This exhausted the last spark of physical energy left even in the strongest. But the mental and spiritual powers were still vigorous, so that when they all sat down in quiescence round the room, and Toc took down the family Bible from its accustomed shelf and set it before Adams, they were all, young and old, in a suitable state of mind to join in the worship of Him who had given them the capacity, as well as the opportunity, to enjoy that glorious and ever memorable day.



Chapter Thirty Two.

Another Visit From The Great World.

If ever there had been a doubt of the truth of the proverb that example is better than precept, the behaviour of the young men and maidens of Pitcairn, after the wedding just described, would have cleared that doubt away for ever.

The demands upon poor Adams's services became ridiculous, insomuch that he began to make laws somewhat in the spirit of the Medo-Persic lawmakers, and sternly refused to allow any man to marry under the age of twenty years, or any woman under eighteen. Even with this drag on the wheels, the evil -- if evil it were -- did not abate, but as time went on, steadily increased. It seemed as if, the ice having been broken, the entire population kept on tumbling into the water.

Among others, our once little friend Matthew Quintal married Bessy Mills.

The cares of the little colony now began to tell heavily on John Adams, for he was what is termed a willing horse, and would not turn over to another the duties which he could perform with his own hands. Besides acting the part of pastor, schoolmaster, law-maker, and law-enforcer, he had to become the sympathetic counsellor of all who chose to call upon him; also public registrar of events, baptiser of infants, and medical practitioner. It is a question whether there ever was a man placed in so difficult and arduous a position as this last mutineer of the Bounty, and it is not a question at all, but an amazing and memorable fact, that he filled his unique post with statesmanlike ability.

As time went on, he, of course, obtained help, sympathy, and counsel from the men and women whom he had been training for God around him; but he seems to have been loath formally to hand over the helm, either wholly or in part, to any one else as long as he had strength to steer the ship.

We have said that England was too much engaged with her European wars to give much thought to this gem in her crown, which was thus gradually being polished to such a dazzling brightness. She knew it was but a little gem, if gem at all, and at such a distance did not see its brilliant sheen. Amid the smoke and turmoil of war she forgot it; yet the God of Battles and the Prince of Peace were winning a grand, moral, bloodless victory in that lonely little island.

It was not till the year 1814, six years after the visit of the Topaz, that the solitude of Pitcairn was again broken in upon by visitors from the outside world.

In that year two frigates, H.M.S. Britain and Tagus, commanded respectively by Captain Sir F. Staines and Captain Pipon, came unexpectedly on Pitcairn Island while in pursuit of an American ship, the Essex, which had been doing mischief among the British whalers.

It was evening when the ships sighted Pitcairn, and were observed by one of the almost innumerable youngsters with which the island had by that time been peopled. With blazing eyes and labouring breath, the boy rushed down the cliffs, bounded over the level ground, and burst into the village, shouting, "Ships!"

No warwhoop of Red Indians ever created greater excitement. Pitcairn swarmed at once to the cliffs with flushed faces, glittering eyes, and hopeful looks. Yes, there they were, and no mistake, -- two ships!

"They're men-o'-war, father," said Thursday October Christian, a little anxiously.

"So I see, lad; but I won't hide this time. I don't believe they'd think it worth while hangin' me now. Anyhow, I'll risk it."

Many of the people spent the whole of that night on the cliffs, for, as it was too late to attempt a landing, Captain Staines did not venture to approach till the following morning.

Soon after daybreak the ships were seen to stand inshore, and a canoe was launched through the surf to meet them. As on the occasion of the visit of the Topaz, Thursday was deputed to represent the islanders. He was accompanied by Edward Young, now a handsome youth of eighteen years of age. As on the previous boarding of a ship, Toc amazed the sailors by shouting in English to "throw him a rope." Being now possessed of a wardrobe, he had in his heart resolved to appear in a costume worthy of the great occasion. For this end he had put on a vest without sleeves, trousers that had done duty in the Topaz, and were much too short, and a beaver hat which he had jauntily ornamented with cock-tail feathers, and wore very much on the back of his head.

Thursday met the eager inquiries of Sir F. Staines with his usual good-humoured off-hand urbanity, and gave his name in full; but a sudden change came over his face while he spoke -- a look of amazement, mingled with alarm.

"Look! look there, Ned," he said, in a low tone, laying his hand on his comrade's shoulder and pointing towards a certain part of the ship. "What is that?"

Ned looked with an expression of awe in the direction indicated.

"What is it that puzzles you?" asked the Captain, not a little amused by their looks.

"The beast! the beast!" said Toc.

"What, d'you mean the cow?"

"Is it a cow?" asked Toc in wonder.

"Of course it is. Did you never see a cow before?"

"No, never. I thought it was a big goat, or a horned sow," returned the young man, as he approached the quiet animal cautiously. "I say, Ned, it's a cow! It don't look much like the things that father Adams used to draw, do it?"

Ned agreed that Adams's representation fell far short of the original, and for some time they stood cautiously examining the strange creature, and gently touching its sides.

Just then a little black terrier came bounding forward and frisked round the Captain.

"Ha!" exclaimed Edward Young, with an intelligent look, "I know that beast, Toc; it's a dog! I'm sure it is, for I have read of such things in Carteret, and father has described 'em often, so have the women. They have dogs, you know, on some islands."

But the surprise and interest raised in them by two animals were nothing to what they felt on being conducted over the ship and shown all the details of stores and armament in a man-of-war. The surprise changed sides, however, when, on being asked to partake of luncheon, these men stood up, clasped their hands, shut their eyes, and asked a blessing before commencing to eat, in the familiar phrase, "For what we are about to receive," etcetera.

Of course Captains Staines and Pipon went on shore, where they were received by Adams, hat in hand, and by the rest of the population down to the minutest infant, for no one would consent to miss the sight, and there was no sick person to be looked after. Up at the village the pigs and poultry had it all their own way, and made the most of their opportunity.

It was curious to mark the air of respect with which Adams regarded the naval uniform which had once been so familiar. As he stood conversing with the officers, he occasionally, in sailor-like fashion, smoothed down his scanty locks, for although little more than fifty at that time, care, sorrow, and anxiety had given his countenance an aged and worn look, though his frame was still robust and healthy.

In the course of the interview, Captain Pipon offered to give him a passage to England, with any of his family who chose to accompany him. To his surprise Adams at once expressed a desire to go.

We know not whether this was a piece of pleasantry on Adams's part, but when he sent for his old wife and daughters to tell them of it, the scene of distress that ensued baffles description. The old woman was in despair. Dinah Adams burst into tears, and entreated the officers not to take her dear father away. Her sister Rachel flung her arms round her father's neck and held on. Hannah Adams clasped her hands and wept in silent despair, and even George, at that time about ten years of age, and not at all given to the melting mood, felt a tear of sympathy trickling down his nose. Of course, when the cause of the ebullition became known, the whole Pitcairn colony was dissolved in tears or lamentations, insomuch that Adams gave up all idea of leaving them. We firmly believe that he never had any intention of doing so, but had merely thrown out the hint to see what effect it would have.

Like Captain Folger of the Topaz, the captains of the Britain and Tagus wrote eloquent and enthusiastic letters to the Admiralty about their discovery, but the dogs of war were still loose in Europe. Their Lordships at Whitehall had no time to devote to such matters, and once again the lonely island was forgotten.

It is a curious coincidence that death came close on the heels of this visit, as it had come on that of the Topaz. Scarcely had the two frigates left when Matthew Quintal took a fit while out fishing in his canoe and was drowned. About the same time Jack Mills was killed by falling from the rocks when out after gulls' eggs. Thus poor Bessy Quintal lost her husband and brother in the same year, but she was not without comfort. She had been early taught to carry her cares to Jesus, and found Him now a very present help. Besides, she had now two little sons, John and Matthew, who were old enough to fondle her and sympathise with her to some extent, though they scarce understood her sorrow; and her fast friend and comforter, Sally Christian, did not fail her in the hour of need. Indeed, that warm-hearted Otaheitan would have taken poor Bessy into her house to live with her and Charlie, but for the difficulty that six riotous little creatures of her own, named Fletcher, Edward, Charles, Isaac, Sarah, and Maria, already filled it to overflowing.

A little more than six years after this, there came a visitant of a rare and heart-gladdening kind, namely, a parcel of books. Although the Government of England was too busy to think of the far-off isle, there were Englishmen who did not forget her. The Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, happening, in 1819, to hear of an opportunity of communicating with Pitcairn, made up and despatched to it a parcel of books, containing, besides Bibles and Prayer-books, "works of instruction fitted for all ages." Who can imagine the delight produced by this gift to minds which had been well educated and were thirsting for more knowledge? It must have been as food to the starving; as water to the dry ground.

Four years after that, a whale-ship from London, named the Cyrus, touched in passing.

As this visit was a noteworthy epoch in the lonely island, we shall devote a new chapter to it.



Chapter Thirty Three.

New Arrivals And Strange Adventures.

"My dear," said Adams one morning to his spouse, as he was about to go forth to superintend the working of his busy hive, "I'm beginnin' to feel as if I was gettin' old, and would soon have to lay up like an old hulk."

"You've done good service for the Master, John; perhaps He thinks you should rest now," answered his wife. "You've got plenty able helpers to take the heavy work off your hands."

"True, old woman, able, willin', and good helpers, thank God, but they want a headpiece still. However, there's a deal of life in the old dog yet. If that dear angel, Otaheitan Sally, were only a man, now, I could resign the command of the ship without a thought. But I've committed the matter to the Lord. He will provide in His own good time. Good-day, old girl. If any one wants me, you know where to send 'em."

Not many days after that in which these remarks were made a sail was seen on the horizon. So few and far between had these visitants been that the excitement of the people was as wild as when the first ship appeared, and much more noisy, seeing that the juveniles had now become so very numerous.

The ship soon drew near. Canoes were sent off to board her. Thursday October, as of old, introduced himself, and soon the captain and several men were brought on shore, to the intense joy of the inhabitants.

One of the sailors who landed attracted Adams's attention in a special manner, not so much because of his appearance, which was nothing uncommon, as because of a certain grave, kindly, serious air which distinguished him. This man's name was John Buffett. Another of the men, named John Evans, less serious in manner, but not less hearty and open, made himself very agreeable to the women, especially to old Mrs Adams, to whom he told a number of nautical anecdotes in an undertone while the captain was chatting with Adams himself. Buffett spoke little.

After spending an agreeable day on shore, the sailors walked down to the beach towards evening to return to their ship.

"You lead a happy life here, Mr Adams," said Buffett, in an earnest tone. "Would you object to a stranger staying among you!"

"Object!" said Adams, with a quick, pleasant glance. "I only wish the Lord would send us one; one at least who is a follower of Himself."

John Buffett said no more, but that same evening he expressed to his captain so strong a desire to remain behind that he obtained leave, and next day was sent on shore.

The sailor named John Evans accompanied him to see him all right and bring off the latest news; but Evans himself had become so delighted with the appearance of the place and people, that he deserted into the mountains, and the ship had to sail without him.

Thus were two new names added to the muster-roll of Pitcairn.

John Buffett in particular turned out to be an invaluable acquisition. He was a man of earnest piety, and had obtained a fairly good education. Adams and he drew together at once.

"You'll not object, p'r'aps," said the former on the occasion of their first talk over future plans, "to give me a lift wi' the school?"

"Nothing would please me better," answered Buffett. "I'm rather fond o' teachin', to say truth, and am ready to begin work at once."

Not only did Buffett thereafter become to Adams as a right arm in the school, but he assisted in the church services on Sundays, and eventually came to read sermons, which, for the fixing of them more effectually on the minds of the people, he was wont to deliver three times over.

But Buffett could tell stories as well as read sermons. One afternoon some of the youngsters caught him meditating under a cocoa-nut tree, and insisted on his telling the story of his life.

"It ain't a long story, boys an' girls," said he, "for I've only lived some six-and-twenty years yet. I was born in 1797, near Bristol, and was apprenticed to a cabinet-maker. Not takin' kindly to that sort o' work, I gave it up an' went to sea. However, I'm bound to say, that the experience I had with the saw and plane has been of the greatest service to me ever since; and it's my opinion, that what ever a man is, or whoever he may be, he should learn a trade; ay, even though he should be a king."

The Pitcairn juveniles did not see the full force of this remark, but nevertheless they believed it heartily.

"It was the American merchant service I entered," continued Buffett, "an' my first voyage was to the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. I was wrecked there, and most o' the crew perished; but I swam ashore and was saved, through God's mercy. Mark that, child'n. It wasn't by good luck, or good swimmin', or chance, or fate, or anything else in the shape of a second cause, but it was the good God himself that saved, or rather spared me. Now, I say that because there's plenty of people who don't like to give their Maker credit for anything, 'cept when they do it in a humdrum, matter-of-course way at church."

These last remarks were quite thrown away upon the children, whose training from birth had been to acknowledge the goodness of God in everything, and who could not, of course, comprehend the allusions to formalism.

"Well," he continued, "after suffering a good deal, I was picked up by some Canadian fishermen, and again went to sea, to be once again wrecked and saved. That was in the year 1821. Then I went to England, and entered on board a ship bound for China, from which we proceeded to Manilla, and afterwards to California, where I stayed some time. Then I entered an English whaler homeward bound, intendin' to go home, and the Lord did bring me home, for he brought me here, and here I mean to stay."

"And we're all so glad!" exclaimed Dolly Young, who had now become an enthusiastic, warm-hearted, pretty young woman of twenty-three summers.

Dolly blushed as she spoke, but not with consciousness. It was but innocent truthfulness. John Buffett paused, and looked at her steadily. What John Buffett thought we are not prepared to say, but it may be guessed, when we state that within two months of that date, he and Dolly Young were united in marriage by old Adams, with all the usual ceremonial, including the curtain-ring which did duty on all such occasions, and the unfailing game of blind-man's-buff.

John Evans was encouraged, a few months later, to take heart and do likewise. He was even bolder than Buffett, for he wooed and won a princess; at least, if John Adams was in any sense a king, his second daughter Rachel must have been a princess! Be this as it may, Evans married her, and became a respected member of the little community.

And now another of these angel-like visits was looming in the distance. About twelve years after the departure of the Britain and Tagus, one of H.M. cruisers, the Blossom, Captain Beechy, sailed out of the Great Unknown into the circlet of Pitcairn, and threw the islanders into a more intense flutter than ever, for there were now upwards of fifty souls there, many of whom had not only never seen a man-of-war, but had had their imaginations excited by the glowing descriptions of those who had. This was in 1825.

The Blossom had been fitted out for discovery. When Buffett first recognised her pennant he was in great trepidation lest they had come to carry off Adams, but such was not the case. It was merely a passing visit. Three weeks the Blossom stayed, during which the captain and officers were entertained in turn at the different houses; and it seems to have been to both parties like a brief foretaste of the land of Beulah.

Naturally, Captain Beechy was anxious to test the truth of the glowing testimony of former visitors. He had ample opportunity, and afterwards sent home letters quite as enthusiastic as those of his predecessors in regard to the simplicity, truthfulness, and genuine piety alike of old and young.

If a few hours' visit had on former occasions given the community food for talk and reflection, you may be sure that the three weeks' of the Blossom's sojourn gave them a large supply for future years. It seemed to Otaheitan Sally, and Dinah Adams, and Dolly and Polly Young, and the rest of them, that the island was not large enough now to contain all their new ideas, and they said so to John Adams one evening.

"My dears," said John, in reply, laying his hand on that of Sally, who sat beside him on their favourite confabulation-knoll, which overlooked Bounty Bay, "ideas don't take up much room, and if they did, we could send 'em out on the sea, for they won't drown. Ah! Sall, Sall -- "

"What are you thinking of, dear father?" asked Sally, with a sympathetic look, as the old man stopped.

"That my time can't be long now. I feel as if I was about worn-out."

"Oh, don't say that, father!" cried his daughter Hannah, laying her cheek on his arm, and hugging it. "There's ever so much life in you yet."

"It may be so. It shall be so if the Lord will," said Adams, with a little smile; "but I'm not the man I was."

Poor John Adams spoke truly. He had landed on Pitcairn a slim young fellow with broad shoulders, powerful frame, and curling brown hair. He was now growing feeble and rather corpulent; his brow was bald, his scanty locks were grey, and his countenance deeply care-worn. No wonder, considering all he had gone through, and the severe wound he had received upwards of thirty years before.

Nevertheless, Hannah was right when she said there was a good deal of life in the old man yet. He lived after that day to tie the wedding-knot between his own youngest child George, and Polly Young. More than that, he lived to dandle George's eldest son, Johnny, on his knees, and to dismiss him in favour of his little brother Jonathan when that child made his appearance.

But before this latter event the crowning joy of John Adams's life was vouchsafed to him, in the shape of a worthy successor to his Pitcairn throne.

The successor's name was neither pretty nor suggestive of romance, yet was closely allied with both. It was George Nobbs. He arrived at the island in very peculiar circumstances, on the 15th of November 1828, and told his story one afternoon under the banyan-tree to Adams and Buffett, and as many of the young generation as could conveniently get near him, as follows: -- 

"Entering the navy at an early period of life, I went through many vicissitudes and experiences in various quarters of the globe. But circumstances induced me to quit the navy, and for a short time I remained inactive, until my old commander offered to procure me a berth on board a ship of eighteen guns, designed for the use of the patriots in South America.

"Accepting the offer, I left England early in 1816 for Valparaiso, and cruised there for sixteen months, taking many prizes. While on board of one of our prizes I was taken prisoner, and carried into Callao, where I and my comrades were exposed to the gaze and insults of the people. Here, for many months, I walked about the streets with fifty pounds weight of iron attached to me, on a spare diet of beans and Chili peppers, with a stone at night for a pillow. We were made to carry stones to repair the forts of the place. There were seventeen of us. Five or six of our party died of fever and exposure to the sun, after which our guardians became careless about us. We managed to get rid of our irons by degrees, and at length were left to shift for ourselves. Soon after, with some of my comrades, I escaped on board a vessel in the bay, and succeeded in getting put on board our own vessel again, which was still cruising in these seas.

"Entering Valparaiso in the latter part of 1817, I had now an opportunity of forwarding about 140 pounds to my poor mother in England, who was sorely in need of help at the time. Some time after that I went with a number of men in a launch to attempt the cutting out of a large merchant ship from Cadiz. We were successful, and my share of the prize-money came to about 200 pounds, one hundred of which I also sent to my mother. After this I took a situation as prize-master on board a vessel commanded by a Frenchman. Deserting from it, I sought to discover a road to Guayaquil through the woods, where I suffered great hardships, and failed in the attempt."

The adventurer paused a few seconds, and looked earnestly in Adams's countenance.

"I am not justifying my conduct," he said, "still less boasting."

"Right you are, Nobbs," said Adams, with an approving nod. "Your line of life won't stand justification according to the rule of God's book."

"I know it, Adams; I am merely telling you a few of the facts of my life, which you have a right to know from one who seeks an asylum among your people. Well, returning to the coast, I went on board an English whaler, by the captain of which I was kindly treated and landed at Talcahuans. I had not been long there, when, at midnight, on the 7th May, in the year 1819, the Chilian garrison, fifteen in number, was attacked by Benevades and his Indian troops. A number of the inhabitants were killed, the town was sacked, and a large number of prisoners, myself included, carried off. Next morning troops from Concepcion came in pursuit, and rescued us as we were crossing a river.

"Soon after this affair I returned to Valparaiso, and engaged as first officer of a ship named the Minerva, which had been hired by the Chilian Government as a transport to carry out troops to Peru. Having landed the troops, I took part, on 5th November, in cutting out a Spanish frigate named the Esmeraldas from under the Callao batteries. This affair was planned and headed by Lord Cochrane. Owing to my being in this affair I was appointed to a Chilian sloop of war, and received a lieutenant's commission.

"I will not take up your time at present with an account of the various cuttings-out and other warlike expeditions I was engaged in while in the Chilian service. It is enough to refer to the last, which ended my connection with that service. Having been sent in charge of a boat up a river, to recover a quantity of property belonging to British and American merchants, which had been seized by the miscreant Benevades, we set off and pulled up unmolested, but finding nothing of consequence, turned to pull back again, when volleys of musketry were poured into us from both banks. We saw no one, and could do nothing but pull down as fast as possible, losing many men as we went. At last a few horsemen showed themselves. We had a carronade in the bow, which we instantly turned on them and discharged. This was just what they wanted. At the signal, a large boat filled with soldiers shoved out and boarded us. We fought, of course; but with so many wounded, and assailed by superior numbers, we had no chance, and were soon beaten. I received a tremendous blow on the back of the neck, which nearly killed me. Fortunately I did not fall. Those who did, or were too badly wounded to walk, were at once thrown into the river. The rest of us had our clothes stripped off, and some rags given us in exchange. A pair of trousers cut off at the knees, a ragged poncho, and a sombrero fell to my share. We were marched off to prison, where we lay three weeks. Every Chilian of our party was shot, while I and three other Europeans were exchanged for four of Benevades's officers.

"Soon after this event, while at Valparaiso, I received a letter from my dear mother telling me that she was ill. I quitted the Chilian navy at once, and went home, alas! to see her die.

"In 1822 I went to Naples, and was wrecked while on my way to Messina. In the following year I went to Sierra Leone as chief mate of a ship called the Gambia. Of nineteen persons who went out in that ship, only the captain, two coloured men, and myself lived to return."

"Why, Mr Nobbs," interrupted John Buffett at this point, "I used to think I'd seen a deal o' rough service, but I couldn't hold a candle to you, sir."

"It is an unenviable advantage to have of you," returned the other, with a sad smile. "However, I'm getting near the end now. In all that I have said I have not told you what the Lord has done for my soul. Another time I will tell that to you. At present it is enough to say, that I had heard of your little island here, and of the wonderful accounts of it brought home at various times. I had an intense longing to reach it and devote my life to the service of Jesus. I sold all my little possessions, resolving to quit England for ever. But I could find no means of getting to Pitcairn. Leaving England, however, in November 1825, I reached Calcutta in May 1826, sailed thence for Valparaiso in 1827, and proceeded on to Callao. Here I fell in with Bunker, to whom you have all been so kind. Finding no vessel going in this direction, and my finances being nearly exhausted, I agreed on a plan with him. He had a launch of eighteen tons, a mere boat, as you know, but, being in bad health and without means, could not fit her out. I agreed to spend my all in fitting this launch for sea, on the understanding that I should become part proprietor, and that Bunker should accompany me to Pitcairn.

"Well, you see, friends, we have managed it. Through the mercy of God we have, by our two selves, made this voyage of 3500 miles, and now I hope that my days of wandering are over, and that I shall begin here to do the work of the Prince of Peace; but, alas! I fear that my poor friend Bunker's days are numbered."

He was right. This bold adventurer, about whose history we know nothing, died a few weeks after his arrival at Pitcairn.



Chapter Thirty Four.

Farewell!

And now, at last, approached a crisis in the Life of Pitcairn, which had indeed been long foreseen, long dreaded, and often thought of, but seldom hinted at by the islanders.

Good, patient, long-enduring John Adams began to draw towards the end of his strange, unique, and glorious career. For him to live had been Christ, to die was gain. And he knew it.

"George Nobbs," said he, about four months after the arrival of the former, "the Lord's ways are wonderful, past finding out, but always sure and safe. Nothing puzzles me so much as my own want of faith, when there's such good ground for confidence. But God's book tells me to expect even that," he added, after a pause, with a faint smile. "Does it not tell of the desperately wicked and deceitful heart?"

"True, Mr Adams," replied his friend, with the term of respect which he felt constrained to use, "but it also tells of salvation to the uttermost."

"Ay. I know that too," returned Adams, with a cheery smile. "Well do I know that. But don't mister me, George. There are times when the little titles of this world are ridiculous. Such a time is now. I am going to leave you, George. The hour of my departure is at hand. Strange, how anxious I used to feel! I used to think, what if I am killed by a fall from the cliffs, or by sickness, and these poor helpless children should be left fatherless! The dear Lord sent me a rebuke. He sent John Buffett to help me. But John Buffett has not the experience, or the education that's needful. Not that I had education myself, but, somehow, my experience, beginnin' as it did from the very beginnin', went a long way to counterbalance that. Then, anxious thoughts would rise up again. Want of faith, nothing else, George, nothing else. So the Lord rebuked me again, for he sent you."

"Ah, father, I hope it is as you say. I dare hardly believe it, yet I earnestly hope so."

"I have no doubt, now," resumed Adams. "You have got just the qualities that are wanted. Regularly stored and victualled for the cruise. They'll be far better off than ever they were before. If I had only trusted more I should have suffered less. But I was always thinking of John Adams. Ah! that has been the great curse of my life -- John Adams! -- as if everything depended on him. Why," continued the old man, kindling with a sudden burst of indignation, "could I have saved these souls by merely teaching 'em readin' and writin', or even by readin' God's book to 'em? Isn't it read every day by thousands to millions, against whom it falls like the sea on a great rock? Can the absence of temptation be pleaded, when here, in full force, there have been the most powerful temptations to disobedience continually? If that would have done, why were not all my brother mutineers saved from sin? It was not even when we read the Bible that deliverance came. I read it for ten years as a sealed book. No, George, no; it was when God's Holy Spirit opened the eyes and the heart, that I an' the dear women an' child'n became nothin', and fell in with His ways."

He stopped suddenly, as if exhausted, and his new friend led him gently to his house. Many loving eyes watched him as he went along, and many tender hearts beat for him, but better still, many true hearts prayed for him.

That night he became weaker, and next day he did not rise.

When this became known, all the settlement crowded to his house, while from his bed there was a constant coming and going of those who had the right to be nearest to him. Nursed by the loving women whom he had led -- and whose children's children he had led -- to Jesus, and surrounded by men whom he had dandled, played with, reared, and counselled, he passed into the presence of God, to behold "the King in his beauty," to be "for ever with the Lord."

May we join him, reader, you and I, when our time comes!

On a tombstone over a grave under the banyan-tree near his house, is the simple record, "John Adams, died 5th March 1829, aged 65."

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

And here our tale must end, for the good work which we have sought to describe has no end. Yet, for the sake of those who have a regard for higher things than a mere tale, we would add a few words before making our farewell bow.

The colony of Pitcairn still exists and flourishes. But many changes have occurred since Adams left the scene, though the simple, guileless spirit of the people remains unchanged.

Here is a brief summary of its history since 1829.

George Nobbs had gained the affections of the people before Adams's death, and he at once filled the vacant place as well as it was possible for a stranger to do so.

In 1830 the colony consisted of nearly ninety souls, and it had for some time been a matter of grave consideration that the failure of water by drought might perhaps prove a terrible calamity. It was therefore proposed by Government that the people of Pitcairn should remove to Otaheite, or, to give the island its modern name, Tahiti. There was much division of opinion among the islanders, and Mr Nobbs objected. However, the experiment was tried, and it failed signally. The whole community was transported in a ship to Tahiti in March 1831.

But the loose manners and evil habits of many of the people there had such an effect on the Pitcairners that they took the first opportunity of returning to their much-loved island. John Buffett and a few families went first. The remainder soon followed in an American brig.

Thereafter, life on the Lonely Island flowed as happily as ever for many years, with the exception of a brief but dark interval, when a scoundrel, named Joshua Hill, went to the island, passed himself off as an agent of the British Government, misled the trusting inhabitants, and established a reign of terror, ill-treating Nobbs, Buffett, and Evans, whom for a time he compelled to quit the place. Fortunately this impostor was soon found out and removed. The banished men returned, and all went well again.

Rear-Admiral Moresby visited Pitcairn in 1851, and experienced a warm reception. Finding that the people wished Mr Nobbs to be ordained, he took him to England for this purpose. The faithful pastor did not fail to interest the English public in the romantic isle of which God had given him the oversight. During his visit he was presented to the Queen, who gave him portraits of herself and the Royal family. The Society for the Propagation of the Gospel placed Mr Nobbs on their missionary list, with a salary of 50 pounds per annum.

Soon after this the increasing population of Pitcairn Island rendered it necessary that the islanders should find a wider home. Government, therefore, offered them houses and land in Norfolk Island, a penal settlement from which the convicts had been removed. Of course the people shrank from the idea of leaving Pitcairn when it was first proposed, but ultimately assented, and were landed on Norfolk Island, hundreds of miles from their old home, in June 1856. On this lovely spot the descendants of the mutineers of the Bounty have lived ever since, under the care of that loved pastor on whom John Adams had dropped his mantle.

We believe that the Reverend George H. Nobbs is still alive. At all events he was so last year, (1879), having written a letter in June to the Secretary of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, in which, among other things, he speaks of the "rapidly increasing community, now numbering 370 persons." He adds -- "I am becoming very feeble from age, and my memory fails me in consequence of an operation at the back of my neck for carbuncle two years since;" and goes on to tell of the flourishing condition of his flock.

In regard to the other personages who have figured in our little tale, very few, perhaps none, now survive. So late as the year 1872 we read in a pamphlet of the "Melanesian Mission," that George Adams and his sister, Rachel Evans, (both over seventy years of age), were present at an evening service in Norfolk Island, and that Arthur Quintal was still alive, though quite imbecile. But dear Otaheitan Sally and her loving Charlie and all the rest had long before joined the Church above.

There was, however, a home-sick party of the Pitcairners who could by no means reconcile themselves to the new home. These left it not very long after landing in 1856, and returned to their beloved Pitcairn. Multiplying by degrees, as the first settlers had done, they gradually became an organised community; and now, while we write, the palm-groves of Pitcairn resound with the shouts of children's merriment and with the hymn of praise as in days of yore. A.J.R. McCoy is chief magistrate, and a Simon Young acts as minister, doctor, and schoolmaster, while his daughter, Rosalind Amelia, assists in the school.

In a report from the chief magistrate, we learn that, although still out of the beaten track of commerce, the Pitcairners are more frequently visited by whalers than they used to be. Their simplicity of life, manners, and piety appears to be unchanged. He says, among other things: -- 

"No work is done on the Sabbath-day. We have a Bible-class every Wednesday, and a prayer-meeting the first Friday of each month. Every family has morning and evening prayers without intermission. We have a public or church library, at which all may read. Clothing we generally get from whalers who call in for refreshments. No alcoholic liquors of any kind are used on the island, except for medical purposes. A drunkard is unknown here."

So the good seed sown under such peculiar circumstances at the beginning of the century continues to grow and spread and flourish, bringing forth fruit to the glory of God. Thus He causes light to spring out of darkness, good to arise out of evil; and the Lonely Island, once an almost unknown rock in the Pacific Ocean, was made a centre of blessed Christian influence soon after the time when it became -- the refuge of the mutineers.

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Black Beauty: Young Folks' Edition

By

Anna Sewell



Chapter I


My Early Home

The first place that I can well remember was a pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the roadside. While I was young I lived upon my mother's milk, as I could not eat grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her. When it was hot we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it was cold we had a warm shed near the grove.

There were six young colts in the meadow beside me; they were older than I was. I used to run with them, and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round the field, as hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough play, for they would bite and kick, as well as gallop.

One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me to come to her, and then she said: "I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say. The colts who live here are very good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, and they have not learned manners. You have been well-bred and well-born; your father has a great name in these parts, and your grandfather won the cup at the races; your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick even in play."

I have never forgotten my mother's advice. I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess, but he called her Pet.

Our master was a good, kind man. He gave us good food, good lodging and kind words; he spoke as kindly to us as he did to his little children. We were all fond of him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw him at the gate she would neigh with joy, and trot up to him. He would pat and stroke her and say, "Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?" I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie; then he would give me a piece of bread, which was very good, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother. All the horses would come to him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother always took him to town on a market-day in a light gig.

We had a ploughboy, Dick, who sometimes came into our field to pluck blackberries from the hedge. When he had eaten all he wanted he would have what he called fun with the colts, throwing stones and sticks at them to make them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop off; but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us.

One day he was at this game, and did not know that the master was in the next field, watching what was going on; over the hedge he jumped in a snap, and catching Dick by the arm, he gave him such a box on the ear as made him roar with the pain and surprise. As soon as we saw the master we trotted up nearer to see what went on.

"Bad boy!" he said, "bad boy! to chase the colts. This is not the first time, but it shall be the last. There -- take your money and go home; I shall not want you on my farm again." So we never saw Dick any more. Old Daniel, the man who looked after the horses, was just as gentle as our master; so we were well off.



Chapter II


The Hunt

Before I was two years old a circumstance happened which I have never forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in the night, and a light mist still hung over the woods and meadows. I and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field when we heard what sounded like the cry of dogs. The oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, "There are the hounds!" and cantered off, followed by the rest of us, to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse of our master's were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it. "They have found a hare," said my mother, "and if they come this way we shall see the hunt."

And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor howl, nor whine, but kept on a "yo! yo, o, o! yo, o, o!" at the top of their voices. After them came a number of men on horseback, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horses snorted and looked eagerly after them, and we young colts wanted to be galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower down; here it seemed as if they had come to a stand; the dogs left off barking and ran about every way with their noses to the ground.

"They have lost the scent," said the old horse; "perhaps the hare will get off."

"What hare?" I said.

"Oh, I don't know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the woods; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after"; and before long the dogs began their "yo; yo, o, o!" again, and back they came all together at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook.

"Now we shall see the hare," said my mother; and just then a hare, wild with fright, rushed by and made for the woods. On came the dogs; they burst over the bank, leaped the stream and came dashing across the field, followed by the huntsmen. Several men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp around to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries; we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg, torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased.

As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look, there was a sad sight; two fine horses were down; one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still.

"His neck is broken," said my mother.

"And serves him right, too," said one of the colts.

I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us.

"Well, no," she said, "you must not say that; but though I am an old horse, and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare, or a fox, or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are only horses, and don't know."

While my mother was saying this, we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man; but my master was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I heard afterwards that it was the squire's only son, a fine, tall young man, and the pride of his family.

They were now riding in all directions -- to the doctor's, and to Squire Gordon's, to let him know about his son. When Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master's house and came back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more.

My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was Rob Roy; he was a good horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterwards.

Not many days after, we heard the church-bell tolling for a long time, and looking over the gate, we saw a long strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the church-yard to bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never knew; but 'twas all for one little hare.



Chapter III


My Breaking In

I was now beginning to grow handsome, my coat had grown fine and soft, and was bright black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead. I was thought very handsome; my master would not sell me till I was four years old; he said lads ought not to work like men, and colts ought not to work like horses till they were quite grown up.

When I was four years old, Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined my eyes, my mouth, and my legs; he felt them all down, and then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him; he seemed to like me, and said, "When he has been well broken in he will do very well." My master said he would break me in himself, and he lost no time about it, for the next day he began.

Every one may not know what breaking in is, therefore I will describe it. It means to teach a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry on his back a man, woman, or child; to go just the way they wish, and to go quietly. Besides this, he has to learn to wear a collar, and a breeching, and to stand still while they are put on; then to have a cart or a buggy fixed behind, so that he cannot walk or trot without dragging it after him; and he must go fast or slow, just as his driver wishes. He must never start at what he sees, nor speak to other horses, nor bite, nor kick, nor have any will of his own, but always do his master's will, even though he may be very tired or hungry; but the worst of all is, when his harness is once on, he may neither jump for joy nor lie down for weariness. So you see this breaking in is a great thing.

I had, of course, long been used to a halter and a head-stall, and to be led about in the fields and lanes quietly, but now I was to have a bit and bridle; my master gave me some oats as usual, and after a good deal of coaxing he got the bit into my mouth and the bridle fixed, but it was a nasty thing! Those who have never had a bit in their mouths cannot think how bad it feels; a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as a man's finger to be pushed into one's mouth, between one's teeth, and over one's tongue, with the ends coming out at the corner of your mouth, and held fast there by straps over your head, under your throat, round your nose, and under your chin; so that no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! at least I thought so; but I knew my mother always wore one when she went out, and all horses did when they were grown up; and so, what with the nice oats, and what with my master's pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I got to wear my bit and bridle.

Next came the saddle, but that was not half so bad; my master put it on my back very gently, while Old Daniel held my head; he then made the girths fast under my body, patting and talking to me all the time; then I had a few oats, then a little leading about; and this he did every day till I began to look for the oats and the saddle. At length, one morning, my master got on my back and rode me around the meadow on the soft grass. It certainly did feel queer; but I must say I felt rather proud to carry my master, and as he continued to ride me a little every day, I soon became accustomed to it.

The next unpleasant business was putting on the iron shoes; that too was very hard at first. My master went with me to the smith's forge, to see that I was not hurt or got any fright. The blacksmith took my feet in his hand, one after the other, and cut away some of the hoof. It did not pain me, so I stood still on three legs till he had done them all. Then he took a piece of iron the shape of my foot, and clapped it on, and drove some nails through the shoe quite into my hoof, so that the shoe was firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used to it.

And now having got so far, my master went on to break me to harness; there were more new things to wear. First, a stiff heavy collar just on my neck, and a bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes, called blinkers, and blinkers indeed they were, for I could not see on either side, but only straight in front of me; next there was a small saddle with a nasty stiff strap that went right under my tail; that was the crupper. I hated the crupper -- to have my long tail doubled up and poked through that strap was almost as bad as the bit. I never felt more like kicking, but of course I could not kick such a good master, and so in time I got used to everything, and could do my work as well as my mother.

I must not forget to mention one part of my training, which I have always considered a very great advantage. My master sent me for a fortnight to a neighboring farmer's, who had a meadow which was skirted on one side by the railway. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was turned in among them.

I shall never forget the first train that ran by. I was feeding quietly near the pales which separated the meadow from the railway, when I heard a strange sound at a distance, and before I knew whence it came -- with a rush and a clatter, and a puffing out of smoke -- a long black train of something flew by, and was gone almost before I could draw my breath. I galloped to the further side of the meadow, and there I stood snorting with astonishment and fear. In the course of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly; these drew up at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful shriek and groan before they stopped. I thought it very dreadful, but the cows went on eating very quietly, and hardly raised their heads as the black, frightful thing came puffing and grinding past. For the first few days I could not feed in peace; but as I found that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I began to disregard it, and very soon I cared as little about the passing of a train as the cows and sheep did.

Since then I have seen many horses much alarmed and restive at the sight or sound of a steam engine; but, thanks to my good master's care, I am as fearless at railway stations as in my own stable. Now if any one wants to break in a young horse well, that is the way.

My master often drove me in double harness, with my mother, because she was steady and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse. She told me the better I behaved the better I should be treated, and that it was wisest always to do my best to please my master. "I hope you will fall into good hands, but a horse never knows who may buy him, or who may drive him; it is all a chance for us; but still I say, do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name."



Chapter IV


Birtwick Park

It was early in May, when there came a man from Gordon's, who took me away to the Hall. My master said, "Good-bye, Darkie; be a good horse and always do your best." I could not say "good-bye," so I put my nose in his hand; he patted me kindly, and I left my first home. I will describe the stable into which I was taken; this was very roomy, with four good stalls; a large swinging window opened into the yard, making it pleasant and airy.

The first stall was a large square one, shut in behind with a wooden gate; the others were common stalls, good stalls, but not nearly so large. It had a low rack for hay and a low manger for corn; it was called a box stall, because the horse that was put into it was not tied up, but left loose, to do as he liked. It is a great thing to have a box stall.

Into this fine box the groom put me; it was clean, sweet, and airy. I never was in a better box than that, and the sides were not so high but that I could see all that went on through the iron rails that were at the top.

He gave me some very nice oats, patted me, spoke kindly, and then went away.

When I had eaten my oats, I looked round. In the stall next to mine stood a little fat gray pony, with a thick mane and tail, a very pretty head, and a pert little nose. I put my head up to the iron rails at the top of my box, and said, "How do you do? What is your name?"

He turned round as far as his halter would allow, held up his head, and said, "My name is Merrylegs. I am very handsome. I carry the young ladies on my back, and sometimes I take our mistress out in the low cart. They think a great deal of me, and so does James. Are you going to live next door to me in the box?"

I said, "Yes."

"Well, then," he said, "I hope you are good-tempered; I do not like any one next door who bites." Just then a horse's head looked over from the stall beyond; the ears were laid back, and the eye looked rather ill-tempered. This was a tall chestnut mare, with a long handsome neck; she looked across to me and said, "So it is you have turned me out of my box; it is a very strange thing for a colt like you to come and turn a lady out of her own home."

"I beg your pardon," I said, "I have turned no one out; the man who brought me put me here, and I had nothing to do with it. I never had words yet with horse or mare, and it is my wish to live at peace."

"Well," she said, "we shall see; of course, I do not want to have words with a young thing like you." I said no more. In the afternoon, when she went out, Merrylegs told me all about it.

"The thing is this," said Merrylegs, "Ginger has a habit of biting and snapping; that is why they call her Ginger, and when she was in the box-stall, she used to snap very much. One day she bit James in the arm and made it bleed, and so Miss Flora and Miss Jessie, who are very fond of me, were afraid to come into the stable. They used to bring me nice things to eat, an apple, or a carrot, or a piece of bread, but after Ginger stood in that box, they dared not come, and I missed them very much. I hope they will now come again, if you do not bite or snap." I told him I never bit anything but grass, hay, and corn, and could not think what pleasure Ginger found it.

"Well, I don't think she does find pleasure," says Merrylegs; "it is just a bad habit; she says no one was ever kind to her, and why should she not bite? Of course, it is a very bad habit; but I am sure, if all she says be true, she must have been very ill-used before she came here. John does all he can to please her; so I think she might be good-tempered here. You see," he said, with a wise look, "I am twelve years old; I know a great deal, and I can tell you there is not a better place for a horse all round the country than this. John is the best groom that ever was; he has been here fourteen years; and you never saw such a kind boy as James is, so that it is all Ginger's own fault that she did not stay in that box."



Chapter V


A Fair Start

The name of the coachman was John Manly; he had a wife and one child, and lived in the coachman's cottage, near the stables.

The next morning he took me into the yard and gave me a good grooming, and just as I was going into my box, with my coat soft and bright, the squire came in to look at me, and seemed pleased. "John," he said, "I meant to have tried the new horse this morning, but I have other business. You may as well take him around after breakfast; go by the common and the Highwood, and back by the water-mill and the river; that will show his paces."

"I will, sir," said John. After breakfast he came and fitted me with a bridle. He was very particular in letting out and taking in the straps, to fit my head comfortably; then he brought a saddle, but it was not broad enough for my back; he saw it in a minute, and went for another, which fitted nicely. He rode me first slowly, then a trot, then a canter, and when we were on the common, he gave me a light touch with his whip, and we had a splendid gallop.

"Ho, ho! my boy," he said, as he pulled me up, "you would like to follow the hounds, I think."

As we came back through the park we met the squire and Mrs. Gordon walking; they stopped, and John jumped off. "Well, John, how does he go?"

"First rate, sir," answered John; "he is as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit, too; but the lightest touch of the rein will guide him. Down at the end of the common we met one of those traveling carts hung all over with baskets, rugs, and such like; you know, sir, many horses will not pass those carts quietly; he just took a good look at it, and then went on as quiet and pleasant as could be. They were shooting rabbits near the Highwood, and a gun went off close by; he pulled up a little and looked, but he did not stir a step to right or left. I just held the rein steady and did not hurry him, and it's my opinion he has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young."

"That's well," said the squire, "I will try him myself to-morrow."

The next day I was brought up for my master. I remembered my mother's counsel and my good old master's, and I tried to do exactly what he wanted me to do. I found he was a very good rider, and thoughtful for his horse, too. When he came home, the lady was at the hall door as he rode up. "Well, my dear," she said, "how do you like him?"

"He is exactly what John said," he replied; "a pleasanter creature I never wish to mount. What shall we call him?"

She said: "He is really quite a beauty, and he has such a sweet, good-tempered face and such a fine, intelligent eye -- what do you say to calling him 'Black Beauty'?"

"Black Beauty -- why, yes, I think that is a very good name. If you like, it shall be his name"; and so it was.

When John went into the stable, he told James that the master and mistress had chosen a good sensible name for me, that meant something. They both laughed, and James said, "If it was not for bringing back the past, I should have named him Rob Roy, for I never saw two horses more alike." "That's no wonder," said John; "didn't you know that Farmer Grey's old Duchess was the mother of them both?"

I had never heard that before; and so poor Rob Roy who was killed at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least they never know each other after they are sold.

John seemed very proud of me; he used to make my mane and tail almost as smooth as a lady's hair, and he would talk to me a great deal; of course, I did not understand all he said, but I learned more and more to know what he meant, and what he wanted me to do. I grew very fond of him, he was so gentle and kind; he seemed to know just how a horse feels, and when he cleaned me he knew the tender places and the ticklish places; when he brushed my head, he went as carefully over my eyes as if they were his own, and never stirred up any ill-temper.

James Howard, the stable boy, was just as gentle and pleasant in his way, so I thought myself well off. There was another man who helped in the yard, but he had very little to do with Ginger and me.

A few days after this I had to go out with Ginger in the carriage. I wondered how we should get on together; but except laying her ears back when I was led up to her, she behaved very well. She did her work honestly, and did her full share, and I never wish to have a better partner in double harness. When we came to a hill, instead of slackening her pace, she would throw her weight right into the collar, and pull away straight up. We had both the same sort of courage at our work, and John had oftener to hold us in than to urge us forward; he never had to use the whip with either of us; then our paces were much the same, and I found it very easy to keep step with her when trotting, which made it pleasant, and master always liked it when we kept step well, and so did John. After we had been out two or three times together we grew quite friendly and sociable, which made me feel very much at home.

As for Merrylegs, he and I soon became great friends; he was such a cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow, that he was a favorite with every one, and especially with Miss Jessie and Flora, who used to ride him about in the orchard, and have fine games with him and their little dog Frisky.



Chapter VI


Merrylegs

Mr. Blomefield, the vicar, had a large family of boys and girls; sometimes they used to come and play with Miss Jessie and Flora. One of the girls was as old as Miss Jessie; two of the boys were older, and there were several little ones. When they came, there was plenty of work for Merrylegs, for nothing pleased them so much as getting on him by turns and riding him all about the orchard and the home paddock, and this they would do by the hour together.

One afternoon he had been sent out with them a long time, and when James brought him in and put on his halter, he said: "There, you rogue, mind how you behave yourself, or we shall get into trouble."

"What have you been doing, Merrylegs?" I asked.

"Oh!" said he, tossing his little head, "I have only been giving those young people a lesson; they did not know when they had enough, so I just pitched them off backwards; that was the only thing they could understand."

"What?" said I, "you threw the children off? I thought you did know better than that! Did you throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora?"

He looked very much offended, and said: "Of course not; I would not do such a thing for the best oats that ever came into the stable; why, I am as careful of our young ladies as the master could be, and as for the little ones, it is I who teach them to ride. When they seem frightened or a little unsteady on my back, I go as smooth and as quiet as old pussy when she is after a bird; and when they are all right I go on again faster, you see, just to use them to it; so don't you trouble yourself preaching to me; I am the best friend and the best riding-master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys; boys," said he, shaking his mane, "are quite different, they must be broken in, as we were broken in when we were colts, and just be taught what's what. The other children had ridden me about for nearly two hours, and then the boys thought it was their turn, and so it was, and I was quite agreeable. They rode me by turns, and I galloped them about, up and down the fields and all about the orchard, for a good hour. They had each cut a great hazel stick for a riding whip, and laid it on a little too hard; but I took it in good part, till at last I thought we had had enough, so I stopped two or three times by way of a hint. Boys think a horse or pony is like a steam engine, and can go as long and as fast as they please; they never think that a pony can get tired, or have any feelings; so as the one who was whipping me could not understand, I just rose up on my hind legs and let him slip off behind -- that was all; he mounted me again, and I did the same. Then the other boy got up, and as soon as he began to use his stick, I laid him on the grass, and so on, till they were able to understand, that was all. They were not bad boys; they don't wish to be cruel. I like them very well; but you see I had to give them a lesson. When they brought me to James and told him, I think he was very angry to see such big sticks. He said they were not for young gentlemen."

"If I had been you," said Ginger, "I would have given those boys a good kick, and that would have given them a lesson."

"No doubt you would," said Merrylegs; "but then I am not quite such a fool as to anger our master or make James ashamed of me; besides, those children are under my charge when they are riding; I tell you they are entrusted to me. Why, only the other day I heard our master say to Mrs. Blomefield, 'My dear madam, you need not be anxious about the children; my old Merrylegs will take as much care of them as you or I could; I assure you I would not sell that pony for any money, he is so perfectly good-tempered and trustworthy'; and do you think I am such an ungrateful brute as to forget all the kind treatment I have had here for five years, and all the trust they place in me, and turn vicious, because a couple of ignorant boys used me badly? No, no! you never had a good place where they were kind to you, and so you don't know, and I am sorry for you; but I can tell you good places make good horses. I wouldn't vex our people for anything; I love them, I do," said Merrylegs, and he gave a low "ho, ho, ho," through his nose, as he used to do in the morning when he heard James' footstep at the door.



Chapter VII


Going For The Doctor

One night I was lying down in my straw fast asleep, when I was suddenly roused by the stable bell ringing very loud. I heard the door of John's house open, and his feet running up to the Hall. He was back again in no time; he unlocked the stable door, and came in, calling out, "Wake up, Beauty! you must go well now, if ever you did"; and almost before I could think, he had got the saddle on my back and the bridle on my head. He just ran around for his coat, and then took me at a quick trot up to the Hall door. The Squire stood there, with a lamp in his hand. "Now, John," he said, "ride for your life -- that is, for your mistress' life; there is not a moment to lose. Give this note to Dr. White; give your horse a rest at the inn, and be back as soon as you can."

John said, "Yes, sir," and was on my back in a minute. The gardener who lived at the lodge had heard the bell ring, and was ready with the gate open, and away we went through the park, and through the village, and down the hill till we came to the toll-gate. John called very loud and thumped upon the door; the man was soon out and flung open the gate.

"Now," said John, "do you keep the gate open for the doctor; here's the money," and off we went again.

There was before us a long piece of level road by the river-side; John said to me, "Now, Beauty, do your best," and so I did; I wanted no whip nor spur, and for two miles I galloped as fast I could lay my feet to the ground; I don't believe that my old grandfather, who won the race at Newmarket, could have gone faster. When we came to the bridge, John pulled me up a little and patted my neck. "Well done, Beauty! good old fellow," he said. He would have let me go slower, but my spirit was up, and I was off again as fast as before. The air was frosty, the moon was bright; it was very pleasant. We came through a village, then through a dark wood, then uphill, then downhill, till after an eight miles' run, we came to the town, through the streets and into the market-place. It was all quite still except the clatter of my feet on the stones -- everybody was asleep. The church clock struck three as we drew up at Dr. White's door. John rang the bell twice, and then knocked at the door like thunder. A window was thrown up, and the doctor, in his night-cap, put his head out and said, "What do you want?"

"Mrs. Gordon is very ill, sir; master wants you to go at once; he thinks she will die if you cannot get there. Here is a note."

"Wait," he said, "I will come."

He shut the window and was soon at the door. "The worst of it is," he said, "that my horse has been out all day, and is quite done up; my son has just been sent for, and he has taken the other. What is to be done? Can I have your horse?"

"He has come at a gallop nearly all the way, sir, and I was to give him a rest here; but I think my master would not be against it, if you think fit, sir."

"All right," he said; "I will soon be ready."

John stood by me and stroked my neck. I was very hot. The doctor came out with his riding-whip. "You need not take that, sir," said John; "Black Beauty will go till he drops. Take care of him, sir, if you can; I should not like any harm to come to him."

"No, no, John," said the doctor, "I hope not," and in a minute we had left John far behind.

I will not tell about our way back. The doctor was a heavier man than John, and not so good a rider; however, I did my very best. The man at the toll-gate had it open. When we came to the hill, the doctor drew me up. "Now, my good fellow," he said, "take some breath." I was glad he did, for I was nearly spent, but that breathing helped me on, and soon we were in the park. Joe was at the lodge gate; my master was at the Hall door, for he had heard us coming. He spoke not a word; the doctor went into the house with him, and Joe led me to the stable. I was glad to get home; my legs shook under me, and I could only stand and pant. I had not a dry hair on my body, the water ran down my legs, and I steamed all over -- Joe used to say, like a pot on the fire. Poor Joe! he was young and small, and as yet he knew very little, and his father, who would have helped him, had been sent to the next village; but I am sure he did the very best he knew. He rubbed my legs and my chest, but he did not put my warm cloth on me; he thought I was so hot I should not like it. Then he gave me a pail full of water to drink; it was cold and very good, and I drank it all; then he gave me some hay and some corn, and, thinking he had done right, he went away. Soon I began to shake and tremble, and turned deadly cold; my legs ached, my loins ached, and my chest ached, and I felt sore all over. This developed into a strong inflammation, and I could not draw my breath without pain. John nursed me night and day. My master, too, often came to see me. "My poor Beauty," he said one day, "my good horse, you saved your mistress' life, Beauty; yes, you saved her life." I was very glad to hear that, for it seems the doctor had said if we had been a little longer it would have been too late. John told my master he never saw a horse go so fast in his life. It seems as if the horse knew what was the matter. Of course I did, though John thought not; at least I knew as much as this -- that John and I must go at the top of our speed, and that it was for the sake of the mistress.



Chapter VIII


The Parting

I had lived in this happy place three years, but sad changes were about to come over us. We heard that our mistress was ill. The doctor was often at the house, and the master looked grave and anxious. Then we heard that she must go to a warm country for two or three years. The news fell upon the household like the tolling of a death-bell. Everybody was sorry. The master arranged for breaking up his establishment and leaving England. We used to hear it talked about in our stable; indeed, nothing else was talked about. John went about his work silent and sad, and Joe scarcely whistled. There was a great deal of coming and going; Ginger and I had full work.

The first of the party who went were Miss Jessie and Flora with their governess. They came to bid us good-bye. They hugged poor Merrylegs like an old friend, and so indeed he was. Then we heard what had been arranged for us. Master had sold Ginger and me to an old friend. Merrylegs he had given to the vicar, who was wanting a pony for Mrs. Blomefield, but it was on the condition that he should never be sold, and that when he was past work he should be shot and buried. Joe was engaged to take care of him and to help in the house, so I thought that Merrylegs was well off.

"Have you decided what to do, John?" he said.

"No, sir; I have made up my mind that if I could get a situation with some first-rate colt-breaker and horse-trainer, it would be the right thing for me. Many young animals are frightened and spoiled by wrong treatment, which need not be if the right man took them in hand. I always get on well with horses, and if I could help some of them to a fair start I should feel as if I was doing some good. What do you think of it, sir?"

"I don't know a man anywhere," said master, "that I should think so suitable for it as yourself. You understand horses, and somehow they understand you, and I think you could not do better."

The last sad day had come; the footman and the heavy luggage had gone off the day before, and there were only master and mistress, and her maid. Ginger and I brought the carriage up to the Hall door, for the last time. The servants brought out cushions and rugs, and when all were arranged, master came down the steps carrying the mistress in his arms (I was on the side next the house, and could see all that went on); he placed her carefully in the carriage, while the house servants stood round crying.

"Good-bye, again," he said; "we shall not forget any of you," and he got in. "Drive on, John." Joe jumped up and we trotted slowly through the park and through the village, where the people were standing at their doors to have a last look and to say, "God bless them."

When we reached the railway station, I think mistress walked from the carriage to the waiting-room. I heard her say in her own sweet voice, "Good-bye, John; God bless you." I felt the rein twitch, but John made no answer; perhaps he could not speak. As soon as Joe had taken the things out of the carriage, John called him to stand by the horses, while he went on the platform. Poor Joe! He stood close up to our heads to hide his tears. Very soon the train came puffing into the station; then two or three minutes, and the doors were slammed to; the guard whistled and the train glided away, leaving behind it only clouds of white smoke and some very heavy hearts.

When it was quite out of sight, John came back. "We shall never see her again," he said -- "never." He took the reins, mounted the box, and with Joe drove slowly home; but it was not our home now.



Chapter IX


Earlshall

The next morning after breakfast, Joe put Merrylegs into the mistress' low chaise to take him to the vicarage; he came first and said good-bye to us, and Merrylegs neighed to us from the yard. Then John put the saddle on Ginger and the leading rein on me, and rode us across the country to Earlshall Park, where the Earl of W --  --  lived. There was a very fine house and a great deal of stabling. We went into the yard through a stone gateway, and John asked for Mr. York. It was some time before he came. He was a fine-looking, middle-aged man, and his voice said at once that he expected to be obeyed. He was very friendly and polite to John, and after giving us a slight look, he called a groom to take us to our boxes, and invited John to take some refreshment.

We were taken to a light, airy stable, and placed in boxes adjoining each other, where we were rubbed down and fed. In about half an hour John and York, who was to be our new coachman, came in to see us.

"Now, Manly," he said, after carefully looking at us both, "I can see no fault in these horses; but we all know that horses have their peculiarities as well as men, and that sometimes they need different treatment. I should like to know if there is anything particular in either of these that you would like to mention."

"Well," said John, "I don't believe there is a better pair of horses in the country, and right grieved I am to part with them, but they are not alike. The black one is the most perfect temper I ever knew; I suppose he has never known a hard word or blow since he was foaled, and all his pleasure seems to be to do what you wish; but the chestnut, I fancy, must have had bad treatment; we heard as much from the dealer. She came to us snappish and suspicious, but when she found what sort of place ours was, it all went off by degrees; for three years I have never seen the smallest sign of temper, and if she is well treated there is not a better, more willing animal than she is. But she has naturally a more irritable constitution than the black horse; flies tease her more; anything wrong in her harness frets her more; and if she were ill-used or unfairly treated she would not be unlikely to give tit for tat. You know that many high-mettled horses will do so."

"Of course," said York, "I quite understand; but you know it is not easy in stables like these to have all the grooms just what they should be. I do my best, and there I must leave it. I'll remember what you have said about the mare." They were going out of the stable, when John stopped, and said, "I had better mention that we have never used the check-rein with either of them; the black horse never had one on, and the dealer said it was the gag-bit that spoiled the other's temper."

"Well," said York, "if they come here, they must wear the check-rein. I prefer a loose rein myself, and his lordship is always very reasonable about horses; but my lady -- that's another thing; she will have style, and if her carriage horses are not reined up tight she wouldn't look at them. I always stand out against the gag-bit, and shall do so, but it must be tight up when my lady rides!"

"I am sorry for it," said John; "but I must go now, or I shall lose the train."

He came round to each of us to pat and speak to us for the last time; his voice sounded very sad. I held my face close to him; that was all I could do to say good-bye; and then he was gone, and I have never seen him since.

The next day Lord W --  --  came to look at us; he seemed pleased with our appearance. "I have great confidence in these horses," he said, "from the character my friend Gordon has given me of them. Of course they are not a match in color, but my idea is that they will do very well for the carriage while we are in the country. Before we go to London I must try to match Baron; the black horse, I believe, is perfect for riding."

York then told him what John had said about us.

"Well," said he, "you must keep an eye to the mare, and put the check-rein easy; I dare say they will do very well with a little humoring at first. I'll mention it to your lady."

In the afternoon we were harnessed and put in the carriage and led round to the front of the house. It was all very grand, and three times as large as the old house at Birtwick, but not half so pleasant, if a horse may have an opinion. Two footmen were standing ready, dressed in drab livery, with scarlet breeches and white stockings. Presently we heard the rustling sound of silk as my lady came down the flight of stone steps. She stepped round to look at us; she was a tall, proud-looking woman, and did not seem pleased about something, but she said nothing, and got into the carriage. This was the first time of wearing a check-rein, and I must say, though it certainly was a nuisance not to be able to get my head down now and then, it did not pull my head higher than I was accustomed to carry it. I felt anxious about Ginger, but she seemed to be quiet and content.

The next day we were again at the door, and the footmen as before; we heard the silk dress rustle, and the lady came down the steps, and in an imperious voice, she said, "York, you must put those horses' heads higher, they are not fit to be seen."

York got down, and said very respectfully, "I beg your pardon, my lady, but these horses have not been reined up for three years, and my lord said it would be safer to bring them to it by degrees; but, if your ladyship pleases, I can take them up a little more." "Do so," she said.

York came round to our heads and shortened the rein himself, one hole, I think. Every little makes a difference, be it for better or worse, and that day we had a steep hill to go up. Then I began to understand what I had heard of. Of course, I wanted to put my head forward and take the carriage up with a will as we had been used to do; but no, I had to pull with my head up now, and that took all the spirit out of me, and the strain came on my back and legs. When we came in, Ginger said, "Now you see what it is like; but this is not bad, and if it does not get much worse than this I shall say nothing about it, for we are very well treated here; but if they strain me up tight, why, let 'em look out! I can't bear it, and I won't."

Day by day, hole by hole, our bearing-reins were shortened, and instead of looking forward with pleasure to having my harness put on, as I used to do, I began to dread it. Ginger too seemed restless, thought she said very little. The worst was yet to come.



Chapter X


A Strike For Liberty

One day my lady came down later than usual, and the silk rustled more than ever. "Drive to the Duchess of B --  -- 's," she said, and then after a pause, "Are you never going to get those horses' heads up, York? Raise them at once, and let us have no more of this humoring nonsense."

York came to me first, while the groom stood at Ginger's head. He drew my head back and fixed the rein so tight that it was almost intolerable; then he went to Ginger, who was impatiently jerking her head up and down against the bit, as was her way now. She had a good idea of what was coming, and the moment York took the rein off the turret in order to shorten it, she took her opportunity, and reared up so suddenly that York had his nose roughly hit and his hat knocked off; the groom was nearly thrown off his legs. At once they both flew to her head, but she was a match for them, and went on plunging, rearing, and kicking in a most desperate manner; at last she kicked right over the carriage pole and fell down, after giving me a severe blow on my near quarter. There is no knowing what further mischief she might have done, had not York sat himself down flat on her head to prevent her struggling, at the same time calling out, "Unbuckle the black horse! Run for the winch and unscrew the carriage pole! Cut the trace here, somebody, if you can't unhitch it!" The groom soon set me free from Ginger and the carriage, and led me to my box. He just turned me in as I was, and ran back to York. I was much excited by what had happened, and if I had ever been used to kick or rear I am sure I should have done it then; but I never had, and there I stood, angry, sore in my leg, my head still strained up to the terret on the saddle, and no power to get it down. I was very miserable, and felt much inclined to kick the first person who came near me.

Before long, however, Ginger was led in by two grooms, a good deal knocked about and bruised. York came with her and gave us orders, and then came to look at me. In a moment he let down my head.

"Confound these check-reins!" he said to himself; "I thought we should have some mischief soon. Master will be sorely vexed. But here, if a woman's husband can't rule her, of course a servant can't; so I wash my hands of it, and if she can't get to the Duchess' garden party I can't help it."

York did not say this before the men; he always spoke respectfully when they were by. Now he felt me all over, and soon found the place above my hock where I had been kicked. It was swelled and painful; he ordered it to be sponged with hot water, and then some lotion was put on.

Lord W -- - was much put out when he learned what had happened; he blamed York for giving way to his mistress, to which he replied that in future he would much prefer to receive his orders only from his lordship. I thought York might have stood up better for his horses, but perhaps I am no judge.

Ginger was never put into the carriage again, but when she was well of her bruises one of Lord W --  -- 's younger sons said he should like to have her; he was sure she would make a good hunter. As for me, I was obliged still to go in the carriage, and had a fresh partner called Max; he had always been used to the tight rein. I asked him how it was he bore it.

"Well," he said, "I bear it because I must; but it is shortening my life, and it will shorten yours too, if you have to stick to it."

"Do you think," I said, "that our masters know how bad it is for us?"

"I can't say," he replied, "but the dealers and the horse-doctors know it very well. I was at a dealer's once, who was training me and another horse to go as a pair; he was getting our heads up, and he said, a little higher and a little higher every day. A gentleman who was there asked him why he did so. 'Because,' said he, 'people won't buy them unless we do. The fashionable people want their horses to carry their heads high and to step high. Of course, it is very bad for the horses, but then it is good for trade. The horses soon wear up, and they come for another pair.' That," said Max, "is what he said in my hearing, and you can judge for yourself."

What I suffered with that rein for four months in my lady's carriage would be hard to describe; but I am quite sure that, had it lasted much longer, either my health or my temper would have given way. Before that, I never knew what it was to foam at the mouth, but now the action of the sharp bit on my tongue and jaw, and the constrained position of my head and throat, always caused me to froth at the mouth more or less. Some people think it very fine to see this, and say, "What fine, spirited creatures!" But it is just as unnatural for horses as for men to foam at the mouth; it is a sure sign of some discomfort, and should be attended to. Besides this, there was a pressure on my windpipe, which often made my breathing very uncomfortable; when I returned from my work, my neck and chest were strained and painful, my mouth and tongue tender, and I felt worn and depressed.

In my old home I always knew that John and my master were my friends; but here, although in many ways I was well treated, I had no friend. York might have known, and very likely did know, how that rein harassed me; but I suppose he took it as a matter of course that could not be helped; at any rate, nothing was done to relieve me.



Chapter XI


A Horse Fair

No doubt a horse fair is a very amusing place to those who have nothing to lose; at any rate, there is plenty to see.

Long strings of young horses out of the country, fresh from the marshes, and droves of shaggy little Welsh ponies, no higher than Merrylegs; and hundreds of cart horses of all sorts, some of them with their long tails braided up and tied with scarlet cord; and a good many like myself, handsome and high-bred, but fallen into the middle class, through some accident or blemish, unsoundness of wind, or some other complaint. There were some splendid animals quite in their prime, and fit for anything, they were throwing out their legs and showing off their paces in high style, as they were trotted out with a leading rein, the groom running by the side. But round in the background there were a number of poor things, sadly broken down with hard work, with their knees knuckling over and their hind legs swinging out at every step; and there were some very dejected-looking old horses, with the under-lip hanging down and the ears lying back heavily, as if there was no more pleasure in life, and no more hope; there were some so thin you might see all their ribs, and some with old sores on their backs and hips. These were sad sights for a horse to look upon, who knows not but he may come to the same state. I was put with some useful-looking horses, and a good many people came to look at us. The gentlemen always turned from me when they saw my broken knees; though the man who had me swore it was only a slip in the stall.

The first thing was to pull my mouth open, then to look at my eyes, then feel all the way down my legs and give me a hard feel of the skin and flesh, and then try my paces. It was wonderful what a difference there was in the way these things were done. Some did it in a rough, off-hand way, as if one was only a piece of wood; while others would take their hands gently over one's body, with a pat now and then, as much as to say, "By your leave." Of course, I judged a good deal of the buyers by their manners to myself.

There was one man, I thought, if he would buy me, I should be happy. He was not a gentleman. He was rather a small man, but well made, and quick in all his motions. I knew in a moment, by the way he handled me, that he was used to horses; he spoke gently, and his gray eye had a kindly, cheery look in it. It may seem strange to say -- but it is true all the same -- that the clean, fresh smell there was about him made me take to him; no smell of old beer and tobacco, which I hated, but a fresh smell as if he had come out of a hayloft. He offered twenty-three pounds for me; but that was refused, and he walked away. I looked after him, but he was gone, and a very hard-looking, loud-voiced man came. I was dreadfully afraid he would have me; but he walked off. One or two more came who did not mean business. Then the hard-faced man came back again and offered twenty-three pounds. A very close bargain was being driven, for my salesman began to think he should not get all he asked, and must come down; but just then the gray-eyed man came back again. I could not help reaching out my head toward him. He stroked my face kindly. "Well, old chap," he said, "I think we should suit each other. I'll give twenty-four for him."

"Say twenty-five, and you shall have him." "Twenty-four then," said my friend, in a very decided tone, "and not another sixpence -- yes, or no?"

"Done," said the salesman; "and you may depend upon it there's a monstrous deal of quality in that horse, and if you want him for cab work he's a bargain."

The money was paid on the spot, and my new master took my halter, and led me out of the fair to an inn, where he had a saddle and bridle ready. He gave me a good feed of oats, and stood by while I ate it, talking to himself and talking to me. Half an hour after, we were on our way to London, through pleasant lanes and country roads, until we came into the great thoroughfare, on which we traveled steadily, till in the twilight we reached the great city. The gas lamps were already lighted; there were streets and streets crossing each other, for mile upon mile. I thought we should never come to the end of them. At last, in passing through one, we came to a long cab stand, when my rider called out in a cheery voice, "Good-night, Governor!"

"Hallo!" cried a voice. "Have you got a good one?"

"I think so," replied my owner.

"I wish you luck with him."

"Thank ye, Governor," and he rode on. We soon turned up one of the side-streets, and about half-way up that we turned into a very narrow street, with rather poor-looking houses on one side, and what seemed to be coach-houses and stables on the other.

My owner pulled up at one of the houses and whistled. The door flew open, and a young woman, followed by a little girl and boy, ran out. There was a very lively greeting as my rider dismounted. "Now, then, Harry, my boy, open the gates, and mother will bring us the lantern."

The next minute they were all round me in the stable yard. "Is he gentle, father?" "Yes, Dolly, as gentle as your own kitten; come and pat him." At once the little hand was patting about all over my shoulder without fear. How good it felt!

"Let me get him a bran mash while you rub him down," said the mother. "Do, Polly, it's just what he wants; and I know you've got a beautiful mash ready for me."

I was led into a comfortable, clean-smelling stall with plenty of dry straw, and after a capital supper, I lay down, thinking I was going to be happy.



Chapter XII


A London Cab Horse

My new master's name was Jeremiah Barker, but as every one called him Jerry, I shall do the same. Polly, his wife, was just as good a match as a man could have. She was a plump, trim, tidy little woman, with smooth, dark hair, dark eyes, and a merry little mouth. The boy was nearly twelve years old, a tall, frank, good-tempered lad; and little Dorothy (Dolly they called her) was her mother over again, at eight years old. They were all wonderfully fond of each other; I never knew such a happy, merry family before or since. Jerry had a cab of his own, and two horses, which he drove and attended to himself. His other horse was a tall, white, rather large-boned animal, called Captain. He was old now, but when he was young he must have been splendid; he had still a proud way of holding his head and arching his neck; in fact, he was a high-bred, fine-mannered, noble old horse, every inch of him. He told me that in his early youth he went to the Crimean War; he belonged to an officer in the cavalry, and used to lead the regiment.

The next morning, when I was well-groomed, Polly and Dolly came into the yard to see me and make friends. Harry had been helping his father since the early morning, and had stated his opinion that I should turn out "a regular brick." Polly brought me a slice of apple, and Dolly a piece of bread, and made as much of me as if I had been the Black Beauty of olden time. It was a great treat to be petted again and talked to in a gentle voice, and I let them see as well as I could that I wished to be friendly. Polly thought I was very handsome, and a great deal too good for a cab, if it was not for the broken knees.

"Of course there's no one to tell us whose fault that was," said Jerry, "and as long as I don't know I shall give him the benefit of the doubt; for a firmer, neater stepper I never rode. We'll call him Jack, after the old one -- shall we, Polly?"

"Do," she said, "for I like to keep a good name going."

Captain went out in the cab all the morning. Harry came in after school to feed me and give me water. In the afternoon I was put into the cab. Jerry took as much pains to see if the collar and bridle fitted comfortably as if he had been John Manly over again. There was no check-rein, no curb, nothing but a plain ring snaffle. What a blessing that was!

After driving through the side-street we came to the large cabstand where Jerry had said "Good-night." On one side of this wide street were high houses with wonderful shop fronts, and on the other was an old church and churchyard, surrounded by iron palisades. Alongside these iron rails a number of cabs were drawn up, waiting for passengers; bits of hay were lying about on the ground; some of the men were standing together talking; some were sitting on their boxes reading the newspaper; and one or two were feeding their horses with bits of hay, and giving them a drink of water. We pulled up in the rank at the back of the last cab. Two or three men came round and began to look at me and pass their remarks.

"Very good for a funeral," said one.

"Too smart-looking," said another, shaking his head in a very wise way; "you'll find out something wrong one of these fine mornings, or my name isn't Jones."

"Well," said Jerry pleasantly, "I suppose I need not find it out till it find me out, eh? And if so, I'll keep up my spirits a little longer."

Then there came up a broad-faced man, dressed in a great gray coat with great gray capes and great white buttons, a gray hat, and a blue comforter loosely tied around his neck; his hair was gray, too; but he was a jolly-looking fellow, and the other men made way for him. He looked me all over, as if he had been going to buy me; and then straightening himself up with a grunt, he said, "He's the right sort for you, Jerry; I don't care what you gave for him, he'll be worth it." Thus my character was established on the stand. This man's name was Grant, but he was called "Gray Grant," or "Governor Grant." He had been the longest on that stand of any of the men, and he took it upon himself to settle matters and stop disputes.

The first week of my life as a cab horse was very trying. I had never been used to London, and the noise, the hurry, the crowds of horses, carts, and carriages, that I had to make my way through, made me feel anxious and harassed; but I soon found that I could perfectly trust my driver, and then I made myself easy, and got used to it.

Jerry was as good a driver as I had ever known; and what was better, he took as much thought for his horses as he did for himself. He soon found out that I was willing to work and do my best; and he never laid the whip on me, unless it was gently drawing the end of it over my back, when I was to go on; but generally I knew this quite well by the way in which he took up the reins; and I believe his whip was more frequently stuck up by his side than in his hand.

In a short time I and my master understood each other, as well as horse and man can do. In the stable, too, he did all that he could for our comfort. The stalls were the old-fashioned style, too much on the slope; but he had two movable bars fixed across the back of our stalls, so that at night, when we were resting, he just took off our halters and put up the bars, and thus we could turn about and stand whichever way we pleased, which is a great comfort.

Jerry kept us very clean, and gave us as much change of food as he could, and always plenty of it; and not only that, but he always gave us plenty of clean fresh water, which he allowed to stand by us both night and day, except of course when we came in warm. Some people say that a horse ought not to drink all he likes; but I know if we are allowed to drink when we want it we drink only a little at a time, and it does us a great deal more good than swallowing down half a bucketful at a time because we have been left without till we are thirsty and miserable. Some grooms will go home to their beer and leave us for hours with our dry hay and oats and nothing to moisten them; then of course we gulp down too much at once, which helps to spoil our breathing and sometimes chills our stomachs. But the best thing that we had here was our Sundays for rest! we worked so hard in the week, that I do not think we could have kept up to it, but for that day; besides, we had then time to enjoy each other's company.



Chapter XIII


Dolly And A Real Gentleman

The winter came in early, with a great deal of cold and wet. There was snow, or sleet, or rain, almost every day for weeks, changing only for keen driving winds or sharp frosts. The horses all felt it very much. When it is a dry cold, a couple of good thick rugs will keep the warmth in us; but when it is soaking rain, they soon get wet through and are no good. Some of the drivers had a waterproof cover to throw over, which was a fine thing; but some of the men were so poor that they could not protect either themselves or their horses, and many of them suffered very much that winter. When we horses had worked half the day we went to our dry stables, and could rest; while they had to sit on their boxes, sometimes staying out as late as one or two o'clock in the morning, if they had a party to wait for.

When the streets were slippery with frost or snow, that was the worst of all for us horses; one mile of such traveling with a weight to draw, and no firm footing, would take more out of us than four on a good road; every nerve and muscle of our bodies is on the strain to keep our balance; and, added to this, the fear of falling is more exhausting than anything else. If the roads are very bad, indeed, our shoes are roughed, but that makes us feel nervous at first.

One cold windy day, Dolly brought Jerry a basin of something hot, and was standing by him while he ate it. He had scarcely begun, when a gentleman, walking toward us very fast, held up his umbrella. Jerry touched his hat in return, gave the basin to Dolly, and was taking off my cloth, when the gentleman, hastening up, cried out, "No, no, finish your soup, my friend; I have not much time to spare, but I can wait till you have done, and set your little girl safe on the pavement."

So saying, he seated himself in the cab. Jerry thanked him kindly, and came back to Dolly. "There, Dolly, that's a gentleman; that's a real gentleman, Dolly; he has got time and thought for the comfort of a poor cabman and a little girl."

Jerry finished his soup, set the child across, and then took his orders to drive to Clapham Rise. Several times after that, the same gentleman took our cab. I think he was very fond of dogs and horses, for whenever we took him to his own door, two or three dogs would come bounding out to meet him. Sometimes he came round and patted me saying in his quiet, pleasant way: "This horse has got a good master, and he deserves it." It was a very rare thing for any one to notice the horse that had been working for him. I have known ladies to do it now and then, and this gentleman, and one or two others have given me a pat and a kind word; but ninety-nine out of a hundred would as soon think of patting the steam engine that drew the train.

One day, he and another gentleman took our cab; they stopped at a shop in R --  --  Street, and while his friend went in, he stood at the door. A little ahead of us on the other side of the street, a cart with two very fine horses was standing before some wine vaults; the carter was not with them, and I cannot tell how long they had been standing, but they seemed to think they had waited long enough, and began to move off. Before they had gone, many paces, the carter came running out and caught them. He seemed furious at their having moved, and with whip and rein punished them brutally, even beating them about the head. Our gentleman saw it all, and stepping quickly across the street, said in a decided voice: "If you don't stop that directly, I'll have you arrested for leaving your horses, and for brutal conduct."

The man, who had clearly been drinking, poured forth some abusive language, but he left off knocking the horses about, and taking the reins, got into his cart; meantime our friend had quietly taken a notebook from his pocket, and looking at the name and address painted on the cart, he wrote something down.

"What do you want with that?" growled the carter, as he cracked his whip and was moving on. A nod and a grim smile was the only answer he got.

On returning to the cab, our friend was joined by his companion, who said laughing, "I should have thought, Wright, you had enough business of your own to look after, without troubling yourself about other people's horses and servants."

Our friend stood still for a moment, and throwing his head a little back, "Do you know why this world is as bad as it is?"

"No," said the other.

"Then I'll tell you. It is because people think only about their own business, and won't trouble themselves to stand up for the oppressed, nor bring the wrong-doer to light. I never see a wicked thing like this without doing what I can, and many a master has thanked me for letting him know how his horses have been used."

"I wish there were more gentlemen like you, sir," said Jerry, "for they are wanted badly enough in this city."



Chapter XIV


Poor Ginger

One day, while our cab and many others were waiting outside one of the parks where music was playing, a shabby old cab drove up beside ours. The horse was an old worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept coat, and bones that showed plainly through it, the knees knuckled over, and the fore-legs were very unsteady. I had been eating some hay, and the wind rolled a little lock of it that way, and the poor creature put out her long thin neck and picked it up, and then turned round and looked about for more. There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not help noticing, and then, as I was thinking where I had seen that horse before, she looked full at me and said, "Black Beauty, is that you?"

It was Ginger! but how changed! The beautifully arched and glossy neck was now straight, and lank, and fallen in; the clean, straight legs and delicate fetlocks were swelled; the joints were grown out of shape with hard work; the face, that was once so full of spirit and life, was now full of suffering, and I could tell by the heaving of her sides, and her frequent cough, how bad her breath was. Our drivers were standing together a little way off, so I sidled up to her a step or two, that we might have a little quiet talk. It was a sad tale that she had to tell.

After a twelvemonth's run off at Earlshall, she was considered to be fit for work again, and was sold to a gentleman. For a little while she got on very well, but after a longer gallop than usual, the old strain returned, and after being rested and doctored she was again sold. In this way she changed hands several times, but always getting lower down.

"And so at last," said she, "I was bought by a man who keeps a number of cabs and horses, and lets them out. You look well off, and I am glad of it, but I could not tell you what my life has been. When they found out my weakness, they said I was not worth what they gave for me, and that I must go into one of the low cabs, and just be used up; that is what they are doing, whipping and working with never one thought of what I suffer -- they paid for me, and must get it out of me, they say. The man who hires me now pays a deal of money to the owner every day, and so he has to get it out of me, too; and so it's all the week round and round, with never a Sunday rest."

I said, "You used to stand up for yourself if you were ill-used."

"Ah!" she said, "I did once, but it's no use; men are strongest, and if they are cruel and have no feeling, there is nothing that we can do but just bear it -- bear it on and on to the end. I wish the end was come, I wish I was dead. I have seen dead horses, and I am sure they do not suffer pain."

I was very much troubled, and I put my nose up to hers, but I could say nothing to comfort her. I think she was pleased to see me, for she said, "You are the only friend I ever had."

Just then her driver came up, and with a tug at her mouth, backed her out of the line and drove off, leaving me very sad, indeed.

A short time after this, a cart with a dead horse in it passed our cab stand. The head hung out of the cart tail, the lifeless tongue was slowly dropping with blood; and the sunken eyes! but I can't speak of them, the sight was too dreadful! It was a chestnut horse with a long, thin neck. I saw a white streak down the forehead. I believe it was Ginger; I hoped it was, for then her troubles would be over. Oh! if men were more merciful, they would shoot us before we came to such misery.



Chapter XV


At a sale I found myself in company with a lot of horses -- some lame, some broken-winded, some old, and some that I am sure it would have been merciful to shoot.

The buyers and sellers, too, many of them, looked not much better off than the poor beasts they were bargaining about. There were poor old men, trying to get a horse or pony for a few pounds, that might drag about some little wood or coal cart. There were poor men trying to sell a worn-out beast for two or three pounds, rather than have the greater loss of killing him. Some of them looked as if poverty and hard times had hardened them all over; but there were others that I would have willingly used the last of my strength in serving; poor and shabby, but kind and humane, with voices that I could trust. There was one tottering old man that took a great fancy to me, and I to him, but I was not strong enough -- it was an anxious time! Coming from the better part of the fair, I noticed a man who looked like a gentleman farmer, with a young boy by his side; he had a broad back and round shoulders, a kind, ruddy face, and he wore a broad-brimmed hat. When he came up to me and my companions, he stood still, and gave a pitiful look round upon us. I saw his eye rest on me; I had still a good mane and tail, which did something for my appearance. I pricked my ears and looked at him.

"There's a horse, Willie, that has known better days."

"Poor old fellow!" said the boy; "do you think, grandpapa, he was ever a carriage horse?"

"Oh, yes! my boy," said the farmer, coming closer, "he might have been anything when he was young; look at his nostrils and his ears, the shape of his neck and shoulder; there's a deal of breeding about that horse." He put out his hand and gave me a kind pat on the neck. I put out my nose in answer to his kindness; the boy stroked my face.

"Poor old fellow! see, grandpapa, how well he understands kindness. Could not you buy him and make him young again as you did with Ladybird?"

"My dear boy, I can't make all old horses young; besides, Ladybird was not so very old, as she was run down and badly used."

"Well, grandpapa, I don't believe that this one is old; look at his mane and tail. I wish you would look into his mouth, and then you could tell; though he is so very thin, his eyes are not sunk like some old horses." The old gentleman laughed. "Bless the boy! he is as horsey as his old grandfather."

"But do look at his mouth, grandpapa, and ask the price; I am sure he would grow young in our meadows."

The man who had brought me for sale now put in his word. "The young gentleman's a real knowing one, sir. Now, the fact is, this 'ere hoss is just pulled down with over-work in the cabs; he's not an old one, and I heard as how the vetenary said that a six-months' run off would set him right up, being as how his wind was not broken. I've had the tending of him these ten days past, and a gratefuller, pleasanter animal I never met with, and 'twould be worth a gentleman's while to give a five-pound note for him, and let him have a chance. I'll be bound he'd be worth twenty pounds next spring."

The old gentleman laughed, and the little boy looked up eagerly. "O, grandpapa, did you not say the colt sold for five pounds more than you expected? You would not be poorer if you did buy this one."

The farmer slowly felt my legs, which were much swelled and strained; then he looked at my mouth. "Thirteen or fourteen, I should say; just trot him out, will you?"

I arched my poor thin neck, raised my tail a little and threw out my legs as well as I could, for they were very stiff.

"What is the lowest you will take for him?" said the farmer as I came back. "Five pounds, sir; that was the lowest price my master set."

"'Tis a speculation," said the old gentleman, shaking his head, but at the same time slowly drawing out his purse, "quite a speculation! Have you any more business here?" he said, counting the sovereigns into his hand. "No, sir, I can take him for you to the inn, if you please."

"Do so, I am now going there."



Chapter XVI


My Last Home

One day, during this summer, the groom cleaned and dressed me with such extraordinary care that I thought some new change must be at hand; he trimmed my fetlocks and legs, passed the tar-brush over my hoofs, and even parted my forelock. I think the harness had an extra polish. Willie seemed half-anxious, half-merry, as he got into the chaise with his grandfather. "If the ladies take to him," said the old gentleman, "they'll be suited and he'll be suited; we can but try."

At the distance of a mile or two from the village, we came to a pretty, low house, with a lawn and shrubbery at the front, and a drive up to the door. Willie rang the bell, and asked if Miss Blomefield or Miss Ellen was at home. Yes, they were. So, while Willie stayed with me, Mr. Thoroughgood went into the house. In about ten minutes he returned, followed by three ladies; one tall, pale lady, wrapped in a white shawl, leaned on a younger lady, with dark eyes and a merry face; the other, a very stately-looking person, was Miss Blomefield. They all came and looked at me and asked questions. The younger lady -- that was Miss Ellen -- took to me very much; she said she was sure she should like me, I had such a good face. The tall, pale lady said she should always be nervous in riding behind a horse that had once been down, as I might come down again, and if I did she should never get over the fright."

"You see, ladies," said Mr. Thoroughgood, "many first-rate horses have had their knees broken through the carelessness of their drivers, without any fault of their own, and from what I see of this horse, I should say that is his case; but, of course, I do not wish to influence you. If you incline, you can have him on trial, and then your coachman will see what he thinks of him."

"You have always been such a good adviser to us about our horses," said the stately lady, "that your recommendation would go a long way with me, and if my sister Lavinia sees no objection, we will accept your offer of a trial, with thanks."

It was then arranged that I should be sent for the next day. In the morning a smart-looking young man came for me; at first, he looked pleased; but when he saw my knees, he said in a disappointed voice: "I didn't think, sir, you would have recommended a blemished horse like that."

"'Handsome is that handsome does,'" said my master; "you are only taking him on trial, and I am sure you will do fairly by him, young man; if he is not safe as any horse you ever drove, send him back."

I was led to my new home, placed in a comfortable stable, fed, and left to myself. The next day, when my groom was cleaning my face, he said: "That is just like the star that Black Beauty had, he is much the same height, too; I wonder where he is now."

A little further on, he came to the place in my neck where I was bled, and where a little knot was left in the skin. He almost started, and begun to look me over carefully, talking to himself. "White star in the forehead, one white foot on the off side, this little knot just in that place"; then, looking at the middle of my back -- "and as I am alive, there is that little patch of white hair that John used to call 'Beauty's threepenny bit.' It must be Black Beauty! Why, Beauty! Beauty! do you know me? little Joe Green, that almost killed you?" And he began patting and patting me as if he was quite overjoyed.

I could not say that I remembered him, for now he was a fine grown young fellow, with black whiskers, and a man's voice, but I was sure he knew me, and that he was Joe Green, and I was very glad. I put my nose up to him, and tried to say that we were friends. I never saw a man so pleased.

"Give you a fair trial! I should think so, indeed! I wonder who the rascal was that broke your knees, my old Beauty! you must have been badly served out somewhere; well, well, it won't be my fault if you haven't good times of it now. I wish John Manly was here to see you."

In the afternoon I was put into a low Park chair and brought to the door. Miss Ellen was going to try me, and Green went with her. I soon found that she was a good driver, and she seemed pleased with my paces. I heard Joe telling her about me, and that he was sure I was Squire Gordon's old "Black Beauty."

When we returned, the other sisters came out to hear how I had behaved myself. She told them what she had just heard, and said: "I shall certainly write to Mrs. Gordon, and tell her that her favorite horse has come to us. How pleased she will be!"

After this I was driven every day for a week or so, and as I appeared to be quite safe, Miss Lavinia at last ventured out in the small close carriage. After this it was quite decided to keep me and call me by my old name of Black Beauty.

I have now lived in this happy place a whole year.

<eob>

The Voyages Of Doctor Dolittle

By

Hugh Lofting



Part I



The First Chapter

The Cobbler's Son


MY name was Tommy Stubbins, son of Jacob Stubbins, the cobbler of Puddleby-on-the-Marsh; and I was nine and a half years old. At that time Puddleby was only quite a small town. A river ran through the middle of it; and over this river there was a very old stone bridge, called Kingsbridge, which led you from the market-place on one side to the churchyard on the other.

Sailing-ships came up this river from the sea and anchored near the bridge. I used to go down and watch the sailors unloading the ships upon the river-wall. The sailors sang strange songs as they pulled upon the ropes; and I learned these songs by heart. And I would sit on the river-wall with my feet dangling over the water and sing with the men, pretending to myself that I too was a sailor.

For I longed always to sail away with those brave ships when they turned their backs on Puddleby Church and went creeping down the river again, across the wide lonely marshes to the sea. I longed to go with them out into the world to seek my fortune in foreign lands-Africa, India, China and Peru! When they got round the bend in the river and the water was hidden from view, you could still see their huge brown sails towering over the roofs of the town, moving onward slowly-like some gentle giants that walked among the houses without noise. What strange things would they have seen, I wondered, when next they came back to anchor at Kingsbridge! And, dreaming of the lands I had never seen, I'd sit on there, watching till they were out of sight.

Three great friends I had in Puddleby in those days. One was Joe, the mussel-man, who lived in a tiny hut by the edge of the water under the bridge. This old man was simply marvelous at making things. I never saw a man so clever with his hands. He used to mend my toy ships for me which I sailed upon the river; he built windmills out of packing-cases and barrel-staves; and he could make the most wonderful kites from old umbrellas.

Joe would sometimes take me in his mussel-boat, and when the tide was running out we would paddle down the river as far as the edge of the sea to get mussels and lobsters to sell. And out there on the cold lonely marshes we would see wild geese flying, and curlews and redshanks and many other kinds of seabirds that live among the samfire and the long grass of the great salt fen. And as we crept up the river in the evening, when the tide had turned, we would see the lights on Kingsbridge twinkle in the dusk, reminding us of tea-time and warm fires.

"I would sit on the river-wall with my feet dangling over the water"

Another friend I had was Matthew Mugg, the cat's-meat-man. He was a funny old person with a bad squint. He looked rather awful but he was really quite nice to talk to. He knew everybody in Puddleby; and he knew all the dogs and all the cats. In those times being a cat's-meat-man was a regular business. And you could see one nearly any day going through the streets with a wooden tray full of pieces of meat stuck on skewers crying, "Meat! M-E-A-T!" People paid him to give this meat to their cats and dogs instead of feeding them on dog-biscuits or the scraps from the table.

I enjoyed going round with old Matthew and seeing the cats and dogs come running to the garden-gates whenever they heard his call. Sometimes he let me give the meat to the animals myself; and I thought this was great fun. He knew a lot about dogs and he would tell me the names of the different kinds as we went through the town. He had several dogs of his own; one, a whippet, was a very fast runner, and Matthew used to win prizes with her at the Saturday coursing races; another, a terrier, was a fine ratter. The cat's-meat-man used to make a business of rat-catching for the millers and farmers as well as his other trade of selling cat's-meat.

My third great friend was Luke the Hermit. But of him I will tell you more later on.

I did not go to school; because my father was not rich enough to send me. But I was extremely fond of animals. So I used to spend my time collecting birds' eggs and butterflies, fishing in the river, rambling through the countryside after blackberries and mushrooms and helping the mussel-man mend his nets.

Yes, it was a very pleasant life I lived in those days long ago-though of course I did not think so then. I was nine and a half years old; and, like all boys, I wanted to grow up-not knowing how well off I was with no cares and nothing to worry me. Always I longed for the time when I should be allowed to leave my father's house, to take passage in one of those brave ships, to sail down the river through the misty marshes to the sea-out into the world to seek my fortune.



The Second Chapter

I Hear Of The Great Naturalist


ONE early morning in the Springtime, when I was wandering among the hills at the back of the town, I happened to come upon a hawk with a squirrel in its claws. It was standing on a rock and the squirrel was fighting very hard for its life. The hawk was so frightened when I came upon it suddenly like this, that it dropped the poor creature and flew away. I picked the squirrel up and found that two of its legs were badly hurt. So I carried it in my arms back to the town.

When I came to the bridge I went into the mussel-man's hut and asked him if he could do anything for it. Joe put on his spectacles and examined it carefully. Then he shook his head.

"Yon crittur's got a broken leg," he said-"and another badly cut an' all. I can mend you your boats, Tom, but I haven't the tools nor the learning to make a broken squirrel seaworthy. This is a job for a surgeon-and for a right smart one an' all. There be only one man I know who could save yon crittur's life. And that's John Dolittle."

"Who is John Dolittle?" I asked. "Is he a vet?"

"No," said the mussel-man. "He's no vet. Doctor Dolittle is a nacheralist."

"What's a nacheralist?"

"A nacheralist," said Joe, putting away his glasses and starting to fill his pipe, "is a man who knows all about animals and butterflies and plants and rocks an' all. John Dolittle is a very great nacheralist. I'm surprised you never heard of him-and you daft over animals. He knows a whole lot about shellfish-that I know from my own knowledge. He's a quiet man and don't talk much; but there's folks who do say he's the greatest nacheralist in the world."

"Where does he live?" I asked.

"Over on the Oxenthorpe Road, t'other side the town. Don't know just which house it is, but 'most anyone 'cross there could tell you, I reckon. Go and see him. He's a great man."

So I thanked the mussel-man, took up my squirrel again and started off towards the Oxenthorpe Road.

The first thing I heard as I came into the market-place was some one calling "Meat! M-E-A-T!"

"There's Matthew Mugg," I said to myself. "He'll know where this Doctor lives. Matthew knows everyone."

So I hurried across the market-place and caught him up.

"Matthew," I said, "do you know Doctor Dolittle?"

"Do I know John Dolittle!" said he. "Well, I should think I do! I know him as well as I know my own wife-better, I sometimes think. He's a great man-a very great man."

"Can you show me where he lives?" I asked. "I want to take this squirrel to him. It has a broken leg."

"Certainly," said the cat's-meat-man. "I'll be going right by his house directly. Come along and I'll show you."

So off we went together.

"Oh, I've known John Dolittle for years and years," said Matthew as we made our way out of the market-place. "But I'm pretty sure he ain't home just now. He's away on a voyage. But he's liable to be back any day. I'll show you his house and then you'll know where to find him."

All the way down the Oxenthorpe Road Matthew hardly stopped talking about his great friend, Doctor John Dolittle-"M. D." He talked so much that he forgot all about calling out "Meat!" until we both suddenly noticed that we had a whole procession of dogs following us patiently.

"Where did the Doctor go to on this voyage?" I asked as Matthew handed round the meat to them.

"I couldn't tell you," he answered. "Nobody never knows where he goes, nor when he's going, nor when he's coming back. He lives all alone except for his pets. He's made some great voyages and some wonderful discoveries. Last time he came back he told me he'd found a tribe of Red Indians in the Pacific Ocean-lived on two islands, they did. The husbands lived on one island and the wives lived on the other. Sensible people, some of them savages. They only met once a year, when the husbands came over to visit the wives for a great feast-Christmas-time, most likely. Yes, he's a wonderful man is the Doctor. And as for animals, well, there ain't no one knows as much about 'em as what he does."

"How did he get to know so much about animals?" I asked.

The cat's-meat-man stopped and leant down to whisper in my ear.

"He talks their language," he said in a hoarse, mysterious voice.

"The animals' language?" I cried.

"Why certainly," said Matthew. "All animals have some kind of a language. Some sorts talk more than others; some only speak in sign-language, like deaf-and-dumb. But the Doctor, he understands them all-birds as well as animals. We keep it a secret though, him and me, because folks only laugh at you when you speak of it. Why, he can even write animal-language. He reads aloud to his pets. He's wrote history-books in monkey-talk, poetry in canary language and comic songs for magpies to sing. It's a fact. He's now busy learning the language of the shellfish. But he says it's hard work-and he has caught some terrible colds, holding his head under water so much. He's a great man."

"He certainly must be," I said. "I do wish he were home so I could meet him."

"Well, there's his house, look," said the cat's-meat-man-"that little one at the bend in the road there-the one high up-like it was sitting on the wall above the street."

We were now come beyond the edge of the town. And the house that Matthew pointed out was quite a small one standing by itself. There seemed to be a big garden around it; and this garden was much higher than the road, so you had to go up a flight of steps in the wall before you reached the front gate at the top. I could see that there were many fine fruit trees in the garden, for their branches hung down over the wall in places. But the wall was so high I could not see anything else.

When we reached the house Matthew went up the steps to the front gate and I followed him. I thought he was going to go into the garden; but the gate was locked. A dog came running down from the house; and he took several pieces of meat which the cat's-meat-man pushed through the bars of the gate, and some paper bags full of corn and bran. I noticed that this dog did not stop to eat the meat, as any ordinary dog would have done, but he took all the things back to the house and disappeared. He had a curious wide collar round his neck which looked as though it were made of brass or something. Then we came away.

"The Doctor isn't back yet," said Matthew, "or the gate wouldn't be locked."

"What were all those things in paper-bags you gave the dog?" I asked.

"Oh, those were provisions," said Matthew-"things for the animals to eat. The Doctor's house is simply full of pets. I give the things to the dog, while the Doctor's away, and the dog gives them to the other animals."

"And what was that curious collar he was wearing round his neck?"

"That's a solid gold dog-collar," said Matthew. "It was given to him when he was with the Doctor on one of his voyages long ago. He saved a man's life."

"How long has the Doctor had him?" I asked.

"Oh, a long time. Jip's getting pretty old now. That's why the Doctor doesn't take him on his voyages any more. He leaves him behind to take care of the house. Every Monday and Thursday I bring the food to the gate here and give it him through the bars. He never lets any one come inside the garden while the Doctor's away-not even me, though he knows me well. But you'll always be able to tell if the Doctor's back or not-because if he is, the gate will surely be open."

So I went off home to my father's house and put my squirrel to bed in an old wooden box full of straw. And there I nursed him myself and took care of him as best I could till the time should come when the Doctor would return. And every day I went to the little house with the big garden on the edge of the town and tried the gate to see if it were locked. Sometimes the dog, Jip, would come down to the gate to meet me. But though he always wagged his tail and seemed glad to see me, he never let me come inside the garden.



The Third Chapter

The Doctor's Home


ONE Monday afternoon towards the end of April my father asked me to take some shoes which he had mended to a house on the other side of the town. They were for a Colonel Bellowes who was very particular.

I found the house and rang the bell at the front door. The Colonel opened it, stuck out a very red face and said, "Go round to the tradesmen's entrance-go to the back door." Then he slammed the door shut.

I felt inclined to throw the shoes into the middle of his flower-bed. But I thought my father might be angry, so I didn't. I went round to the back door, and there the Colonel's wife met me and took the shoes from me. She looked a timid little woman and had her hands all over flour as though she were making bread. She seemed to be terribly afraid of her husband whom I could still hear stumping round the house somewhere, grunting indignantly because I had come to the front door. Then she asked me in a whisper if I would have a bun and a glass of milk. And I said, "Yes, please."

After I had eaten the bun and milk, I thanked the Colonel's wife and came away. Then I thought that before I went home I would go and see if the Doctor had come back yet. I had been to his house once already that morning. But I thought I'd just like to go and take another look. My squirrel wasn't getting any better and I was beginning to be worried about him.

So I turned into the Oxenthorpe Road and started off towards the Doctor's house. On the way I noticed that the sky was clouding over and that it looked as though it might rain.

I reached the gate and found it still locked. I felt very discouraged. I had been coming here every day for a week now. The dog, Jip, came to the gate and wagged his tail as usual, and then sat down and watched me closely to see that I didn't get in.

I began to fear that my squirrel would die before the Doctor came back. I turned away sadly, went down the steps on to the road and turned towards home again.

I wondered if it were supper-time yet. Of course I had no watch of my own, but I noticed a gentleman coming towards me down the road; and when he got nearer I saw it was the Colonel out for a walk. He was all wrapped up in smart overcoats and mufflers and bright-colored gloves. It was not a very cold day but he had so many clothes on he looked like a pillow inside a roll of blankets. I asked him if he would please tell me the time.

He stopped, grunted and glared down at me-his red face growing redder still; and when he spoke it sounded like the cork coming out of a gingerbeer-bottle.

"Do you imagine for one moment," he spluttered, "that I am going to get myself all unbuttoned just to tell a little boy like you the time!" And he went stumping down the street, grunting harder than ever.

I stood still a moment looking after him and wondering how old I would have to be, to have him go to the trouble of getting his watch out. And then, all of a sudden, the rain came down in torrents.

I have never seen it rain so hard. It got dark, almost like night. The wind began to blow; the thunder rolled; the lightning flashed, and in a moment the gutters of the road were flowing like a river. There was no place handy to take shelter, so I put my head down against the driving wind and started to run towards home.

I hadn't gone very far when my head bumped into something soft and I sat down suddenly on the pavement. I looked up to see whom I had run into. And there in front of me, sitting on the wet pavement like myself, was a little round man with a very kind face. He wore a shabby high hat and in his hand he had a small black bag.

"I'm very sorry," I said. "I had my head down and I didn't see you coming."

To my great surprise, instead of getting angry at being knocked down, the little man began to laugh.

"You know this reminds me," he said, "of a time once when I was in India. I ran full tilt into a woman in a thunderstorm. But she was carrying a pitcher of molasses on her head and I had treacle in my hair for weeks afterwards-the flies followed me everywhere. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," I said. "I'm all right."

"It was just as much my fault as it was yours, you know," said the little man. "I had my head down too-but look here, we mustn't sit talking like this. You must be soaked. I know I am. How far have you got to go?"

"My home is on the other side of the town," I said, as we picked ourselves up.

"My Goodness, but that was a wet pavement!" said he. "And I declare it's coming down worse than ever. Come along to my house and get dried. A storm like this can't last."

He took hold of my hand and we started running back down the road together. As we ran I began to wonder who this funny little man could be, and where he lived. I was a perfect stranger to him, and yet he was taking me to his own home to get dried. Such a change, after the old red-faced Colonel who had refused even to tell me the time! Presently we stopped.

"Here we are," he said.

I looked up to see where we were and found myself back at the foot of the steps leading to the little house with the big garden! My new friend was already running up the steps and opening the gate with some keys he took from his pocket.

"Surely," I thought, "this cannot be the great Doctor Dolittle himself!"

I suppose after hearing so much about him I had expected some one very tall and strong and marvelous. It was hard to believe that this funny little man with the kind smiling face could be really he. Yet here he was, sure enough, running up the steps and opening the very gate which I had been watching for so many days!

The dog, Jip, came rushing out and started jumping up on him and barking with happiness. The rain was splashing down heavier than ever.

"Are you Doctor Dolittle?" I shouted as we sped up the short garden-path to the house.

"Yes, I'm Doctor Dolittle," said he, opening the front door with the same bunch of keys. "Get in! Don't bother about wiping your feet. Never mind the mud. Take it in with you. Get in out of the rain!"

I popped in, he and Jip following. Then he slammed the door to behind us.

The storm had made it dark enough outside; but inside the house, with the door closed, it was as black as night. Then began the most extraordinary noise that I have ever heard. It sounded like all sorts and kinds of animals and birds calling and squeaking and screeching at the same time. I could hear things trundling down the stairs and hurrying along passages. Somewhere in the dark a duck was quacking, a cock was crowing, a dove was cooing, an owl was hooting, a lamb was bleating and Jip was barking. I felt birds' wings fluttering and fanning near my face. Things kept bumping into my legs and nearly upsetting me. The whole front hall seemed to be filling up with animals. The noise, together with the roaring of the rain, was tremendous; and I was beginning to grow a little bit scared when I felt the Doctor take hold of my arm and shout into my ear.

"Don't be alarmed. Don't be frightened. These are just some of my pets. I've been away three months and they are glad to see me home again. Stand still where you are till I strike a light. My Gracious, what a storm!-Just listen to that thunder!"

So there I stood in the pitch-black dark, while all kinds of animals which I couldn't see chattered and jostled around me. It was a curious and a funny feeling. I had often wondered, when I had looked in from the front gate, what Doctor Dolittle would be like and what the funny little house would have inside it. But I never imagined it would be anything like this. Yet somehow after I had felt the Doctor's hand upon my arm I was not frightened, only confused. It all seemed like some queer dream; and I was beginning to wonder if I was really awake, when I heard the Doctor speaking again:

"My blessed matches are all wet. They won't strike. Have you got any?"

"No, I'm afraid I haven't," I called back.

"Never mind," said he. "Perhaps Dab-Dab can raise us a light somewhere."

Then the Doctor made some funny clicking noises with his tongue and I heard some one trundle up the stairs again and start moving about in the rooms above.

Then we waited quite a while without anything happening.

"Will the light be long in coming?" I asked. "Some animal is sitting on my foot and my toes are going to sleep."

"No, only a minute," said the Doctor. "She'll be back in a minute."

And just then I saw the first glimmerings of a light around the landing above. At once all the animals kept quiet.

"And in her right foot she carried a lighted candle!"

"I thought you lived alone," I said to the Doctor.

"So I do," said he. "It is Dab-Dab who is bringing the light."

I looked up the stairs trying to make out who was coming. I could not see around the landing but I heard the most curious footstep on the upper flight. It sounded like some one hopping down from one step to the other, as though he were using only one leg.

As the light came lower, it grew brighter and began to throw strange jumping shadows on the walls.

"Ah-at last!" said the Doctor. "Good old Dab-Dab!"

And then I thought I really must be dreaming. For there, craning her neck round the bend of the landing, hopping down the stairs on one leg, came a spotless white duck. And in her right foot she carried a lighted candle!



The Fourth Chapter

The Wiff-Waff


WHEN at last I could look around me I found that the hall was indeed simply full of animals. It seemed to me that almost every kind of creature from the countryside must be there: a pigeon, a white rat, an owl, a badger, a jackdaw-there was even a small pig, just in from the rainy garden, carefully wiping his feet on the mat while the light from the candle glistened on his wet pink back.

The Doctor took the candlestick from the duck and turned to me.

"Look here," he said: "you must get those wet clothes off-by the way, what is your name?"

"Tommy Stubbins," I said.

"Oh, are you the son of Jacob Stubbins, the shoemaker?"

"Yes," I said.

"Excellent bootmaker, your father," said the Doctor. "You see these?" and he held up his right foot to show me the enormous boots he was wearing. "Your father made me those boots four years ago, and I've been wearing them ever since-perfectly wonderful boots-Well now, look here, Stubbins. You've got to change those wet things-and quick. Wait a moment till I get some more candles lit, and then we'll go upstairs and find some dry clothes. You'll have to wear an old suit of mine till we can get yours dry again by the kitchen-fire."

So presently when more candles had been lighted round different parts of the house, we went upstairs; and when we had come into a bedroom the Doctor opened a big wardrobe and took out two suits of old clothes. These we put on. Then we carried our wet ones down to the kitchen and started a fire in the big chimney. The coat of the Doctor's which I was wearing was so large for me that I kept treading on my own coat-tails while I was helping to fetch the wood up from the cellar. But very soon we had a huge big fire blazing up the chimney and we hung our wet clothes around on chairs.

"Now let's cook some supper," said the Doctor.-"You'll stay and have supper with me, Stubbins, of course?"

Already I was beginning to be very fond of this funny little man who called me "Stubbins," instead of "Tommy" or "little lad" (I did so hate to be called "little lad"!) This man seemed to begin right away treating me as though I were a grown-up friend of his. And when he asked me to stop and have supper with him I felt terribly proud and happy. But I suddenly remembered that I had not told my mother that I would be out late. So very sadly I answered,

"Thank you very much. I would like to stay, but I am afraid that my mother will begin to worry and wonder where I am if I don't get back."

"Oh, but my dear Stubbins," said the Doctor, throwing another log of wood on the fire, "your clothes aren't dry yet. You'll have to wait for them, won't you? By the time they are ready to put on we will have supper cooked and eaten-Did you see where I put my bag?"

"I think it is still in the hall," I said. "I'll go and see."

I found the bag near the front door. It was made of black leather and looked very, very old. One of its latches was broken and it was tied up round the middle with a piece of string.

"Thank you," said the Doctor when I brought it to him.

"Was that bag all the luggage you had for your voyage?" I asked.

"Yes," said the Doctor, as he undid the piece of string. "I don't believe in a lot of baggage. It's such a nuisance. Life's too short to fuss with it. And it isn't really necessary, you know-Where did I put those sausages?"

The Doctor was feeling about inside the bag. First he brought out a loaf of new bread. Next came a glass jar with a curious metal top to it. He held this up to the light very carefully before he set it down upon the table; and I could see that there was some strange little water-creature swimming about inside. At last the Doctor brought out a pound of sausages.

"Now," he said, "all we want is a frying-pan."

We went into the scullery and there we found some pots and pans hanging against the wall. The Doctor took down the frying-pan. It was quite rusty on the inside.

"Dear me, just look at that!" said he. "That's the worst of being away so long. The animals are very good and keep the house wonderfully clean as far as they can. Dab-Dab is a perfect marvel as a housekeeper. But some things of course they can't manage. Never mind, we'll soon clean it up. You'll find some silver-sand down there, under the sink, Stubbins. Just hand it up to me, will you?"

In a few moments we had the pan all shiny and bright and the sausages were put over the kitchen-fire and a beautiful frying smell went all through the house.

While the Doctor was busy at the cooking I went and took another look at the funny little creature swimming about in the glass jar.

"What is this animal?" I asked.

"Oh that," said the Doctor, turning round-"that's a Wiff-Waff. Its full name is hippocampus pippitopitus. But the natives just call it a Wiff-Waff-on account of the way it waves its tail, swimming, I imagine. That's what I went on this last voyage for, to get that. You see I'm very busy just now trying to learn the language of the shellfish. They have languages, of that I feel sure. I can talk a little shark language and porpoise dialect myself. But what I particularly want to learn now is shellfish."

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, you see, some of the shellfish are the oldest kind of animals in the world that we know of. We find their shells in the rocks-turned to stone-thousands of years old. So I feel quite sure that if I could only get to talk their language, I should be able to learn a whole lot about what the world was like ages and ages and ages ago. You see?"

"But couldn't some of the other animals tell you as well?"

"I don't think so," said the Doctor, prodding the sausages with a fork. "To be sure, the monkeys I knew in Africa some time ago were very helpful in telling me about bygone days; but they only went back a thousand years or so. No, I am certain that the oldest history in the world is to be had from the shellfish-and from them only. You see most of the other animals that were alive in those very ancient times have now become extinct."

"Have you learned any shellfish language yet?" I asked.

"No. I've only just begun. I wanted this particular kind of a pipe-fish because he is half a shellfish and half an ordinary fish. I went all the way to the Eastern Mediterranean after him. But I'm very much afraid he isn't going to be a great deal of help to me. To tell you the truth, I'm rather disappointed in his appearance. He doesn't look very intelligent, does he?"

"No, he doesn't," I agreed.

"Ah," said the Doctor. "The sausages are done to a turn. Come along-hold your plate near and let me give you some."

Then we sat down at the kitchen-table and started a hearty meal.

It was a wonderful kitchen, that. I had many meals there afterwards and I found it a better place to eat in than the grandest dining-room in the world. It was so cozy and home-like and warm. It was so handy for the food too. You took it right off the fire, hot, and put it on the table and ate it. And you could watch your toast toasting at the fender and see it didn't burn while you drank your soup. And if you had forgotten to put the salt on the table, you didn't have to get up and go into another room to fetch it; you just reached round and took the big wooden box off the dresser behind you. Then the fireplace-the biggest fireplace you ever saw-was like a room in itself. You could get right inside it even when the logs were burning and sit on the wide seats either side and roast chestnuts after the meal was over-or listen to the kettle singing, or tell stories, or look at picture-books by the light of the fire. It was a marvelous kitchen. It was like the Doctor, comfortable, sensible, friendly and solid.

While we were gobbling away, the door suddenly opened and in marched the duck, Dab-Dab, and the dog, Jip, dragging sheets and pillow-cases behind them over the clean tiled floor. The Doctor, seeing how surprised I was, explained:

"They're just going to air the bedding for me in front of the fire. Dab-Dab is a perfect treasure of a housekeeper; she never forgets anything. I had a sister once who used to keep house for me (poor, dear Sarah! I wonder how she's getting on-I haven't seen her in many years). But she wasn't nearly as good as Dab-Dab. Have another sausage?"

The Doctor turned and said a few words to the dog and duck in some strange talk and signs. They seemed to understand him perfectly.

"Can you talk in squirrel language?" I asked.

"Oh yes. That's quite an easy language," said the Doctor. "You could learn that yourself without a great deal of trouble. But why do you ask?"

"Because I have a sick squirrel at home," I said. "I took it away from a hawk. But two of its legs are badly hurt and I wanted very much to have you see it, if you would. Shall I bring it to-morrow?"

"Well, if its leg is badly broken I think I had better see it to-night. It may be too late to do much; but I'll come home with you and take a look at it."

So presently we felt the clothes by the fire and mine were found to be quite dry. I took them upstairs to the bedroom and changed, and when I came down the Doctor was all ready waiting for me with his little black bag full of medicines and bandages.

"Come along," he said. "The rain has stopped now."

Outside it had grown bright again and the evening sky was all red with the setting sun; and thrushes were singing in the garden as we opened the gate to go down on to the road.



The Fifth Chapter

Polynesia


"I THINK your house is the most interesting house I was ever in," I said as we set off in the direction of the town. "May I come and see you again to-morrow?"

"Certainly," said the Doctor. "Come any day you like. To-morrow I'll show you the garden and my private zoo."

"Oh, have you a zoo?" I asked.

"Yes," said he. "The larger animals are too big for the house, so I keep them in a zoo in the garden. It is not a very big collection but it is interesting in its way."

"It must be splendid," I said, "to be able to talk all the languages of the different animals. Do you think I could ever learn to do it?"

"Oh surely," said the Doctor-"with practise. You have to be very patient, you know. You really ought to have Polynesia to start you. It was she who gave me my first lessons."

"Who is Polynesia?" I asked.

"Polynesia was a West African parrot I had. She isn't with me any more now," said the Doctor sadly.

"Why-is she dead?"

"Oh no," said the Doctor. "She is still living, I hope. But when we reached Africa she seemed so glad to get back to her own country. She wept for joy. And when the time came for me to come back here I had not the heart to take her away from that sunny land-although, it is true, she did offer to come. I left her in Africa-Ah well! I have missed her terribly. She wept again when we left. But I think I did the right thing. She was one of the best friends I ever had. It was she who first gave me the idea of learning the animal languages and becoming an animal doctor. I often wonder if she remained happy in Africa, and whether I shall ever see her funny, old, solemn face again-Good old Polynesia!-A most extraordinary bird-Well, well!"

Just at that moment we heard the noise of some one running behind us; and turning round we saw Jip the dog rushing down the road after us, as fast as his legs could bring him. He seemed very excited about something, and as soon as he came up to us, he started barking and whining to the Doctor in a peculiar way. Then the Doctor too seemed to get all worked up and began talking and making queer signs to the dog. At length he turned to me, his face shining with happiness.

"Polynesia has come back!" he cried. "Imagine it. Jip says she has just arrived at the house. My! And it's five years since I saw her-Excuse me a minute."

He turned as if to go back home. But the parrot, Polynesia, was already flying towards us. The Doctor clapped his hands like a child getting a new toy; while the swarm of sparrows in the roadway fluttered, gossiping, up on to the fences, highly scandalized to see a gray and scarlet parrot skimming down an English lane.

On she came, straight on to the Doctor's shoulder, where she immediately began talking a steady stream in a language I could not understand. She seemed to have a terrible lot to say. And very soon the Doctor had forgotten all about me and my squirrel and Jip and everything else; till at length the bird clearly asked him something about me.

"Oh excuse me, Stubbins!" said the Doctor. "I was so interested listening to my old friend here. We must get on and see this squirrel of yours-Polynesia, this is Thomas Stubbins."

The parrot, on the Doctor's shoulder, nodded gravely towards me and then, to my great surprise, said quite plainly in English,

"How do you do? I remember the night you were born. It was a terribly cold winter. You were a very ugly baby."

"Stubbins is anxious to learn animal language," said the Doctor. "I was just telling him about you and the lessons you gave me when Jip ran up and told us you had arrived."

"Well," said the parrot, turning to me, "I may have started the Doctor learning but I never could have done even that, if he hadn't first taught me to understand what I was saying when I spoke English. You see, many parrots can talk like a person, but very few of them understand what they are saying. They just say it because-well, because they fancy it is smart or, because they know they will get crackers given them."

By this time we had turned and were going towards my home with Jip running in front and Polynesia still perched on the Doctor's shoulder. The bird chattered incessantly, mostly about Africa; but now she spoke in English, out of politeness to me.

"How is Prince Bumpo getting on?" asked the Doctor.

"Oh, I'm glad you asked me," said Polynesia. "I almost forgot to tell you. What do you think?-Bumpo is in England!"

"In England!-You don't say!" cried the Doctor. "What on earth is he doing here?"

"His father, the king, sent him here to a place called-er-Bullford, I think it was-to study lessons."

"Bullford!-Bullford!" muttered the Doctor. "I never heard of the place-Oh, you mean Oxford."

"Yes, that's the place-Oxford," said Polynesia "I knew it had cattle in it somewhere. Oxford-that's the place he's gone to."

"Well, well," murmured the Doctor. "Fancy Bumpo studying at Oxford-Well, well!"

"There were great doings in Jolliginki when he left. He was scared to death to come. He was the first man from that country to go abroad. He thought he was going to be eaten by white cannibals or something. You know what those niggers are-that ignorant! Well!-But his father made him come. He said that all the black kings were sending their sons to Oxford now. It was the fashion, and he would have to go. Bumpo wanted to bring his six wives with him. But the king wouldn't let him do that either. Poor Bumpo went off in tears-and everybody in the palace was crying too. You never heard such a hullabaloo."

"Do you know if he ever went back in search of The Sleeping Beauty?" asked the Doctor.

"Oh yes," said Polynesia-"the day after you left. And a good thing for him he did: the king got to know about his helping you to escape; and he was dreadfully wild about it."

"And The Sleeping Beauty?-did he ever find her?"

"Well, he brought back something which he said was The Sleeping Beauty. Myself, I think it was an albino niggeress. She had red hair and the biggest feet you ever saw. But Bumpo was no end pleased with her and finally married her amid great rejoicings. The feastings lasted seven days. She became his chief wife and is now known out there as the Crown-Princess Bumpah-you accent the last syllable."

"And tell me, did he remain white?"

"Only for about three months," said the parrot. "After that his face slowly returned to its natural color. It was just as well. He was so conspicuous in his bathing-suit the way he was, with his face white and the rest of him black."

"And how is Chee-Chee getting on?-Chee-Chee," added the Doctor in explanation to me, "was a pet monkey I had years ago. I left him too in Africa when I came away."

"Well," said Polynesia frowning,-"Chee-Chee is not entirely happy. I saw a good deal of him the last few years. He got dreadfully homesick for you and the house and the garden. It's funny, but I was just the same way myself. You remember how crazy I was to get back to the dear old land? And Africa is a wonderful country-I don't care what anybody says. Well, I thought I was going to have a perfectly grand time. But somehow-I don't know-after a few weeks it seemed to get tiresome. I just couldn't seem to settle down. Well, to make a long story short, one night I made up my mind that I'd come back here and find you. So I hunted up old Chee-Chee and told him about it. He said he didn't blame me a bit-felt exactly the same way himself. Africa was so deadly quiet after the life we had led with you. He missed the stories you used to tell us out of your animal books-and the chats we used to have sitting round the kitchen-fire on winter nights. The animals out there were very nice to us and all that. But somehow the dear kind creatures seemed a bit stupid. Chee-Chee said he had noticed it too. But I suppose it wasn't they who had changed; it was we who were different. When I left, poor old Chee-Chee broke down and cried. He said he felt as though his only friend were leaving him-though, as you know, he has simply millions of relatives there. He said it didn't seem fair that I should have wings to fly over here any time I liked, and him with no way to follow me. But mark my words, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he found a way to come-some day. He's a smart lad, is Chee-Chee."

At this point we arrived at my home. My father's shop was closed and the shutters were up; but my mother was standing at the door looking down the street.

"Good evening, Mrs. Stubbins," said the Doctor. "It is my fault your son is so late. I made him stay to supper while his clothes were drying. He was soaked to the skin; and so was I. We ran into one another in the storm and I insisted on his coming into my house for shelter."

"I was beginning to get worried about him," said my mother. "I am thankful to you, Sir, for looking after him so well and bringing him home."

"Don't mention it-don't mention it," said the Doctor. "We have had a very interesting chat."

"Who might it be that I have the honor of addressing?" asked my mother staring at the gray parrot perched on the Doctor's shoulder.

"Oh, I'm John Dolittle. I dare say your husband will remember me. He made me some very excellent boots about four years ago. They really are splendid," added the Doctor, gazing down at his feet with great satisfaction.

"The Doctor has come to cure my squirrel, Mother," said I. "He knows all about animals."

"Oh, no," said the Doctor, "not all, Stubbins, not all about them by any means."

"It is very kind of you to come so far to look after his pet," said my mother. "Tom is always bringing home strange creatures from the woods and the fields."

"Is he?" said the Doctor. "Perhaps he will grow up to be a naturalist some day. Who knows?"

"Won't you come in?" asked my mother. "The place is a little untidy because I haven't finished the spring cleaning yet. But there's a nice fire burning in the parlor."

"Thank you!" said the Doctor. "What a charming home you have!"

And after wiping his enormous boots very, very carefully on the mat, the great man passed into the house.



The Sixth Chapter

The Wounded Squirrel


INSIDE we found my father busy practising on the flute beside the fire. This he always did, every evening, after his work was over.

The Doctor immediately began talking to him about flutes and piccolos and bassoons; and presently my father said,

"Perhaps you perform upon the flute yourself, Sir. Won't you play us a tune?"

"Well," said the Doctor, "it is a long time since I touched the instrument. But I would like to try. May I?"

Then the Doctor took the flute from my father and played and played and played. It was wonderful. My mother and father sat as still as statues, staring up at the ceiling as though they were in church; and even I, who didn't bother much about music except on the mouth-organ-even I felt all sad and cold and creepy and wished I had been a better boy.

"Oh I think that was just beautiful!" sighed my mother when at length the Doctor stopped.

"You are a great musician, Sir," said my father, "a very great musician. Won't you please play us something else?"

"Why certainly," said the Doctor-"Oh, but look here, I've forgotten all about the squirrel."

"I'll show him to you," I said. "He is upstairs in my room."

So I led the Doctor to my bedroom at the top of the house and showed him the squirrel in the packing-case filled with straw.

The animal, who had always seemed very much afraid of me-though I had tried hard to make him feel at home, sat up at once when the Doctor came into the room and started to chatter. The Doctor chattered back in the same way and the squirrel when he was lifted up to have his leg examined, appeared to be rather pleased than frightened.

I held a candle while the Doctor tied the leg up in what he called "splints," which he made out of match-sticks with his pen-knife.

"I think you will find that his leg will get better now in a very short time," said the Doctor closing up his bag. "Don't let him run about for at least two weeks yet, but keep him in the open air and cover him up with dry leaves if the nights get cool. He tells me he is rather lonely here, all by himself, and is wondering how his wife and children are getting on. I have assured him you are a man to be trusted; and I will send a squirrel who lives in my garden to find out how his family are and to bring him news of them. He must be kept cheerful at all costs. Squirrels are naturally a very cheerful, active race. It is very hard for them to lie still doing nothing. But you needn't worry about him. He will be all right."

Then we went back again to the parlor and my mother and father kept him playing the flute till after ten o'clock.

Although my parents both liked the Doctor tremendously from the first moment that they saw him, and were very proud to have him come and play to us (for we were really terribly poor) they did not realize then what a truly great man he was one day to become. Of course now, when almost everybody in the whole world has heard about Doctor Dolittle and his books, if you were to go to that little house in Puddleby where my father had his cobbler's shop you would see, set in the wall over the old-fashioned door, a stone with writing on it which says: "JOHN DOLITTLE, THE FAMOUS NATURALIST, PLAYED THE FLUTE IN THIS HOUSE IN THE YEAR 1839."

I often look back upon that night long, long ago. And if I close my eyes and think hard I can see that parlor just as it was then: a funny little man in coat-tails, with a round kind face, playing away on the flute in front of the fire; my mother on one side of him and my father on the other, holding their breath and listening with their eyes shut; myself, with Jip, squatting on the carpet at his feet, staring into the coals; and Polynesia perched on the mantlepiece beside his shabby high hat, gravely swinging her head from side to side in time to the music. I see it all, just as though it were before me now.

And then I remember how, after we had seen the Doctor out at the front door, we all came back into the parlor and talked about him till it was still later; and even after I did go to bed (I had never stayed up so late in my life before) I dreamed about him and a band of strange clever animals that played flutes and fiddles and drums the whole night through.



The Seventh Chapter

Shellfish Talk


THE next morning, although I had gone to bed so late the night before, I was up frightfully early. The first sparrows were just beginning to chirp sleepily on the slates outside my attic window when I jumped out of bed and scrambled into my clothes.

I could hardly wait to get back to the little house with the big garden-to see the Doctor and his private zoo. For the first time in my life I forgot all about breakfast; and creeping down the stairs on tip-toe, so as not to wake my mother and father, I opened the front door and popped out into the empty, silent street.

When I got to the Doctor's gate I suddenly thought that perhaps it was too early to call on any one: and I began to wonder if the Doctor would be up yet. I looked into the garden. No one seemed to be about. So I opened the gate quietly and went inside.

As I turned to the left to go down a path between some hedges, I heard a voice quite close to me say,

"Good morning. How early you are!"

I turned around, and there, sitting on the top of a privet hedge, was the gray parrot, Polynesia.

"Good morning," I said. "I suppose I am rather early. Is the Doctor still in bed?"

"Oh no," said Polynesia. "He has been up an hour and a half. You'll find him in the house somewhere. The front door is open. Just push it and go in. He is sure to be in the kitchen cooking breakfast-or working in his study. Walk right in. I am waiting to see the sun rise. But upon my word I believe it's forgotten to rise. It is an awful climate, this. Now if we were in Africa the world would be blazing with sunlight at this hour of the morning. Just see that mist rolling over those cabbages. It is enough to give you rheumatism to look at it. Beastly climate-Beastly! Really I don't know why anything but frogs ever stay in England-Well, don't let me keep you. Run along and see the Doctor."

"Thank you," I said. "I'll go and look for him."

When I opened the front door I could smell bacon frying, so I made my way to the kitchen. There I discovered a large kettle boiling away over the fire and some bacon and eggs in a dish upon the hearth. It seemed to me that the bacon was getting all dried up with the heat. So I pulled the dish a little further away from the fire and went on through the house looking for the Doctor.

I found him at last in the Study. I did not know then that it was called the Study. It was certainly a very interesting room, with telescopes and microscopes and all sorts of other strange things which I did not understand about but wished I did. Hanging on the walls were pictures of animals and fishes and strange plants and collections of birds' eggs and sea-shells in glass cases.

The Doctor was standing at the main table in his dressing-gown. At first I thought he was washing his face. He had a square glass box before him full of water. He was holding one ear under the water while he covered the other with his left hand. As I came in he stood up.

"Good morning, Stubbins," said he. "Going to be a nice day, don't you think? I've just been listening to the Wiff-Waff. But he is very disappointing-very."

"Why?" I said. "Didn't you find that he has any language at all?"

"Oh yes," said the Doctor, "he has a language. But it is such a poor language-only a few words, like 'yes' and 'no'-'hot' and 'cold.' That's all he can say. It's very disappointing. You see he really belongs to two different families of fishes. I thought he was going to be tremendously helpful-Well, well!"

"I suppose," said I, "that means he hasn't very much sense-if his language is only two or three words?"

"Yes, I suppose it does. Possibly it is the kind of life he leads. You see, they are very rare now, these Wiff-Waffs-very rare and very solitary. They swim around in the deepest parts of the ocean entirely by themselves-always alone. So I presume they really don't need to talk much."

"Perhaps some kind of a bigger shellfish would talk more," I said. "After all, he is very small, isn't he?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, "that's true. Oh I have no doubt that there are shellfish who are good talkers-not the least doubt. But the big shellfish-the biggest of them, are so hard to catch. They are only to be found in the deep parts of the sea; and as they don't swim very much, but just crawl along the floor of the ocean most of the time, they are very seldom taken in nets. I do wish I could find some way of going down to the bottom of the sea. I could learn a lot if I could only do that. But we are forgetting all about breakfast-Have you had breakfast yet, Stubbins?"

I told the Doctor that I had forgotten all about it and he at once led the way into the kitchen.

"Yes," he said, as he poured the hot water from the kettle into the tea-pot, "if a man could only manage to get right down to the bottom of the sea, and live there a while, he would discover some wonderful things-things that people have never dreamed of."

"But men do go down, don't they?" I asked-"divers and people like that?"

"Oh yes, to be sure," said the Doctor. "Divers go down. I've been down myself in a diving-suit, for that matter. But my!-they only go where the sea is shallow. Divers can't go down where it is really deep. What I would like to do is to go down to the great depths-where it is miles deep-Well, well, I dare say I shall manage it some day. Let me give you another cup of tea."



The Eighth Chapter

Are You A Good Noticer?


JUST at that moment Polynesia came into the room and said something to the Doctor in bird language. Of course I did not understand what it was. But the Doctor at once put down his knife and fork and left the room.

"You know it is an awful shame," said the parrot as soon as the Doctor had closed the door. "Directly he comes back home, all the animals over the whole countryside get to hear of it and every sick cat and mangy rabbit for miles around comes to see him and ask his advice. Now there's a big fat hare outside at the back door with a squawking baby. Can she see the Doctor, please!-Thinks it's going to have convulsions. Stupid little thing's been eating Deadly Nightshade again, I suppose. The animals are so inconsiderate at times-especially the mothers. They come round and call the Doctor away from his meals and wake him out of his bed at all hours of the night. I don't know how he stands it-really I don't. Why, the poor man never gets any peace at all! I've told him time and again to have special hours for the animals to come. But he is so frightfully kind and considerate. He never refuses to see them if there is anything really wrong with them. He says the urgent cases must be seen at once."

"Why don't some of the animals go and see the other doctors?" I asked.

"Oh Good Gracious!" exclaimed the parrot, tossing her head scornfully. "Why, there aren't any other animal-doctors-not real doctors. Oh of course there are those vet persons, to be sure. But, bless you, they're no good. You see, they can't understand the animals' language; so how can you expect them to be any use? Imagine yourself, or your father, going to see a doctor who could not understand a word you say-nor even tell you in your own language what you must do to get well! Poof!-those vets! They're that stupid, you've no idea!-Put the Doctor's bacon down by the fire, will you?-to keep hot till he comes back."

"Do you think I would ever be able to learn the language of the animals?" I asked, laying the plate upon the hearth.

"Well, it all depends," said Polynesia. "Are you clever at lessons?"

"I don't know," I answered, feeling rather ashamed. "You see, I've never been to school. My father is too poor to send me."

"Well," said the parrot, "I don't suppose you have really missed much-to judge from what I have seen of school-boys. But listen: are you a good noticer?-Do you notice things well? I mean, for instance, supposing you saw two cock-starlings on an apple-tree, and you only took one good look at them-would you be able to tell one from the other if you saw them again the next day?"

"I don't know," I said. "I've never tried."

"Well that," said Polynesia, brushing some crumbs off the corner of the table with her left foot-"that is what you call powers of observation-noticing the small things about birds and animals: the way they walk and move their heads and flip their wings; the way they sniff the air and twitch their whiskers and wiggle their tails. You have to notice all those little things if you want to learn animal language. For you see, lots of the animals hardly talk at all with their tongues; they use their breath or their tails or their feet instead. That is because many of them, in the olden days when lions and tigers were more plentiful, were afraid to make a noise for fear the savage creatures heard them. Birds, of course, didn't care; for they always had wings to fly away with. But that is the first thing to remember: being a good noticer is terribly important in learning animal language."

"It sounds pretty hard," I said.

"You'll have to be very patient," said Polynesia. "It takes a long time to say even a few words properly. But if you come here often I'll give you a few lessons myself. And once you get started you'll be surprised how fast you get on. It would indeed be a good thing if you could learn. Because then you could do some of the work for the Doctor-I mean the easier work, like bandaging and giving pills. Yes, yes, that's a good idea of mine. 'Twould be a great thing if the poor man could get some help-and some rest. It is a scandal the way he works. I see no reason why you shouldn't be able to help him a great deal-That is, if you are really interested in animals."

"'Being a good noticer is terribly important'"

"Oh, I'd love that!" I cried. "Do you think the Doctor would let me?"

"Certainly," said Polynesia-"as soon as you have learned something about doctoring. I'll speak of it to him myself-Sh! I hear him coming. Quick-bring his bacon back on to the table."



The Ninth Chapter

The Garden Of Dreams


WHEN breakfast was over the Doctor took me out to show me the garden. Well, if the house had been interesting, the garden was a hundred times more so. Of all the gardens I have ever seen that was the most delightful, the most fascinating. At first you did not realize how big it was. You never seemed to come to the end of it. When at last you were quite sure that you had seen it all, you would peer over a hedge, or turn a corner, or look up some steps, and there was a whole new part you never expected to find.

It had everything-everything a garden can have, or ever has had. There were wide, wide lawns with carved stone seats, green with moss. Over the lawns hung weeping-willows, and their feathery bough-tips brushed the velvet grass when they swung with the wind. The old flagged paths had high, clipped, yew hedges either side of them, so that they looked like the narrow streets of some old town; and through the hedges, doorways had been made; and over the doorways were shapes like vases and peacocks and half-moons all trimmed out of the living trees. There was a lovely marble fish-pond with golden carp and blue water-lilies in it and big green frogs. A high brick wall alongside the kitchen garden was all covered with pink and yellow peaches ripening in the sun. There was a wonderful great oak, hollow in the trunk, big enough for four men to hide inside. Many summer-houses there were, too-some of wood and some of stone; and one of them was full of books to read. In a corner, among some rocks and ferns, was an outdoor fire-place, where the Doctor used to fry liver and bacon when he had a notion to take his meals in the open air. There was a couch as well on which he used to sleep, it seems, on warm summer nights when the nightingales were singing at their best; it had wheels on it so it could be moved about under any tree they sang in. But the thing that fascinated me most of all was a tiny little tree-house, high up in the top branches of a great elm, with a long rope ladder leading to it. The Doctor told me he used it for looking at the moon and the stars through a telescope.

It was the kind of a garden where you could wander and explore for days and days-always coming upon something new, always glad to find the old spots over again. That first time that I saw the Doctor's garden I was so charmed by it that I felt I would like to live in it-always and always-and never go outside of it again. For it had everything within its walls to give happiness, to make living pleasant-to keep the heart at peace. It was the Garden of Dreams.

One peculiar thing I noticed immediately I came into it; and that was what a lot of birds there were about. Every tree seemed to have two or three nests in it. And heaps of other wild creatures appeared to be making themselves at home there, too. Stoats and tortoises and dormice seemed to be quite common, and not in the least shy. Toads of different colors and sizes hopped about the lawn as though it belonged to them. Green lizards (which were very rare in Puddleby) sat up on the stones in the sunlight and blinked at us. Even snakes were to be seen.

"You need not be afraid of them," said the Doctor, noticing that I started somewhat when a large black snake wiggled across the path right in front of us. "These fellows are not poisonous. They do a great deal of good in keeping down many kinds of garden-pests. I play the flute to them sometimes in the evening. They love it. Stand right up on their tails and carry on no end. Funny thing, their taste for music."

"Why do all these animals come and live here?" I asked. "I never saw a garden with so many creatures in it."

"Well, I suppose it's because they get the kind of food they like; and nobody worries or disturbs them. And then, of course, they know me. And if they or their children get sick I presume they find it handy to be living in a doctor's garden-Look! You see that sparrow on the sundial, swearing at the blackbird down below? Well, he has been coming here every summer for years. He comes from London. The country sparrows round about here are always laughing at him. They say he chirps with such a Cockney accent. He is a most amusing bird-very brave but very cheeky. He loves nothing better than an argument, but he always ends it by getting rude. He is a real city bird. In London he lives around St. Paul's Cathedral. 'Cheapside,' we call him."

"Are all these birds from the country round here?" I asked.

"Most of them," said the Doctor. "But a few rare ones visit me every year who ordinarily never come near England at all. For instance, that handsome little fellow hovering over the snapdragon there, he's a Ruby-throated Humming-bird. Comes from America. Strictly speaking, he has no business in this climate at all. It is too cool. I make him sleep in the kitchen at night. Then every August, about the last week of the month, I have a Purple Bird-of-Paradise come all the way from Brazil to see me. She is a very great swell. Hasn't arrived yet of course. And there are a few others, foreign birds from the tropics mostly, who drop in on me in the course of the summer months. But come, I must show you the zoo."



The Tenth Chapter

The Private Zoo


I DID not think there could be anything left in that garden which we had not seen. But the Doctor took me by the arm and started off down a little narrow path and after many windings and twistings and turnings we found ourselves before a small door in a high stone wall. The Doctor pushed it open.

Inside was still another garden. I had expected to find cages with animals inside them. But there were none to be seen. Instead there were little stone houses here and there all over the garden; and each house had a window and a door. As we walked in, many of these doors opened and animals came running out to us evidently expecting food.

"Haven't the doors any locks on them?" I asked the Doctor.

"Oh yes," he said, "every door has a lock. But in my zoo the doors open from the inside, not from the out. The locks are only there so the animals can go and shut themselves in any time they want to get away from the annoyance of other animals or from people who might come here. Every animal in this zoo stays here because he likes it, not because he is made to."

"They all look very happy and clean," I said. "Would you mind telling me the names of some of them?"

"Certainly. Well now: that funny-looking thing with plates on his back, nosing under the brick over there, is a South American armadillo. The little chap talking to him is a Canadian woodchuck. They both live in those holes you see at the foot of the wall. The two little beasts doing antics in the pond are a pair of Russian minks-and that reminds me: I must go and get them some herrings from the town before noon-it is early-closing to-day. That animal just stepping out of his house is an antelope, one of the smaller South African kinds. Now let us move to the other side of those bushes there and I will show you some more."

"Are those deer over there?" I asked.

"Deer!" said the Doctor. "Where do you mean?"

"Over there," I said, pointing-"nibbling the grass border of the bed. There are two of them."

"Oh, that," said the Doctor with a smile. "That isn't two animals: that's one animal with two heads-the only two-headed animal in the world. It's called the 'pushmi-pullyu.' I brought him from Africa. He's very tame-acts as a kind of night-watchman for my zoo. He only sleeps with one head at a time, you see-very handy-the other head stays awake all night."

"Have you any lions or tigers?" I asked as we moved on.

"No," said the Doctor. "It wouldn't be possible to keep them here-and I wouldn't keep them even if I could. If I had my way, Stubbins, there wouldn't be a single lion or tiger in captivity anywhere in the world. They never take to it. They're never happy. They never settle down. They are always thinking of the big countries they have left behind. You can see it in their eyes, dreaming-dreaming always of the great open spaces where they were born; dreaming of the deep, dark jungles where their mothers first taught them how to scent and track the deer. And what are they given in exchange for all this?" asked the Doctor, stopping in his walk and growing all red and angry-"What are they given in exchange for the glory of an African sunrise, for the twilight breeze whispering through the palms, for the green shade of the matted, tangled vines, for the cool, big-starred nights of the desert, for the patter of the waterfall after a hard day's hunt? What, I ask you, are they given in exchange for these? Why, a bare cage with iron bars; an ugly piece of dead meat thrust in to them once a day; and a crowd of fools to come and stare at them with open mouths!-No, Stubbins. Lions and tigers, the Big Hunters, should never, never be seen in zoos."

The Doctor seemed to have grown terribly serious-almost sad. But suddenly his manner changed again and he took me by the arm with his same old cheerful smile.

"But we haven't seen the butterfly-houses yet-nor the aquariums. Come along. I am very proud of my butterfly-houses."

Off we went again and came presently into a hedged enclosure. Here I saw several big huts made of fine wire netting, like cages. Inside the netting all sorts of beautiful flowers were growing in the sun, with butterflies skimming over them. The Doctor pointed to the end of one of the huts where little boxes with holes in them stood in a row.

"Those are the hatching-boxes," said he. "There I put the different kinds of caterpillars. And as soon as they turn into butterflies and moths they come out into these flower-gardens to feed."

"Do butterflies have a language?" I asked.

"Oh I fancy they have," said the Doctor-"and the beetles too. But so far I haven't succeeded in learning much about insect languages. I have been too busy lately trying to master the shellfish-talk. I mean to take it up though."

At that moment Polynesia joined us and said, "Doctor, there are two guinea-pigs at the back door. They say they have run away from the boy who kept them because they didn't get the right stuff to eat. They want to know if you will take them in."

"All right," said the Doctor. "Show them the way to the zoo. Give them the house on the left, near the gate-the one the black fox had. Tell them what the rules are and give them a square meal-Now, Stubbins, we will go on to the aquariums. And first of all I must show you my big, glass, sea-water tank where I keep the shellfish."



The Eleventh Chapter

My Schoolmaster, Polynesia


WELL, there were not many days after that, you may be sure, when I did not come to see my new friend. Indeed I was at his house practically all day and every day. So that one evening my mother asked me jokingly why I did not take my bed over there and live at the Doctor's house altogether.

After a while I think I got to be quite useful to the Doctor, feeding his pets for him; helping to make new houses and fences for the zoo; assisting with the sick animals that came; doing all manner of odd jobs about the place. So that although I enjoyed it all very much (it was indeed like living in a new world) I really think the Doctor would have missed me if I had not come so often.

And all this time Polynesia came with me wherever I went, teaching me bird language and showing me how to understand the talking signs of the animals. At first I thought I would never be able to learn at all-it seemed so difficult. But the old parrot was wonderfully patient with me-though I could see that occasionally she had hard work to keep her temper.

Soon I began to pick up the strange chatter of the birds and to understand the funny talking antics of the dogs. I used to practise listening to the mice behind the wainscot after I went to bed, and watching the cats on the roofs and pigeons in the market-square of Puddleby.

And the days passed very quickly-as they always do when life is pleasant; and the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months; and soon the roses in the Doctor's garden were losing their petals and yellow leaves lay upon the wide green lawn. For the summer was nearly gone.

One day Polynesia and I were talking in the library. This was a fine long room with a grand mantlepiece and the walls were covered from the ceiling to the floor with shelves full of books: books of stories, books on gardening, books about medicine, books of travel; these I loved-and especially the Doctor's great atlas with all its maps of the different countries of the world.

This afternoon Polynesia was showing me the books about animals which John Dolittle had written himself.

"My!" I said, "what a lot of books the Doctor has-all the way around the room! Goodness! I wish I could read! It must be tremendously interesting. Can you read, Polynesia?"

"Only a little," said she. "Be careful how you turn those pages-don't tear them. No, I really don't get time enough for reading-much. That letter there is a k and this is a b."

"What does this word under the picture mean?" I asked.

"Let me see," she said, and started spelling it out. "B-A-B-O-O-N-that's Monkey. Reading isn't nearly as hard as it looks, once you know the letters."

"Polynesia," I said, "I want to ask you something very important."

"What is it, my boy?" said she, smoothing down the feathers of her right wing. Polynesia often spoke to me in a very patronizing way. But I did not mind it from her. After all, she was nearly two hundred years old; and I was only ten.

"Listen," I said, "my mother doesn't think it is right that I come here for so many meals. And I was going to ask you: supposing I did a whole lot more work for the Doctor-why couldn't I come and live here altogether? You see, instead of being paid like a regular gardener or workman, I would get my bed and meals in exchange for the work I did. What do you think?"

"You mean you want to be a proper assistant to the Doctor, is that it?"

"Yes. I suppose that's what you call it," I answered. "You know you said yourself that you thought I could be very useful to him."

"Well"-she thought a moment-"I really don't see why not. But is this what you want to be when you grow up, a naturalist?"

"Yes," I said, "I have made up my mind. I would sooner be a naturalist than anything else in the world."

"Humph!-Let's go and speak to the Doctor about it," said Polynesia. "He's in the next room-in the study. Open the door very gently-he may be working and not want to be disturbed."

I opened the door quietly and peeped in. The first thing I saw was an enormous black retriever dog sitting in the middle of the hearth-rug with his ears cocked up, listening to the Doctor who was reading aloud to him from a letter.

"What is the Doctor doing?" I asked Polynesia in a whisper.

"Oh, the dog has had a letter from his mistress and he has brought it to the Doctor to read for him. That's all. He belongs to a funny little girl called Minnie Dooley, who lives on the other side of the town. She has pigtails down her back. She and her brother have gone away to the seaside for the Summer; and the old retriever is heart-broken while the children are gone. So they write letters to him-in English of course. And as the old dog doesn't understand them, he brings them here, and the Doctor turns them into dog language for him. I think Minnie must have written that she is coming back-to judge from the dog's excitement. Just look at him carrying on!"

Indeed the retriever seemed to be suddenly overcome with joy. As the Doctor finished the letter the old dog started barking at the top of his voice, wagging his tail wildly and jumping about the study. He took the letter in his mouth and ran out of the room snorting hard and mumbling to himself.

"He's going down to meet the coach," whispered Polynesia. "That dog's devotion to those children is more than I can understand. You should see Minnie! She's the most conceited little minx that ever walked. She squints too."



The Twelfth Chapter

My Great Idea


PRESENTLY the Doctor looked up and saw us at the door.

"Oh-come in, Stubbins," said he, "did you wish to speak to me? Come in and take a chair."

"Doctor," I said, "I want to be a naturalist-like you-when I grow up."

"Oh you do, do you?" murmured the Doctor. "Humph!-Well!-Dear me!-You don't say!-Well, well! Have you er-have you spoken to your mother and father about it?"

"No, not yet," I said. "I want you to speak to them for me. You would do it better. I want to be your helper-your assistant, if you'll have me. Last night my mother was saying that she didn't consider it right for me to come here so often for meals. And I've been thinking about it a good deal since. Couldn't we make some arrangement-couldn't I work for my meals and sleep here?"

"But my dear Stubbins," said the Doctor, laughing, "you are quite welcome to come here for three meals a day all the year round. I'm only too glad to have you. Besides, you do do a lot of work, as it is. I've often felt that I ought to pay you for what you do-But what arrangement was it that you thought of?"

"Well, I thought," said I, "that perhaps you would come and see my mother and father and tell them that if they let me live here with you and work hard, that you will teach me to read and write. You see my mother is awfully anxious to have me learn reading and writing. And besides, I couldn't be a proper naturalist without, could I?"

"Oh, I don't know so much about that," said the Doctor. "It is nice, I admit, to be able to read and write. But naturalists are not all alike, you know. For example: this young fellow Charles Darwin that people are talking about so much now-he's a Cambridge graduate-reads and writes very well. And then Cuvier-he used to be a tutor. But listen, the greatest naturalist of them all doesn't even know how to write his own name nor to read the A B C."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"He is a mysterious person," said the Doctor-"a very mysterious person. His name is Long Arrow, the son of Golden Arrow. He is a Red Indian."

"Have you ever seen him?" I asked.

"No," said the Doctor, "I've never seen him. No white man has ever met him. I fancy Mr. Darwin doesn't even know that he exists. He lives almost entirely with the animals and with the different tribes of Indians-usually somewhere among the mountains of Peru. Never stays long in one place. Goes from tribe to tribe, like a sort of Indian tramp."

"How do you know so much about him?" I asked-"if you've never even seen him?"

"The Purple Bird-of-Paradise," said the Doctor-"she told me all about him. She says he is a perfectly marvelous naturalist. I got her to take a message to him for me last time she was here. I am expecting her back any day now. I can hardly wait to see what answer she has brought from him. It is already almost the last week of August. I do hope nothing has happened to her on the way."

"But why do the animals and birds come to you when they are sick?" I said-"Why don't they go to him, if he is so very wonderful?"

"It seems that my methods are more up to date," said the Doctor. "But from what the Purple Bird-of-Paradise tells me, Long Arrow's knowledge of natural history must be positively tremendous. His specialty is botany-plants and all that sort of thing. But he knows a lot about birds and animals too. He's very good on bees and beetles-But now tell me, Stubbins, are you quite sure that you really want to be a naturalist?"

"Yes," said I, "my mind is made up."

"Well you know, it isn't a very good profession for making money. Not at all, it isn't. Most of the good naturalists don't make any money whatever. All they do is spend money, buying butterfly-nets and cases for birds' eggs and things. It is only now, after I have been a naturalist for many years, that I am beginning to make a little money from the books I write."

"I don't care about money," I said. "I want to be a naturalist. Won't you please come and have dinner with my mother and father next Thursday-I told them I was going to ask you-and then you can talk to them about it. You see, there's another thing: if I'm living with you, and sort of belong to your house and business, I shall be able to come with you next time you go on a voyage."

"Oh, I see," said he, smiling. "So you want to come on a voyage with me, do you?-Ah hah!"

"I want to go on all your voyages with you. It would be much easier for you if you had someone to carry the butterfly-nets and note-books. Wouldn't it now?"

For a long time the Doctor sat thinking, drumming on the desk with his fingers, while I waited, terribly impatiently, to see what he was going to say.

At last he shrugged his shoulders and stood up.

"Well, Stubbins," said he, "I'll come and talk it over with you and your parents next Thursday. And-well, we'll see. We'll see. Give your mother and father my compliments and thank them for their invitation, will you?"

Then I tore home like the wind to tell my mother that the Doctor had promised to come.



The Thirteenth Chapter

A Traveler Arrives


THE next day I was sitting on the wall of the Doctor's garden after tea, talking to Dab-Dab. I had now learned so much from Polynesia that I could talk to most birds and some animals without a great deal of difficulty. I found Dab-Dab a very nice, old, motherly bird-though not nearly so clever and interesting as Polynesia. She had been housekeeper for the Doctor many years now.

Well, as I was saying, the old duck and I were sitting on the flat top of the garden-wall that evening, looking down into the Oxenthorpe Road below. We were watching some sheep being driven to market in Puddleby; and Dab-Dab had just been telling me about the Doctor's adventures in Africa. For she had gone on a voyage with him to that country long ago.

Suddenly I heard a curious distant noise down the road, towards the town. It sounded like a lot of people cheering. I stood up on the wall to see if I could make out what was coming. Presently there appeared round a bend a great crowd of school-children following a very ragged, curious-looking woman.

"What in the world can it be?" cried Dab-Dab.

The children were all laughing and shouting. And certainly the woman they were following was most extraordinary. She had very long arms and the most stooping shoulders I have ever seen. She wore a straw hat on the side of her head with poppies on it; and her skirt was so long for her it dragged on the ground like a ball-gown's train. I could not see anything of her face because of the wide hat pulled over her eyes. But as she got nearer to us and the laughing of the children grew louder, I noticed that her hands were very dark in color, and hairy, like a witch's.

Then all of a sudden Dab-Dab at my side startled me by crying out in a loud voice,

"Why, it's Chee-Chee!-Chee-Chee come back at last! How dare those children tease him! I'll give the little imps something to laugh at!"

And she flew right off the wall down into the road and made straight for the children, squawking away in a most terrifying fashion and pecking at their feet and legs. The children made off down the street back to the town as hard as they could run.

The strange-looking figure in the straw hat stood gazing after them a moment and then came wearily up to the gate. It didn't bother to undo the latch but just climbed right over the gate as though it were something in the way. And then I noticed that it took hold of the bars with its feet, so that it really had four hands to climb with. But it was only when I at last got a glimpse of the face under the hat that I could be really sure it was a monkey.

A traveler arrives

Chee-Chee-for it was he-frowned at me suspiciously from the top of the gate, as though he thought I was going to laugh at him like the other boys and girls. Then he dropped into the garden on the inside and immediately started taking off his clothes. He tore the straw hat in two and threw it down into the road. Then he took off his bodice and skirt, jumped on them savagely and began kicking them round the front garden.

Presently I heard a screech from the house, and out flew Polynesia, followed by the Doctor and Jip.

"Chee-Chee!-Chee-Chee!" shouted the parrot. "You've come at last! I always told the Doctor you'd find a way. How ever did you do it?"

They all gathered round him shaking him by his four hands, laughing and asking him a million questions at once. Then they all started back for the house.

"Run up to my bedroom, Stubbins," said the Doctor, turning to me. "You'll find a bag of peanuts in the small left-hand drawer of the bureau. I have always kept them there in case he might come back unexpectedly some day. And wait a minute-see if Dab-Dab has any bananas in the pantry. Chee-Chee hasn't had a banana, he tells me, in two months."

When I came down again to the kitchen I found everybody listening attentively to the monkey who was telling the story of his journey from Africa.



The Fourteenth Chapter

Chee-Chee's Voyage


It seems that after Polynesia had left, Chee-Chee had grown more homesick than ever for the Doctor and the little house in Puddleby. At last he had made up his mind that by hook or crook he would follow her. And one day, going down to the seashore, he saw a lot of people, black and white, getting on to a ship that was coming to England. He tried to get on too. But they turned him back and drove him away. And presently he noticed a whole big family of funny people passing on to the ship. And one of the children in this family reminded Chee-Chee of a cousin of his with whom he had once been in love. So he said to himself, "That girl looks just as much like a monkey as I look like a girl. If I could only get some clothes to wear I might easily slip on to the ship amongst these families, and people would take me for a girl. Good idea!"

So he went off to a town that was quite close, and hopping in through an open window he found a skirt and bodice lying on a chair. They belonged to a fashionable black lady who was taking a bath. Chee-Chee put them on. Next he went back to the seashore, mingled with the crowd there and at last sneaked safely on to the big ship. Then he thought he had better hide, for fear people might look at him too closely. And he stayed hidden all the time the ship was sailing to England-only coming out at night, when everybody was asleep, to find food.

When he reached England and tried to get off the ship, the sailors saw at last that he was only a monkey dressed up in girl's clothes; and they wanted to keep him for a pet. But he managed to give them the slip; and once he was on shore, he dived into the crowd and got away. But he was still a long distance from Puddleby and had to come right across the whole breadth of England.

He had a terrible time of it. Whenever he passed through a town all the children ran after him in a crowd, laughing; and often silly people caught hold of him and tried to stop him, so that he had to run up lamp-posts and climb to chimney-pots to escape from them. At night he used to sleep in ditches or barns or anywhere he could hide; and he lived on the berries he picked from the hedges and the cob-nuts that grew in the copses. At length, after many adventures and narrow squeaks, he saw the tower of Puddleby Church and he knew that at last he was near his old home.

When Chee-Chee had finished his story he ate six bananas without stopping and drank a whole bowlful of milk.

"My!" he said, "why wasn't I born with wings, like Polynesia, so I could fly here? You've no idea how I grew to hate that hat and skirt. I've never been so uncomfortable in my life. All the way from Bristol here, if the wretched hat wasn't falling off my head or catching in the trees, those beastly skirts were tripping me up and getting wound round everything. What on earth do women wear those things for? Goodness, I was glad to see old Puddleby this morning when I climbed over the hill by Bellaby's farm!"

"Your bed on top of the plate-rack in the scullery is all ready for you," said the Doctor. "We never had it disturbed in case you might come back."

"Yes," said Dab-Dab, "and you can have the old smoking-jacket of the Doctor's which you used to use as a blanket, in case it is cold in the night."

"Thanks," said Chee-Chee. "It's good to be back in the old house again. Everything's just the same as when I left-except the clean roller-towel on the back of the door there-that's new-Well, I think I'll go to bed now. I need sleep."

Then we all went out of the kitchen into the scullery and watched Chee-Chee climb the plate-rack like a sailor going up a mast. On the top, he curled himself up, pulled the old smoking-jacket over him, and in a minute he was snoring peacefully.

"Good old Chee-Chee!" whispered the Doctor. "I'm glad he's back."

"Yes-good old Chee-Chee!" echoed Dab-Dab and Polynesia.

Then we all tip-toed out of the scullery and closed the door very gently behind us.



The Fifteenth Chapter

I Become A Doctor's Assistant


WHEN Thursday evening came there was great excitement at our house. My mother had asked me what were the Doctor's favorite dishes, and I had told her: spare ribs, sliced beet-root, fried bread, shrimps and treacle-tart. To-night she had them all on the table waiting for him; and she was now fussing round the house to see if everything was tidy and in readiness for his coming.

At last we heard a knock upon the door, and of course it was I who got there first to let him in.

The Doctor had brought his own flute with him this time. And after supper was over (which he enjoyed very much) the table was cleared away and the washing-up left in the kitchen-sink till the next day. Then the Doctor and my father started playing duets.

They got so interested in this that I began to be afraid that they would never come to talking over my business. But at last the Doctor said,

"Your son tells me that he is anxious to become a naturalist."

And then began a long talk which lasted far into the night. At first both my mother and father were rather against the idea-as they had been from the beginning. They said it was only a boyish whim, and that I would get tired of it very soon. But after the matter had been talked over from every side, the Doctor turned to my father and said,

"Well now, supposing, Mr. Stubbins, that your son came to me for two years-that is, until he is twelve years old. During those two years he will have time to see if he is going to grow tired of it or not. Also during that time, I will promise to teach him reading and writing and perhaps a little arithmetic as well. What do you say to that?"

"I don't know," said my father, shaking his head. "You are very kind and it is a handsome offer you make, Doctor. But I feel that Tommy ought to be learning some trade by which he can earn his living later on."

Then my mother spoke up. Although she was nearly in tears at the prospect of my leaving her house while I was still so young, she pointed out to my father that this was a grand chance for me to get learning.

"Now Jacob," she said, "you know that many lads in the town have been to the Grammar School till they were fourteen or fifteen years old. Tommy can easily spare these two years for his education; and if he learns no more than to read and write, the time will not be lost. Though goodness knows," she added, getting out her handkerchief to cry, "the house will seem terribly empty when he's gone."

"I will take care that he comes to see you, Mrs. Stubbins," said the Doctor-"every day, if you like. After all, he will not be very far away."

Well, at length my father gave in; and it was agreed that I was to live with the Doctor and work for him for two years in exchange for learning to read and write and for my board and lodging.

"Of course," added the Doctor, "while I have money I will keep Tommy in clothes as well. But money is a very irregular thing with me; sometimes I have some, and then sometimes I haven't."

"You are very good, Doctor," said my mother, drying her tears. "It seems to me that Tommy is a very fortunate boy."

And then, thoughtless, selfish little imp that I was, I leaned over and whispered in the Doctor's ear,

"Please don't forget to say something about the voyages."

"Oh, by the way," said John Dolittle, "of course occasionally my work requires me to travel. You will have no objection, I take it, to your son's coming with me?"

My poor mother looked up sharply, more unhappy and anxious than ever at this new turn; while I stood behind the Doctor's chair, my heart thumping with excitement, waiting for my father's answer.

"No," he said slowly after a while. "If we agree to the other arrangement I don't see that we've the right to make any objection to that."

Well, there surely was never a happier boy in the world than I was at that moment. My head was in the clouds. I trod on air. I could scarcely keep from dancing round the parlor. At last the dream of my life was to come true! At last I was to be given a chance to seek my fortune, to have adventures! For I knew perfectly well that it was now almost time for the Doctor to start upon another voyage. Polynesia had told me that he hardly ever stayed at home for more than six months at a stretch. Therefore he would be surely going again within a fortnight. And I-I, Tommy Stubbins, would go with him! Just to think of it!-to cross the Sea, to walk on foreign shores, to roam the World!



Part Two

The First Chapter

The Crew Of "The Curlew"


FROM that time on of course my position in the town was very different. I was no longer a poor cobbler's son. I carried my nose in the air as I went down the High Street with Jip in his gold collar at my side; and snobbish little boys who had despised me before because I was not rich enough to go to school now pointed me out to their friends and whispered, "You see him? He's a doctor's assistant-and only ten years old!"

But their eyes would have opened still wider with wonder if they had but known that I and the dog that was with me could talk to one another.

Two days after the Doctor had been to our house to dinner he told me very sadly that he was afraid that he would have to give up trying to learn the language of the shellfish-at all events for the present.

"I'm very discouraged, Stubbins, very. I've tried the mussels and the clams, the oysters and the whelks, cockles and scallops; seven different kinds of crabs and all the lobster family. I think I'll leave it for the present and go at it again later on."

"What will you turn to now?" I asked.

"Well, I rather thought of going on a voyage, Stubbins. It's quite a time now since I've been away. And there is a great deal of work waiting for me abroad."

"When shall we start?" I asked.

"Well, first I shall have to wait till the Purple Bird-of-Paradise gets here. I must see if she has any message for me from Long Arrow. She's late. She should have been here ten days ago. I hope to goodness she's all right."

"Well, hadn't we better be seeing about getting a boat?" I said. "She is sure to be here in a day or so; and there will be lots of things to do to get ready in the mean time, won't there?"

"Yes, indeed," said the Doctor. "Suppose we go down and see your friend Joe, the mussel-man. He will know about boats."

"I'd like to come too," said Jip.

"All right, come along," said the Doctor, and off we went.

Joe said yes, he had a boat-one he had just bought-but it needed three people to sail her. We told him we would like to see it anyway.

So the mussel-man took us off a little way down the river and showed us the neatest, prettiest, little vessel that ever was built. She was called The Curlew. Joe said he would sell her to us cheap. But the trouble was that the boat needed three people, while we were only two.

"Of course I shall be taking Chee-Chee," said the Doctor. "But although he is very quick and clever, he is not as strong as a man. We really ought to have another person to sail a boat as big as that."

"I know of a good sailor, Doctor," said Joe-"a first-class seaman who would be glad of the job."

"No, thank you, Joe," said Doctor Dolittle. "I don't want any seamen. I couldn't afford to hire them. And then they hamper me so, seamen do, when I'm at sea. They're always wanting to do things the proper way; and I like to do them my way-Now let me see: who could we take with us?"

"There's Matthew Mugg, the cat's-meat-man," I said.

"No, he wouldn't do. Matthew's a very nice fellow, but he talks too much-mostly about his rheumatism. You have to be frightfully particular whom you take with you on long voyages."

"How about Luke the Hermit?" I asked.

"That's a good idea-splendid-if he'll come. Let's go and ask him right away."



The Second Chapter

Luke The Hermit


THE Hermit was an old friend of ours, as I have already told you. He was a very peculiar person. Far out on the marshes he lived in a little bit of a shack-all alone except for his brindle bulldog. No one knew where he came from-not even his name. Just "Luke the Hermit" folks called him. He never came into the town; never seemed to want to see or talk to people. His dog, Bob, drove them away if they came near his hut. When you asked anyone in Puddleby who he was or why he lived out in that lonely place by himself, the only answer you got was, "Oh, Luke the Hermit? Well, there's some mystery about him. Nobody knows what it is. But there's a mystery. Don't go near him. He'll set the dog on you."

Nevertheless there were two people who often went out to that little shack on the fens: the Doctor and myself. And Bob, the bulldog, never barked when he heard us coming. For we liked Luke; and Luke liked us.

This afternoon, crossing the marshes we faced a cold wind blowing from the East. As we approached the hut Jip put up his ears and said,

"That's funny!"

"What's funny?" asked the Doctor.

"That Bob hasn't come out to meet us. He should have heard us long ago-or smelt us. What's that queer noise?"

"Sounds to me like a gate creaking," said the Doctor. "Maybe it's Luke's door, only we can't see the door from here; it's on the far side of the shack."

"I hope Bob isn't sick," said Jip; and he let out a bark to see if that would call him. But the only answer he got was the wailing of the wind across the wide, salt fen.

We hurried forward, all three of us thinking hard.

When we reached the front of the shack we found the door open, swinging and creaking dismally in the wind. We looked inside. There was no one there.

"Isn't Luke at home then?" said I. "Perhaps he's out for a walk."

"He is always at home," said the Doctor frowning in a peculiar sort of way. "And even if he were out for a walk he wouldn't leave his door banging in the wind behind him. There is something queer about this-What are you doing in there, Jip?"

"Nothing much-nothing worth speaking of," said Jip examining the floor of the hut extremely carefully.

"Come here, Jip," said the Doctor in a stern voice. "You are hiding something from me. You see signs and you know something-or you guess it. What has happened? Tell me. Where is the Hermit?"

"I don't know," said Jip looking very guilty and uncomfortable. "I don't know where he is."

"Well, you know something. I can tell it from the look in your eye. What is it?"

But Jip didn't answer.

For ten minutes the Doctor kept questioning him. But not a word would the dog say.

"Well," said the Doctor at last, "it is no use our standing around here in the cold. The Hermit's gone. That's all. We might as well go home to luncheon."

As we buttoned up our coats and started back across the marsh, Jip ran ahead pretending he was looking for water-rats.

"He knows something all right," whispered the Doctor. "And I think he knows what has happened too. It's funny, his not wanting to tell me. He has never done that before-not in eleven years. He has always told me everything-Strange-very strange!"

"Do you mean you think he knows all about the Hermit, the big mystery about him which folks hint at and all that?"

"I shouldn't wonder if he did," the Doctor answered slowly. "I noticed something in his expression the moment we found that door open and the hut empty. And the way he sniffed the floor too-it told him something, that floor did. He saw signs we couldn't see-I wonder why he won't tell me. I'll try him again. Here, Jip! Jip!-Where is the dog? I thought he went on in front."

"So did I," I said. "He was there a moment ago. I saw him as large as life. Jip-Jip-Jip-JIP!"

But he was gone. We called and called. We even walked back to the hut. But Jip had disappeared.

"Oh well," I said, "most likely he has just run home ahead of us. He often does that, you know. We'll find him there when we get back to the house."

But the Doctor just closed his coat-collar tighter against the wind and strode on muttering, "Odd-very odd!"



The Third Chapter

Jip And The Secret


WHEN we reached the house the first question the Doctor asked of Dab-Dab in the hall was,

"Is Jip home yet?"

"No," said Dab-Dab, "I haven't seen him."

"Let me know the moment he comes in, will you, please?" said the Doctor, hanging up his hat.

"Certainly I will," said Dab-Dab. "Don't be long over washing your hands; the lunch is on the table."

Just as we were sitting down to luncheon in the kitchen we heard a great racket at the front door. I ran and opened it. In bounded Jip.

"Doctor!" he cried, "come into the library quick. I've got something to tell you-No, Dab-Dab, the luncheon must wait. Please hurry, Doctor. There's not a moment to be lost. Don't let any of the animals come-just you and Tommy."

"Now," he said, when we were inside the library and the door was closed, "turn the key in the lock and make sure there's no one listening under the windows."

"It's all right," said the Doctor. "Nobody can hear you here. Now what is it?"

"Well, Doctor," said Jip (he was badly out of breath from running), "I know all about the Hermit-I have known for years. But I couldn't tell you."

"Why?" asked the Doctor.

"Because I'd promised not to tell any one. It was Bob, his dog, that told me. And I swore to him that I would keep the secret."

"Well, and are you going to tell me now?"

"Yes," said Jip, "we've got to save him. I followed Bob's scent just now when I left you out there on the marshes. And I found him. And I said to him, 'Is it all right,' I said, 'for me to tell the Doctor now? Maybe he can do something.' And Bob says to me, 'Yes,' says he, 'it's all right because-'"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, go on, go on!" cried the Doctor. "Tell us what the mystery is-not what you said to Bob and what Bob said to you. What has happened? Where is the Hermit?"

"He's in Puddleby Jail," said Jip. "He's in prison."

"In prison!"

"Yes."

"What for?-What's he done?"

Jip went over to the door and smelt at the bottom of it to see if any one were listening outside. Then he came back to the Doctor on tiptoe and whispered,

"He killed a man!"

"Lord preserve us!" cried the Doctor, sitting down heavily in a chair and mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. "When did he do it?"

"Fifteen years ago-in a Mexican gold-mine. That's why he has been a hermit ever since. He shaved off his beard and kept away from people out there on the marshes so he wouldn't be recognized. But last week, it seems these new-fangled policemen came to Town; and they heard there was a strange man who kept to himself all alone in a shack on the fen. And they got suspicious. For a long time people had been hunting all over the world for the man that did that killing in the Mexican gold-mine fifteen years ago. So these policemen went out to the shack, and they recognized Luke by a mole on his arm. And they took him to prison."

"Well, well!" murmured the Doctor. "Who would have thought it?-Luke, the philosopher!-Killed a man!-I can hardly believe it."

"It's true enough-unfortunately," said Jip. "Luke did it. But it wasn't his fault. Bob says so. And he was there and saw it all. He was scarcely more than a puppy at the time. Bob says Luke couldn't help it. He had to do it."

"Where is Bob now?" asked the Doctor.

"Down at the prison. I wanted him to come with me here to see you; but he won't leave the prison while Luke is there. He just sits outside the door of the prison-cell and won't move. He doesn't even eat the food they give him. Won't you please come down there, Doctor, and see if there is anything you can do? The trial is to be this afternoon at two o'clock. What time is it now?"

"It's ten minutes past one."

"Bob says he thinks they are going to kill Luke for a punishment if they can prove that he did it-or certainly keep him in prison for the rest of his life. Won't you please come? Perhaps if you spoke to the judge and told him what a good man Luke really is they'd let him off."

"Of course I'll come," said the Doctor getting up and moving to go. "But I'm very much afraid that I shan't be of any real help." He turned at the door and hesitated thoughtfully.

"And yet-I wonder-"

Then he opened the door and passed out with Jip and me close at his heels.



The Fourth Chapter

Bob


DAB-DAB was terribly upset when she found we were going away again without luncheon; and she made us take some cold pork-pies in our pockets to eat on the way.

When we got to Puddleby Court-house (it was next door to the prison), we found a great crowd gathered around the building.

This was the week of the Assizes-a business which happened every three months, when many pick-pockets and other bad characters were tried by a very grand judge who came all the way from London. And anybody in Puddleby who had nothing special to do used to come to the Court-house to hear the trials.

But to-day it was different. The crowd was not made up of just a few idle people. It was enormous. The news had run through the countryside that Luke the Hermit was to be tried for killing a man and that the great mystery which had hung over him so long was to be cleared up at last. The butcher and the baker had closed their shops and taken a holiday. All the farmers from round-about, and all the townsfolk, were there with their Sunday clothes on, trying to get seats in the Court-house or gossipping outside in low whispers. The High Street was so crowded you could hardly move along it. I had never seen the quiet old town in such a state of excitement before. For Puddleby had not had such an Assizes since 1799, when Ferdinand Phipps, the Rector's oldest son, had robbed the bank.

If I hadn't had the Doctor with me I am sure I would never have been able to make my way through the mob packed around the Court-house door. But I just followed behind him, hanging on to his coat-tails; and at last we got safely into the jail.

"I want to see Luke," said the Doctor to a very grand person in a blue coat with brass buttons standing at the door.

"Ask at the Superintendent's office," said the man. "Third door on the left down the corridor."

"Who is that person you spoke to, Doctor?" I asked as we went along the passage.

"He is a policeman."

"And what are policemen?"

"Policemen? They are to keep people in order. They've just been invented-by Sir Robert Peel. That's why they are also called 'peelers' sometimes. It is a wonderful age we live in. They're always thinking of something new-This will be the Superintendent's office, I suppose."

"On the bed sat the Hermit"

From there another policeman was sent with us to show us the way.

Outside the door of Luke's cell we found Bob, the bulldog, who wagged his tail sadly when he saw us. The man who was guiding us took a large bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the door.

I had never been inside a real prison-cell before; and I felt quite a thrill when the policeman went out and locked the door after him, leaving us shut in the dimly-lighted, little, stone room. Before he went, he said that as soon as we had done talking with our friend we should knock upon the door and he would come and let us out.

At first I could hardly see anything, it was so dim inside. But after a little I made out a low bed against the wall, under a small barred window. On the bed, staring down at the floor between his feet, sat the Hermit, his head resting in his hands.

"Well, Luke," said the Doctor in a kindly voice, "they don't give you much light in here, do they?"

Very slowly the Hermit looked up from the floor.

"Hulloa, John Dolittle. What brings you here?"

"I've come to see you. I would have been here sooner, only I didn't hear about all this till a few minutes ago. I went to your hut to ask you if you would join me on a voyage; and when I found it empty I had no idea where you could be. I am dreadfully sorry to hear about your bad luck. I've come to see if there is anything I can do."

Luke shook his head.

"No, I don't imagine there is anything can be done. They've caught me at last. That's the end of it, I suppose."

He got up stiffly and started walking up and down the little room.

"In a way I'm glad it's over," said he. "I never got any peace, always thinking they were after me-afraid to speak to anyone. They were bound to get me in the end-Yes, I'm glad it's over."

Then the Doctor talked to Luke for more than half an hour, trying to cheer him up; while I sat around wondering what I ought to say and wishing I could do something.

At last the Doctor said he wanted to see Bob; and we knocked upon the door and were let out by the policeman.

"Bob," said the Doctor to the big bulldog in the passage, "come out with me into the porch. I want to ask you something."

"How is he, Doctor?" asked Bob as we walked down the corridor into the Court-house porch.

"Oh, Luke's all right. Very miserable of course, but he's all right. Now tell me, Bob: you saw this business happen, didn't you? You were there when the man was killed, eh?"

"I was, Doctor," said Bob, "and I tell you-"

"All right," the Doctor interrupted, "that's all I want to know for the present. There isn't time to tell me more now. The trial is just going to begin. There are the judge and the lawyers coming up the steps. Now listen, Bob: I want you to stay with me when I go into the court-room. And whatever I tell you to do, do it. Do you understand? Don't make any scenes. Don't bite anybody, no matter what they may say about Luke. Just behave perfectly quietly and answer any question I may ask you-truthfully. Do you understand?"

"Very well. But do you think you will be able to get him off, Doctor?" asked Bob. "He's a good man, Doctor. He really is. There never was a better."

"We'll see, we'll see, Bob. It's a new thing I'm going to try. I'm not sure the judge will allow it. But-well, we'll see. It's time to go into the court-room now. Don't forget what I told you. Remember: for Heaven's sake don't start biting any one or you'll get us all put out and spoil everything."



The Fifth Chapter

Mendoza


INSIDE the court-room everything was very solemn and wonderful. It was a high, big room. Raised above the floor, against the wall was the Judge's desk; and here the judge was already sitting-an old, handsome man in a marvelous big wig of gray hair and a gown of black. Below him was another wide, long desk at which lawyers in white wigs sat. The whole thing reminded me of a mixture between a church and a school.

"Those twelve men at the side," whispered the Doctor-"those in pews like a choir, they are what is called the jury. It is they who decide whether Luke is guilty-whether he did it or not."

"And look!" I said, "there's Luke himself in a sort of pulpit-thing with policemen each side of him. And there's another pulpit, the same kind, the other side of the room, see-only that one's empty."

"That one is called the witness-box," said the Doctor. "Now I'm going down to speak to one of those men in white wigs; and I want you to wait here and keep these two seats for us. Bob will stay with you. Keep an eye on him-better hold on to his collar. I shan't be more than a minute or so."

With that the Doctor disappeared into the crowd which filled the main part of the room.

Then I saw the judge take up a funny little wooden hammer and knock on his desk with it. This, it seemed, was to make people keep quiet, for immediately every one stopped buzzing and talking and began to listen very respectfully. Then another man in a black gown stood up and began reading from a paper in his hand.

He mumbled away exactly as though he were saying his prayers and didn't want any one to understand what language they were in. But I managed to catch a few words:

"Biz-biz-biz-biz-biz-otherwise known as Luke the Hermit, of-biz-biz-biz-biz-for killing his partner with-biz-biz-biz-otherwise known as Bluebeard Bill on the night of the-biz-biz-biz-in the biz-biz-biz-of Mexico. Therefore Her Majesty's-biz-biz-biz-"

At this moment I felt some one take hold of my arm from the back, and turning round I found the Doctor had returned with one of the men in white wigs.

"Stubbins, this is Mr. Percy Jenkyns," said the Doctor. "He is Luke's lawyer. It is his business to get Luke off-if he can."

Mr. Jenkyns seemed to be an extremely young man with a round smooth face like a boy. He shook hands with me and then immediately turned and went on talking with the Doctor.

"Oh, I think it is a perfectly precious idea," he was saying. "Of course the dog must be admitted as a witness; he was the only one who saw the thing take place. I'm awfully glad you came. I wouldn't have missed this for anything. My hat! Won't it make the old court sit up? They're always frightfully dull, these Assizes. But this will stir things. A bulldog witness for the defense! I do hope there are plenty of reporters present-Yes, there's one making a sketch of the prisoner. I shall become known after this-And won't Conkey be pleased? My hat!"

He put his hand over his mouth to smother a laugh and his eyes fairly sparkled with mischief.

"Who is Conkey?" I asked the Doctor.

"Sh! He is speaking of the judge up there, the Honorable Eustace Beauchamp Conckley."

"Now," said Mr. Jenkyns, bringing out a note-book, "tell me a little more about yourself, Doctor. You took your degree as Doctor of Medicine at Durham, I think you said. And the name of your last book was?"

I could not hear any more for they talked in whispers; and I fell to looking round the court again.

Of course I could not understand everything that was going on, though it was all very interesting. People kept getting up in the place the Doctor called the witness-box, and the lawyers at the long table asked them questions about "the night of the 29th." Then the people would get down again and somebody else would get up and be questioned.

One of the lawyers (who, the Doctor told me afterwards, was called the Prosecutor) seemed to be doing his best to get the Hermit into trouble by asking questions which made it look as though he had always been a very bad man. He was a nasty lawyer, this Prosecutor, with a long nose.

Most of the time I could hardly keep my eyes off poor Luke, who sat there between his two policemen, staring at the floor as though he weren't interested. The only time I saw him take any notice at all was when a small dark man with wicked, little, watery eyes got up into the witness-box. I heard Bob snarl under my chair as this person came into the court-room and Luke's eyes just blazed with anger and contempt.

This man said his name was Mendoza and that he was the one who had guided the Mexican police to the mine after Bluebeard Bill had been killed. And at every word he said I could hear Bob down below me muttering between his teeth,

"It's a lie! It's a lie! I'll chew his face. It's a lie!"

And both the Doctor and I had hard work keeping the dog under the seat.

Then I noticed that our Mr. Jenkyns had disappeared from the Doctor's side. But presently I saw him stand up at the long table to speak to the judge.

"Your Honor," said he, "I wish to introduce a new witness for the defense, Doctor John Dolittle, the naturalist. Will you please step into the witness-stand, Doctor?"

There was a buzz of excitement as the Doctor made his way across the crowded room; and I noticed the nasty lawyer with the long nose lean down and whisper something to a friend, smiling in an ugly way which made me want to pinch him.

Then Mr. Jenkyns asked the Doctor a whole lot of questions about himself and made him answer in a loud voice so the whole court could hear. He finished up by saying,

"And you are prepared to swear, Doctor Dolittle, that you understand the language of dogs and can make them understand you. Is that so?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, "that is so."

"And what, might I ask," put in the judge in a very quiet, dignified voice, "has all this to do with the killing of er-er-Bluebeard Bill?"

"This, Your Honor," said Mr. Jenkyns, talking in a very grand manner as though he were on a stage in a theatre: "there is in this court-room at the present moment a bulldog, who was the only living thing that saw the man killed. With the Court's permission I propose to put that dog in the witness-stand and have him questioned before you by the eminent scientist, Doctor John Dolittle."



The Sixth Chapter

The Judge's Dog


AT first there was a dead silence in the Court. Then everybody began whispering or giggling at the same time, till the whole room sounded like a great hive of bees. Many people seemed to be shocked; most of them were amused; and a few were angry.

Presently up sprang the nasty lawyer with the long nose.

"I protest, Your Honor," he cried, waving his arms wildly to the judge. "I object. The dignity of this court is in peril. I protest."

"I am the one to take care of the dignity of this court," said the judge.

Then Mr. Jenkyns got up again. (If it hadn't been such a serious matter, it was almost like a Punch-and-Judy show: somebody was always popping down and somebody else popping up).

"If there is any doubt on the score of our being able to do as we say, Your Honor will have no objection, I trust, to the Doctor's giving the Court a demonstration of his powers-of showing that he actually can understand the speech of animals?"

I thought I saw a twinkle of amusement come into the old judge's eyes as he sat considering a moment before he answered.

"No," he said at last, "I don't think so." Then he turned to the Doctor.

"Are you quite sure you can do this?" he asked.

"Quite, Your Honor," said the Doctor-"quite sure."

"Very well then," said the judge. "If you can satisfy us that you really are able to understand canine testimony, the dog shall be admitted as a witness. I do not see, in that case, how I could object to his being heard. But I warn you that if you are trying to make a laughing-stock of this Court it will go hard with you."

"I protest, I protest!" yelled the long-nosed Prosecutor. "This is a scandal, an outrage to the Bar!"

"Sit down!" said the judge in a very stern voice.

"What animal does Your Honor wish me to talk with?" asked the Doctor.

"I would like you to talk to my own dog," said the judge. "He is outside in the cloak-room. I will have him brought in; and then we shall see what you can do."

Then someone went out and fetched the judge's dog, a lovely great Russian wolf-hound with slender legs and a shaggy coat. He was a proud and beautiful creature.

"Now, Doctor," said the judge, "did you ever see this dog before?-Remember you are in the witness-stand and under oath."

"No, Your Honor, I never saw him before."

"Very well then, will you please ask him to tell you what I had for supper last night? He was with me and watched me while I ate."

Then the Doctor and the dog started talking to one another in signs and sounds; and they kept at it for quite a long time. And the Doctor began to giggle and get so interested that he seemed to forget all about the Court and the judge and everything else.

"What a time he takes!" I heard a fat woman in front of me whispering. "He's only pretending. Of course he can't do it! Who ever heard of talking to a dog? He must think we're children."

"Haven't you finished yet?" the judge asked the Doctor. "It shouldn't take that long just to ask what I had for supper."

"Oh no, Your Honor," said the Doctor. "The dog told me that long ago. But then he went on to tell me what you did after supper."

"Never mind that," said the judge. "Tell me what answer he gave you to my question."

"He says you had a mutton-chop, two baked potatoes, a pickled walnut and a glass of ale."

The Honorable Eustace Beauchamp Conckley went white to the lips.

"Sounds like witchcraft," he muttered. "I never dreamed-"

"And after your supper," the Doctor went on, "he says you went to see a prize-fight and then sat up playing cards for money till twelve o'clock and came home singing, 'We won't get-'"

"That will do," the judge interrupted, "I am satisfied you can do as you say. The prisoner's dog shall be admitted as a witness."

"I protest, I object!" screamed the Prosecutor. "Your Honor, this is-"

"Sit down!" roared the judge. "I say the dog shall be heard. That ends the matter. Put the witness in the stand."

And then for the first time in the solemn history of England a dog was put in the witness-stand of Her Majesty's Court of Assizes. And it was I, Tommy Stubbins (when the Doctor made a sign to me across the room) who proudly led Bob up the aisle, through the astonished crowd, past the frowning, spluttering, long-nosed Prosecutor, and made him comfortable on a high chair in the witness-box; from where the old bulldog sat scowling down over the rail upon the amazed and gaping jury.

"Sat scowling down upon the amazed and gaping jury"



The Seventh Chapter

The End Of The Mystery


THE trial went swiftly forward after that. Mr. Jenkyns told the Doctor to ask Bob what he saw on the "night of the 29th;" and when Bob had told all he knew and the Doctor had turned it into English for the judge and the jury, this was what he had to say:

"On the night of the 29th of November, 1824, I was with my master, Luke Fitzjohn (otherwise known as Luke the Hermit) and his two partners, Manuel Mendoza and William Boggs (otherwise known as Bluebeard Bill) on their gold-mine in Mexico. For a long time these three men had been hunting for gold; and they had dug a deep hole in the ground. On the morning of the 29th gold was discovered, lots of it, at the bottom of this hole. And all three, my master and his two partners, were very happy about it because now they would be rich. But Manuel Mendoza asked Bluebeard Bill to go for a walk with him. These two men I had always suspected of being bad. So when I noticed that they left my master behind, I followed them secretly to see what they were up to. And in a deep cave in the mountains I heard them arrange together to kill Luke the Hermit so that they should get all the gold and he have none."

At this point the judge asked, "Where is the witness Mendoza? Constable, see that he does not leave the court."

But the wicked little man with the watery eyes had already sneaked out when no one was looking and he was never seen in Puddleby again.

"Then," Bob's statement went on, "I went to my master and tried very hard to make him understand that his partners were dangerous men. But it was no use. He did not understand dog language. So I did the next best thing: I never let him out of my sight but stayed with him every moment of the day and night.

"Now the hole that they had made was so deep that to get down and up it you had to go in a big bucket tied on the end of a rope; and the three men used to haul one another up and let one another down the mine in this way. That was how the gold was brought up too-in the bucket. Well, about seven o'clock in the evening my master was standing at the top of the mine, hauling up Bluebeard Bill who was in the bucket. Just as he had got Bill halfway up I saw Mendoza come out of the hut where we all lived. Mendoza thought that Bill was away buying groceries. But he wasn't: he was in the bucket. And when Mendoza saw Luke hauling and straining on the rope he thought he was pulling up a bucketful of gold. So he drew a pistol from his pocket and came sneaking up behind Luke to shoot him.

"I barked and barked to warn my master of the danger he was in; but he was so busy hauling up Bill (who was a heavy fat man) that he took no notice of me. I saw that if I didn't do something quick he would surely be shot. So I did a thing I've never done before: suddenly and savagely I bit my master in the leg from behind. Luke was so hurt and startled that he did just what I wanted him to do: he let go the rope with both hands at once and turned round. And then, Crash! down went Bill in his bucket to the bottom of the mine and he was killed.

"While my master was busy scolding me Mendoza put his pistol in his pocket, came up with a smile on his face and looked down the mine.

"'Why, Good Gracious!' said he to Luke, 'You've killed Bluebeard Bill. I must go and tell the police'-hoping, you see, to get the whole mine to himself when Luke should be put in prison. Then he jumped on his horse and galloped away.

"And soon my master grew afraid; for he saw that if Mendoza only told enough lies to the police, it would look as though he had killed Bill on purpose. So while Mendoza was gone he and I stole away together secretly and came to England. Here he shaved off his beard and became a hermit. And ever since, for fifteen years, we've remained in hiding. This is all I have to say. And I swear it is the truth, every word."

When the Doctor finished reading Bob's long speech the excitement among the twelve men of the jury was positively terrific. One, a very old man with white hair, began to weep in a loud voice at the thought of poor Luke hiding on the fen for fifteen years for something he couldn't help. And all the others set to whispering and nodding their heads to one another.

In the middle of all this up got that horrible Prosecutor again, waving his arms more wildly than ever.

"Your Honor," he cried, "I must object to this evidence as biased. Of course the dog would not tell the truth against his own master. I object. I protest."

"Very well," said the judge, "you are at liberty to cross-examine. It is your duty as Prosecutor to prove his evidence untrue. There is the dog: question him, if you do not believe what he says."

I thought the long-nosed lawyer would have a fit. He looked first at the dog, then at the Doctor, then at the judge, then back at the dog scowling from the witness-box. He opened his mouth to say something; but no words came. He waved his arms some more. His face got redder and redder. At last, clutching his forehead, he sank weakly into his seat and had to be helped out of the court-room by two friends. As he was half carried through the door he was still feebly murmuring, "I protest-I object-I protest!"



The Eighth Chapter

Three Cheers


NEXT the judge made a very long speech to the jury; and when it was over all the twelve jurymen got up and went out into the next room. And at that point the Doctor came back, leading Bob, to the seat beside me.

"What have the jurymen gone out for?" I asked.

"They always do that at the end of a trial-to make up their minds whether the prisoner did it or not."

"Couldn't you and Bob go in with them and help them make up their minds the right way?" I asked.

"No, that's not allowed. They have to talk it over in secret. Sometimes it takes-My Gracious, look, they're coming back already! They didn't spend long over it."

Everybody kept quite still while the twelve men came tramping back into their places in the pews. Then one of them, the leader-a little man-stood up and turned to the judge. Every one was holding his breath, especially the Doctor and myself, to see what he was going to say. You could have heard a pin drop while the whole court-room, the whole of Puddleby in fact, waited with craning necks and straining ears to hear the weighty words.

"Your Honor," said the little man, "the jury returns a verdict of Not Guilty."

"What's that mean?" I asked, turning to the Doctor.

But I found Doctor John Dolittle, the famous naturalist, standing on top of a chair, dancing about on one leg like a schoolboy.

"It means he's free!" he cried, "Luke is free!"

"Then he'll be able to come on the voyage with us, won't he?"

But I could not hear his answer; for the whole court-room seemed to be jumping up on chairs like the Doctor. The crowd had suddenly gone crazy. All the people were laughing and calling and waving to Luke to show him how glad they were that he was free. The noise was deafening.

Then it stopped. All was quiet again; and the people stood up respectfully while the judge left the Court. For the trial of Luke the Hermit, that famous trial which to this day they are still talking of in Puddleby, was over.

In the hush while the judge was leaving, a sudden shriek rang out, and there, in the doorway stood a woman, her arms out-stretched to the Hermit.

"Luke!" she cried, "I've found you at last!"

"It's his wife," the fat woman in front of me whispered. "She ain't seen 'im in fifteen years, poor dear! What a lovely re-union. I'm glad I came. I wouldn't have missed this for anything!"

As soon as the judge had gone the noise broke out again; and now the folks gathered round Luke and his wife and shook them by the hand and congratulated them and laughed over them and cried over them.

"Come along, Stubbins," said the Doctor, taking me by the arm, "let's get out of this while we can."

"But aren't you going to speak to Luke?" I said-"to ask him if he'll come on the voyage?"

"It wouldn't be a bit of use," said the Doctor. "His wife's come for him. No man stands any chance of going on a voyage when his wife hasn't seen him in fifteen years. Come along. Let's get home to tea. We didn't have any lunch, remember. And we've earned something to eat. We'll have one of those mixed meals, lunch and tea combined-with watercress and ham. Nice change. Come along."

Just as we were going to step out at a side door I heard the crowd shouting,

"The Doctor! The Doctor! Where's the Doctor? The Hermit would have hanged if it hadn't been for the Doctor. Speech! Speech!-The Doctor!"

And a man came running up to us and said,

"The people are calling for you, Sir."

"I'm very sorry," said the Doctor, "but I'm in a hurry."

"The crowd won't be denied, Sir," said the man. "They want you to make a speech in the market-place."

"Beg them to excuse me," said the Doctor-"with my compliments. I have an appointment at my house-a very important one which I may not break. Tell Luke to make a speech. Come along, Stubbins, this way."

"Oh Lord!" he muttered as we got out into the open air and found another crowd waiting for him at the side door. "Let's go up that alleyway-to the left. Quick!-Run!"

We took to our heels, darted through a couple of side streets and just managed to get away from the crowd.

It was not till we had gained the Oxenthorpe Road that we dared to slow down to a walk and take our breath. And even when we reached the Doctor's gate and turned to look backwards towards the town, the faint murmur of many voices still reached us on the evening wind.

"They're still clamoring for you," I said. "Listen!"

The murmur suddenly swelled up into a low distant roar; and although it was a mile and half away you could distinctly hear the words,

"Three cheers for Luke the Hermit: Hooray!-Three cheers for his dog: Hooray!-Three cheers for his wife: Hooray!-Three cheers for the Doctor: Hooray! Hooray! HOO-R-A-Y!"



The Ninth Chapter

The Purple Bird-Of-Paradise


POLYNESIA was waiting for us in the front porch. She looked full of some important news.

"Doctor," said she, "the Purple Bird-of-Paradise has arrived!"

"At last!" said the Doctor. "I had begun to fear some accident had befallen her. And how is Miranda?"

From the excited way in which the Doctor fumbled his key into the lock I guessed that we were not going to get our tea right away, even now.

"Oh, she seemed all right when she arrived," said Polynesia-"tired from her long journey of course but otherwise all right. But what do you think? That mischief-making sparrow, Cheapside, insulted her as soon as she came into the garden. When I arrived on the scene she was in tears and was all for turning round and going straight back to Brazil to-night. I had the hardest work persuading her to wait till you came. She's in the study. I shut Cheapside in one of your book-cases and told him I'd tell you exactly what had happened the moment you got home."

The Doctor frowned, then walked silently and quickly to the study.

Here we found the candles lit; for the daylight was nearly gone. Dab-Dab was standing on the floor mounting guard over one of the glass-fronted book-cases in which Cheapside had been imprisoned. The noisy little sparrow was still fluttering angrily behind the glass when we came in.

In the centre of the big table, perched on the ink-stand, stood the most beautiful bird I have ever seen. She had a deep violet-colored breast, scarlet wings and a long, long sweeping tail of gold. She was unimaginably beautiful but looked dreadfully tired. Already she had her head under her wing; and she swayed gently from side to side on top of the ink-stand like a bird that has flown long and far.

"Sh!" said Dab-Dab. "Miranda is asleep. I've got this little imp Cheapside in here. Listen, Doctor: for Heaven's sake send that sparrow away before he does any more mischief. He's nothing but a vulgar little nuisance. We've had a perfectly awful time trying to get Miranda to stay. Shall I serve your tea in here, or will you come into the kitchen when you're ready?"

"We'll come into the kitchen, Dab-Dab," said the Doctor. "Let Cheapside out before you go, please."

Dab-Dab opened the bookcase-door and Cheapside strutted out trying hard not to look guilty.

"Cheapside," said the Doctor sternly, "what did you say to Miranda when she arrived?"

"I didn't say nothing, Doc, straight I didn't. That is, nothing much. I was picking up crumbs off the gravel path when she comes swanking into the garden, turning up her nose in all directions, as though she owned the earth-just because she's got a lot of colored plumage. A London sparrow's as good as her any day. I don't hold by these gawdy bedizened foreigners nohow. Why don't they stay in their own country?"

"But what did you say to her that got her so offended?"

"All I said was, 'You don't belong in an English garden; you ought to be in a milliner's window.' That's all."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cheapside. Don't you realize that this bird has come thousands of miles to see me-only to be insulted by your impertinent tongue as soon as she reaches my garden? What do you mean by it?-If she had gone away again before I got back to-night I would never have forgiven you-Leave the room."

Sheepishly, but still trying to look as though he didn't care, Cheapside hopped out into the passage and Dab-Dab closed the door.

The Doctor went up to the beautiful bird on the ink-stand and gently stroked its back. Instantly its head popped out from under its wing.



The Tenth Chapter

Long Arrow, The Son Of Golden Arrow


"WELL, Miranda," said the Doctor. "I'm terribly sorry this has happened. But you mustn't mind Cheapside; he doesn't know any better. He's a city bird; and all his life he has had to squabble for a living. You must make allowances. He doesn't know any better."

Miranda stretched her gorgeous wings wearily. Now that I saw her awake and moving I noticed what a superior, well-bred manner she had. There were tears in her eyes and her beak was trembling.

"I wouldn't have minded so much," she said in a high silvery voice, "if I hadn't been so dreadfully worn out-That and something else," she added beneath her breath.

"Did you have a hard time getting here?" asked the Doctor.

"The worst passage I ever made," said Miranda. "The weather-Well there. What's the use? I'm here anyway."

"Tell me," said the Doctor as though he had been impatiently waiting to say something for a long time: "what did Long Arrow say when you gave him my message?"

The Purple Bird-of-Paradise hung her head.

"That's the worst part of it," she said. "I might almost as well have not come at all. I wasn't able to deliver your message. I couldn't find him. Long Arrow, the son of Golden Arrow, has disappeared!"

"Disappeared!" cried the Doctor. "Why, what's become of him?"

"Nobody knows," Miranda answered. "He had often disappeared before, as I have told you-so that the Indians didn't know where he was. But it's a mighty hard thing to hide away from the birds. I had always been able to find some owl or martin who could tell me where he was-if I wanted to know. But not this time. That's why I'm nearly a fortnight late in coming to you: I kept hunting and hunting, asking everywhere. I went over the whole length and breadth of South America. But there wasn't a living thing could tell me where he was."

There was a sad silence in the room after she had finished; the Doctor was frowning in a peculiar sort of way and Polynesia scratched her head.

"Did you ask the black parrots?" asked Polynesia. "They usually know everything."

"Certainly I did," said Miranda. "And I was so upset at not being able to find out anything, that I forgot all about observing the weather-signs before I started my flight here. I didn't even bother to break my journey at the Azores, but cut right across, making for the Straits of Gibraltar-as though it were June or July. And of course I ran into a perfectly frightful storm in mid-Atlantic. I really thought I'd never come through it. Luckily I found a piece of a wrecked vessel floating in the sea after the storm had partly died down; and I roosted on it and took some sleep. If I hadn't been able to take that rest I wouldn't be here to tell the tale."

"Poor Miranda! What a time you must have had!" said the Doctor. "But tell me, were you able to find out whereabouts Long Arrow was last seen?"

"Yes. A young albatross told me he had seen him on Spidermonkey Island?"

"Spidermonkey Island? That's somewhere off the coast of Brazil, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's it. Of course I flew there right away and asked every bird on the island-and it is a big island, a hundred miles long. It seems that Long Arrow was visiting some peculiar Indians that live there; and that when last seen he was going up into the mountains looking for rare medicine-plants. I got that from a tame hawk, a pet, which the Chief of the Indians keeps for hunting partridges with. I nearly got caught and put in a cage for my pains too. That's the worst of having beautiful feathers: it's as much as your life is worth to go near most humans-They say, 'oh how pretty!' and shoot an arrow or a bullet into you. You and Long Arrow were the only two men that I would ever trust myself near-out of all the people in the world."

"But was he never known to have returned from the mountains?"

"No. That was the last that was seen or heard of him. I questioned the sea-birds around the shores to find out if he had left the island in a canoe. But they could tell me nothing."

"Do you think that some accident has happened to him?" asked the Doctor in a fearful voice.

"I'm afraid it must have," said Miranda shaking her head.

"Well," said John Dolittle slowly, "if I could never meet Long Arrow face to face it would be the greatest disappointment in my whole life. Not only that, but it would be a great loss to the knowledge of the human race. For, from what you have told me of him, he knew more natural science than all the rest of us put together; and if he has gone without any one to write it down for him, so the world may be the better for it, it would be a terrible thing. But you don't really think that he is dead, do you?"

"'What else can I think?'"

"What else can I think?" asked Miranda, bursting into tears, "when for six whole months he has not been seen by flesh, fish or fowl."



The Eleventh Chapter

Blind Travel


THIS news about Long Arrow made us all very sad. And I could see from the silent dreamy way the Doctor took his tea that he was dreadfully upset. Every once in a while he would stop eating altogether and sit staring at the spots on the kitchen table-cloth as though his thoughts were far away; till Dab-Dab, who was watching to see that he got a good meal, would cough or rattle the pots in the sink.

I did my best to cheer him up by reminding him of all he had done for Luke and his wife that afternoon. And when that didn't seem to work, I went on talking about our preparations for the voyage.

"But you see, Stubbins," said he as we rose from the table and Dab-Dab and Chee-Chee began to clear away, "I don't know where to go now. I feel sort of lost since Miranda brought me this news. On this voyage I had planned going to see Long Arrow. I had been looking forward to it for a whole year. I felt he might help me in learning the language of the shellfish-and perhaps in finding some way of getting to the bottom of the sea. But now?-He's gone! And all his great knowledge has gone with him."

Then he seemed to fall a-dreaming again.

"Just to think of it!" he murmured. "Long Arrow and I, two students-Although I'd never met him, I felt as though I knew him quite well. For, in his way-without any schooling-he has, all his life, been trying to do the very things which I have tried to do in mine-And now he's gone!-A whole world lay between us-And only a bird knew us both!"

We went back into the study, where Jip brought the Doctor his slippers and his pipe. And after the pipe was lit and the smoke began to fill the room the old man seemed to cheer up a little.

"But you will go on some voyage, Doctor, won't you?" I asked-"even if you can't go to find Long Arrow."

He looked up sharply into my face; and I suppose he saw how anxious I was. Because he suddenly smiled his old, boyish smile and said,

"Yes, Stubbins. Don't worry. We'll go. We mustn't stop working and learning, even if poor Long Arrow has disappeared-But where to go: that's the question. Where shall we go?"

There were so many places that I wanted to go that I couldn't make up my mind right away. And while I was still thinking, the Doctor sat up in his chair and said,

"I tell you what we'll do, Stubbins: it's a game I used to play when I was young-before Sarah came to live with me. I used to call it Blind Travel. Whenever I wanted to go on a voyage, and I couldn't make up my mind where to go, I would take the atlas and open it with my eyes shut. Next, I'd wave a pencil, still without looking, and stick it down on whatever page had fallen open. Then I'd open my eyes and look. It's a very exciting game, is Blind Travel. Because you have to swear, before you begin, that you will go to the place the pencil touches, come what may. Shall we play it?"

"Oh, let's!" I almost yelled. "How thrilling! I hope it's China-or Borneo-or Bagdad."

And in a moment I had scrambled up the bookcase, dragged the big atlas from the top shelf and laid it on the table before the Doctor.

I knew every page in that atlas by heart. How many days and nights I had lingered over its old faded maps, following the blue rivers from the mountains to the sea; wondering what the little towns really looked like, and how wide were the sprawling lakes! I had had a lot of fun with that atlas, traveling, in my mind, all over the world. I can see it now: the first page had no map; it just told you that it was printed in Edinburgh in 1808, and a whole lot more about the book. The next page was the Solar System, showing the sun and planets, the stars and the moon. The third page was the chart of the North and South Poles. Then came the hemispheres, the oceans, the continents and the countries.

As the Doctor began sharpening his pencil a thought came to me.

"What if the pencil falls upon the North Pole," I asked, "will we have to go there?"

"No. The rules of the game say you don't have to go any place you've been to before. You are allowed another try. I've been to the North Pole," he ended quietly, "so we shan't have to go there."

I could hardly speak with astonishment.

"You've been to the North pole!" I managed to gasp out at last. "But I thought it was still undiscovered. The map shows all the places explorers have reached to, trying to get there. Why isn't your name down if you discovered it?"

"I promised to keep it a secret. And you must promise me never to tell any one. Yes, I discovered the North Pole in April, 1809. But shortly after I got there the polar bears came to me in a body and told me there was a great deal of coal there, buried beneath the snow. They knew, they said, that human beings would do anything, and go anywhere, to get coal. So would I please keep it a secret. Because once people began coming up there to start coal-mines, their beautiful white country would be spoiled-and there was nowhere else in the world cold enough for polar bears to be comfortable. So of course I had to promise them I would. Ah, well, it will be discovered again some day, by somebody else. But I want the polar bears to have their play-ground to themselves as long as possible. And I daresay it will be a good while yet-for it certainly is a fiendish place to get to-Well now, are we ready?-Good! Take the pencil and stand here close to the table. When the book falls open, wave the pencil round three times and jab it down. Ready?-All right. Shut your eyes."

It was a tense and fearful moment-but very thrilling. We both had our eyes shut tight. I heard the atlas fall open with a bang. I wondered what page it was: England or Asia. If it should be the map of Asia, so much would depend on where that pencil would land. I waved three times in a circle. I began to lower my hand. The pencil-point touched the page.

"All right," I called out, "it's done."



The Twelfth Chapter

Destiny And Destination


WE both opened our eyes; then bumped our heads together with a crack in our eagerness to lean over and see where we were to go.

The atlas lay open at a map called, Chart of the South Atlantic Ocean. My pencil-point was resting right in the center of a tiny island. The name of it was printed so small that the Doctor had to get out his strong spectacles to read it. I was trembling with excitement.

"Spidermonkey Island," he read out slowly. Then he whistled softly beneath his breath. "Of all the extraordinary things! You've hit upon the very island where Long Arrow was last seen on earth-I wonder-Well, well! How very singular!"

"We'll go there, Doctor, won't we?" I asked.

"Of course we will. The rules of the game say we've got to."

"I'm so glad it wasn't Oxenthorpe or Bristol," I said. "It'll be a grand voyage, this. Look at all the sea we've got to cross. Will it take us long?"

"Oh, no," said the Doctor-"not very. With a good boat and a good wind we should make it easily in four weeks. But isn't it extraordinary? Of all the places in the world you picked out that one with your eyes shut. Spidermonkey Island after all!-Well, there's one good thing about it: I shall be able to get some Jabizri beetles."

"What are Jabizri beetles?"

"They are a very rare kind of beetles with peculiar habits. I want to study them. There are only three countries in the world where they are to be found. Spidermonkey Island is one of them. But even there they are very scarce."

"What is this little question-mark after the name of the island for?" I asked, pointing to the map.

"That means that the island's position in the ocean is not known very exactly-that it is somewhere about there. Ships have probably seen it in that neighborhood, that is all, most likely. It is quite possible we shall be the first white men to land there. But I daresay we shall have some difficulty in finding it first."

How like a dream it all sounded! The two of us sitting there at the big study-table; the candles lit; the smoke curling towards the dim ceiling from the Doctor's pipe-the two of us sitting there, talking about finding an island in the ocean and being the first white men to land upon it!

"I'll bet it will be a great voyage," I said. "It looks a lovely island on the map. Will there be black men there?"

"No. A peculiar tribe of Red Indians lives on it, Miranda tells me."

At this point the poor Bird-of-Paradise stirred and woke up. In our excitement we had forgotten to speak low.

"We are going to Spidermonkey Island, Miranda," said the Doctor. "You know where it is, do you not?"

"I know where it was the last time I saw it," said the bird. "But whether it will be there still, I can't say."

"What do you mean?" asked the Doctor. "It is always in the same place surely?"

"Not by any means," said Miranda. "Why, didn't you know?-Spidermonkey Island is a floating island. It moves around all over the place-usually somewhere near southern South America. But of course I could surely find it for you if you want to go there."

At this fresh piece of news I could contain myself no longer. I was bursting to tell some one. I ran dancing and singing from the room to find Chee-Chee.

At the door I tripped over Dab-Dab, who was just coming in with her wings full of plates, and fell headlong on my nose.

"Has the boy gone crazy?" cried the duck. "Where do you think you're going, ninny?"

"To Spidermonkey Island!" I shouted, picking myself up and doing cart-wheels down the hall-"Spidermonkey Island! Hooray!-And it's a floating island!"

"You're going to Bedlam, I should say," snorted the housekeeper. "Look what you've done to my best china!"

But I was far too happy to listen to her scolding; and I ran on, singing, into the kitchen to find Chee-Chee.



Part Three



The First Chapter

The Third Man


THAT same week we began our preparations for the voyage.

Joe, the mussel-man, had the Curlew moved down the river and tied it up along the river-wall, so it would be more handy for loading. And for three whole days we carried provisions down to our beautiful new boat and stowed them away.

I was surprised to find how roomy and big she was inside. There were three little cabins, a saloon (or dining-room) and underneath all this, a big place called the hold where the food and extra sails and other things were kept.

I think Joe must have told everybody in the town about our coming voyage, because there was always a regular crowd watching us when we brought the things down to put aboard. And of course sooner or later old Matthew Mugg was bound to turn up.

"My Goodness, Tommy," said he, as he watched me carrying on some sacks of flour, "but that's a pretty boat! Where might the Doctor be going to this voyage?"

"We're going to Spidermonkey Island," I said proudly.

"And be you the only one the Doctor's taking along?"

"Well, he has spoken of wanting to take another man," I said; "but so far he hasn't made up his mind."

Matthew grunted; then squinted up at the graceful masts of the Curlew.

"You know, Tommy," said he, "if it wasn't for my rheumatism I've half a mind to come with the Doctor myself. There's something about a boat standing ready to sail that always did make me feel venturesome and travelish-like. What's that stuff in the cans you're taking on?"

"This is treacle," I said-"twenty pounds of treacle."

"My Goodness," he sighed, turning away sadly. "That makes me feel more like going with you than ever-But my rheumatism is that bad I can't hardly-"

I didn't hear any more for Matthew had moved off, still mumbling, into the crowd that stood about the wharf. The clock in Puddleby Church struck noon and I turned back, feeling very busy and important, to the task of loading.

But it wasn't very long before some one else came along and interrupted my work. This was a huge, big, burly man with a red beard and tattoo-marks all over his arms. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, spat twice on to the river-wall and said,

"Boy, where's the skipper?"

"The skipper!-Who do you mean?" I asked.

"The captain-Where's the captain of this craft?" he said, pointing to the Curlew.

"Oh, you mean the Doctor," said I. "Well, he isn't here at present."

At that moment the Doctor arrived with his arms full of note-books and butterfly-nets and glass cases and other natural history things. The big man went up to him, respectfully touching his cap.

"Good morning, Captain," said he. "I heard you was in need of hands for a voyage. My name's Ben Butcher, able seaman."

"I am very glad to know you," said the Doctor. "But I'm afraid I shan't be able to take on any more crew."

"Why, but Captain," said the able seaman, "you surely ain't going to face deep-sea weather with nothing more than this bit of a lad to help you-and with a cutter that big!"

The Doctor assured him that he was; but the man didn't go away. He hung around and argued. He told us he had known of many ships being sunk through "undermanning." He got out what he called his stiffikit-a paper which said what a good sailor he was-and implored us, if we valued our lives, to take him.

"'Boy, where's the skipper?'"

But the Doctor was quite firm-polite but determined-and finally the man walked sorrowfully away, telling us he never expected to see us alive again.

Callers of one sort and another kept us quite busy that morning. The Doctor had no sooner gone below to stow away his note-books than another visitor appeared upon the gang-plank. This was a most extraordinary-looking black man. The only other negroes I had seen had been in circuses, where they wore feathers and bone necklaces and things like that. But this one was dressed in a fashionable frock coat with an enormous bright red cravat. On his head was a straw hat with a gay band; and over this he held a large green umbrella. He was very smart in every respect except his feet. He wore no shoes or socks.

"Pardon me," said he, bowing elegantly, "but is this the ship of the physician Dolittle?"

"Yes," I said, "did you wish to see him?"

"I did-if it will not be discommodious," he answered.

"Who shall I say it is?"

"I am Bumpo Kahbooboo, Crown Prince of Jolliginki."

I ran downstairs at once and told the Doctor.

"How fortunate!" cried John Dolittle. "My old friend Bumpo! Well, well!-He's studying at Oxford, you know. How good of him to come all this way to call on me!" And he tumbled up the ladder to greet his visitor.

The strange black man seemed to be overcome with joy when the Doctor appeared and shook him warmly by the hand.

"News reached me," he said, "that you were about to sail upon a voyage. I hastened to see you before your departure. I am sublimely ecstasied that I did not miss you."

"You very nearly did miss us," said the Doctor. "As it happened, we were delayed somewhat in getting the necessary number of men to sail our boat. If it hadn't been for that, we would have been gone three days ago."

"How many men does your ship's company yet require?" asked Bumpo.

"Only one," said the Doctor-"But it is so hard to find the right one."

"Methinks I detect something of the finger of Destination in this," said Bumpo. "How would I do?"

"Splendidly," said the Doctor. "But what about your studies? You can't very well just go off and leave your university career to take care of itself, you know."

"I need a holiday," said Bumpo. "Even had I not gone with you, I intended at the end of this term to take a three-months' absconsion-But besides, I shall not be neglecting my edification if I accompany you. Before I left Jolliginki my august father, the King, told me to be sure and travel plenty. You are a man of great studiosity. To see the world in your company is an opportunity not to be sneezed upon. No, no, indeed."

"How did you like the life at Oxford?" asked the Doctor.

"Oh, passably, passably," said Bumpo. "I liked it all except the algebra and the shoes. The algebra hurt my head and the shoes hurt my feet. I threw the shoes over a wall as soon as I got out of the college quadrilateral this morning; and the algebra I am happily forgetting very fast-I liked Cicero-Yes, I think Cicero's fine-so simultaneous. By the way, they tell me his son is rowing for our college next year-charming fellow."

The Doctor looked down at the black man's huge bare feet thoughtfully a moment.

"Well," he said slowly, "there is something in what you say, Bumpo, about getting education from the world as well as from the college. And if you are really sure that you want to come, we shall be delighted to have you. Because, to tell you the truth, I think you are exactly the man we need."



The Second Chapter

Good-Bye!


TWO days after that we had all in readiness for our departure.

On this voyage Jip begged so hard to be taken that the Doctor finally gave in and said he could come. Polynesia and Chee-Chee were the only other animals to go with us. Dab-Dab was left in charge of the house and the animal family we were to leave behind.

Of course, as is always the way, at the last moment we kept remembering things we had forgotten; and when we finally closed the house up and went down the steps to the road, we were all burdened with armfuls of odd packages.

Halfway to the river, the Doctor suddenly remembered that he had left the stock-pot boiling on the kitchen-fire. However, we saw a blackbird flying by who nested in our garden, and the Doctor asked her to go back for us and tell Dab-Dab about it.

Down at the river-wall we found a great crowd waiting to see us off.

Standing right near the gang-plank were my mother and father. I hoped that they would not make a scene, or burst into tears or anything like that. But as a matter of fact they behaved quite well-for parents. My mother said something about being sure not to get my feet wet; and my father just smiled a crooked sort of smile, patted me on the back and wished me luck. Good-byes are awfully uncomfortable things and I was glad when it was over and we passed on to the ship.

We were a little surprised not to see Matthew Mugg among the crowd. We had felt sure that he would be there; and the Doctor had intended to give him some extra instructions about the food for the animals we had left at the house.

At last, after much pulling and tugging, we got the anchor up and undid a lot of mooring-ropes. Then the Curlew began to move gently down the river with the out-running tide, while the people on the wall cheered and waved their handkerchiefs.

We bumped into one or two other boats getting out into the stream; and at one sharp bend in the river we got stuck on a mud bank for a few minutes. But though the people on the shore seemed to get very excited at these things, the Doctor did not appear to be disturbed by them in the least.

"These little accidents will happen in the most carefully regulated voyages," he said as he leaned over the side and fished for his boots which had got stuck in the mud while we were pushing off. "Sailing is much easier when you get out into the open sea. There aren't so many silly things to bump into."

For me indeed it was a great and wonderful feeling, that getting out into the open sea, when at length we passed the little lighthouse at the mouth of the river and found ourselves free of the land. It was all so new and different: just the sky above you and sea below. This ship, which was to be our house and our street, our home and our garden, for so many days to come, seemed so tiny in all this wide water-so tiny and yet so snug, sufficient, safe.

I looked around me and took in a deep breath. The Doctor was at the wheel steering the boat which was now leaping and plunging gently through the waves. (I had expected to feel seasick at first but was delighted to find that I didn't.) Bumpo had been told off to go downstairs and prepare dinner for us. Chee-Chee was coiling up ropes in the stern and laying them in neat piles. My work was fastening down the things on the deck so that nothing could roll about if the weather should grow rough when we got further from the land. Jip was up in the peak of the boat with ears cocked and nose stuck out-like a statue, so still-his keen old eyes keeping a sharp look-out for floating wrecks, sand-bars, and other dangers. Each one of us had some special job to do, part of the proper running of a ship. Even old Polynesia was taking the sea's temperature with the Doctor's bath-thermometer tied on the end of a string, to make sure there were no icebergs near us. As I listened to her swearing softly to herself because she couldn't read the pesky figures in the fading light, I realized that the voyage had begun in earnest and that very soon it would be night-my first night at sea!



The Third Chapter

Our Troubles Begin


JUST before supper-time Bumpo appeared from downstairs and went to the Doctor at the wheel.

"A stowaway in the hold, Sir," said he in a very business-like seafaring voice. "I just discovered him, behind the flour-bags."

"Dear me!" said the Doctor. "What a nuisance! Stubbins, go down with Bumpo and bring the man up. I can't leave the wheel just now."

So Bumpo and I went down into the hold; and there, behind the flour-bags, plastered in flour from head to foot, we found a man. After we had swept most of the flour off him with a broom, we discovered that it was Matthew Mugg. We hauled him upstairs sneezing and took him before the Doctor.

"Why Matthew!" said John Dolittle. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"The temptation was too much for me, Doctor," said the cat's-meat-man. "You know I've often asked you to take me on voyages with you and you never would. Well, this time, knowing that you needed an extra man, I thought if I stayed hid till the ship was well at sea you would find I came in handy like and keep me. But I had to lie so doubled up, for hours, behind them flour-bags, that my rheumatism came on something awful. I just had to change my position; and of course just as I stretched out my legs along comes this here African cook of yours and sees my feet sticking out-Don't this ship roll something awful! How long has this storm been going on? I reckon this damp sea air wouldn't be very good for my rheumatics."

"No, Matthew it really isn't. You ought not to have come. You are not in any way suited to this kind of a life. I'm sure you wouldn't enjoy a long voyage a bit. We'll stop in at Penzance and put you ashore. Bumpo, please go downstairs to my bunk; and listen: in the pocket of my dressing-gown you'll find some maps. Bring me the small one-with blue pencil-marks at the top. I know Penzance is over here on our left somewhere. But I must find out what light-houses there are before I change the ship's course and sail inshore."

"Very good, Sir," said Bumpo, turning round smartly and making for the stairway.

"Now Matthew," said the Doctor, "you can take the coach from Penzance to Bristol. And from there it is not very far to Puddleby, as you know. Don't forget to take the usual provisions to the house every Thursday, and be particularly careful to remember the extra supply of herrings for the baby minks."

While we were waiting for the maps Chee-Chee and I set about lighting the lamps: a green one on the right side of the ship, a red one on the left and a white one on the mast.

At last we heard some one trundling on the stairs again and the Doctor said,

"Ah, here's Bumpo with the maps at last!"

But to our great astonishment it was not Bumpo alone that appeared but three people.

"Good Lord deliver us! Who are these?" cried John Dolittle.

"Two more stowaways, Sir," said Bumpo stepping forward briskly. "I found them in your cabin hiding under the bunk. One woman and one man, Sir. Here are the maps."

"This is too much," said the Doctor feebly. "Who are they? I can't see their faces in this dim light. Strike a match, Bumpo."

You could never guess who it was. It was Luke and his wife. Mrs. Luke appeared to be very miserable and seasick.

They explained to the Doctor that after they had settled down to live together in the little shack out on the fens, so many people came to visit them (having heard about the great trial) that life became impossible; and they had decided to escape from Puddleby in this manner-for they had no money to leave any other way-and try to find some new place to live where they and their story wouldn't be so well known. But as soon as the ship had begun to roll Mrs. Luke had got most dreadfully unwell.

Poor Luke apologized many times for being such a nuisance and said that the whole thing had been his wife's idea.

The Doctor, after he had sent below for his medicine-bag and had given Mrs. Luke some sal volatile and smelling-salts, said he thought the best thing to do would be for him to lend them some money and put them ashore at Penzance with Matthew. He also wrote a letter for Luke to take with him to a friend the Doctor had in the town of Penzance who, it was hoped, would be able to find Luke work to do there.

As the Doctor opened his purse and took out some gold coins I heard Polynesia, who was sitting on my shoulder watching the whole affair, mutter beneath her breath,

"There he goes-lending his last blessed penny-three pounds ten-all the money we had for the whole trip! Now we haven't the price of a postage-stamp aboard if we should lose an anchor or have to buy a pint of tar-Well, let's pray we don't run out of food-Why doesn't he give them the ship and walk home?"

Presently with the help of the map the course of the boat was changed and, to Mrs. Luke's great relief, we made for Penzance and dry land.

I was tremendously interested to see how a ship could be steered into a port at night with nothing but light-houses and a compass to guide you. It seemed to me that the Doctor missed all the rocks and sand-bars very cleverly.

We got into that funny little Cornish harbor about eleven o'clock that night. The Doctor took his stowaways on shore in our small row-boat which we kept on the deck of the Curlew and found them rooms at the hotel there. When he got back he told us that Mrs. Luke had gone straight to bed and was feeling much better.

It was now after midnight; so we decided to stay in the harbor and wait till morning before setting out again.

I was glad to get to bed, although I felt that staying up so tremendously late was great fun. As I climbed into the bunk over the Doctor's and pulled the blankets snugly round me, I found I could look out of the port-hole at my elbow, and, without raising my head from the pillow, could see the lights of Penzance swinging gently up and down with the motion of the ship at anchor. It was like being rocked to sleep with a little show going on to amuse you. I was just deciding that I liked the life of the sea very much when I fell fast asleep.



The Fourth Chapter

Our Troubles Continue


THE next morning when we were eating a very excellent breakfast of kidneys and bacon, prepared by our good cook Bumpo, the Doctor said to me,

"I was just wondering, Stubbins, whether I should stop at the Capa Blanca Islands or run right across for the coast of Brazil. Miranda said we could expect a spell of excellent weather now-for four and a half weeks at least."

"Well," I said, spooning out the sugar at the bottom of my cocoa-cup, "I should think it would be best to make straight across while we are sure of good weather. And besides the Purple Bird-of-Paradise is going to keep a lookout for us, isn't she? She'll be wondering what's happened to us if we don't get there in about a month."

"True, quite true, Stubbins. On the other hand, the Capa Blancas make a very convenient stopping place on our way across. If we should need supplies or repairs it would be very handy to put in there."

"How long will it take us from here to the Capa Blancas?" I asked.

"About six days," said the Doctor-"Well, we can decide later. For the next two days at any rate our direction would be the same practically in either case. If you have finished breakfast let's go and get under way."

Upstairs I found our vessel surrounded by white and gray seagulls who flashed and circled about in the sunny morning air, looking for food-scraps thrown out by the ships into the harbor.

By about half past seven we had the anchor up and the sails set to a nice steady breeze; and this time we got out into the open sea without bumping into a single thing. We met the Penzance fishing fleet coming in from the night's fishing, and very trim and neat they looked, in a line like soldiers, with their red-brown sails all leaning over the same way and the white water dancing before their bows.

For the next three or four days everything went smoothly and nothing unusual happened. During this time we all got settled down into our regular jobs; and in spare moments the Doctor showed each of us how to take our turns at the wheel, the proper manner of keeping a ship on her right course, and what to do if the wind changed suddenly. We divided the twenty-four hours of the day into three spells; and we took it in turns to sleep our eight hours and be awake sixteen. So the ship was well looked after, with two of us always on duty.

Besides that, Polynesia, who was an older sailor than any of us, and really knew a lot about running ships, seemed to be always awake-except when she took her couple of winks in the sun, standing on one leg beside the wheel. You may be sure that no one ever got a chance to stay abed more than his eight hours while Polynesia was around. She used to watch the ship's clock; and if you overslept a half-minute, she would come down to the cabin and peck you gently on the nose till you got up.

I very soon grew to be quite fond of our funny black friend Bumpo, with his grand way of speaking and his enormous feet which some one was always stepping on or falling over. Although he was much older than I was and had been to college, he never tried to lord it over me. He seemed to be forever smiling and kept all of us in good humor. It wasn't long before I began to see the Doctor's good sense in bringing him-in spite of the fact that he knew nothing whatever about sailing or travel.

On the morning of the fifth day out, just as I was taking the wheel over from the Doctor, Bumpo appeared and said,

"The salt beef is nearly all gone, Sir."

"The salt beef!" cried the Doctor. "Why, we brought a hundred and twenty pounds with us. We couldn't have eaten that in five days. What can have become of it?"

"I don't know, Sir, I'm sure. Every time I go down to the stores I find another hunk missing. If it is rats that are eating it, then they are certainly colossal rodents."

Polynesia who was walking up and down a stay-rope taking her morning exercise, put in,

"We must search the hold. If this is allowed to go on we will all be starving before a week is out. Come downstairs with me, Tommy, and we will look into this matter."

So we went downstairs into the store-room and Polynesia told us to keep quite still and listen. This we did. And presently we heard from a dark corner of the hold the distinct sound of someone snoring.

"Ah, I thought so," said Polynesia. "It's a man-and a big one. Climb in there, both of you, and haul him out. It sounds as though he were behind that barrel-Gosh! We seem to have brought half of Puddleby with us. Anyone would think we were a penny ferry-boat. Such cheek! Haul him out."

So Bumpo and I lit a lantern and climbed over the stores. And there, behind the barrel, sure enough, we found an enormous bearded man fast asleep with a well-fed look on his face. We woke him up.

"Washamarrer?" he said sleepily.

It was Ben Butcher, the able seaman.

Polynesia spluttered like an angry fire-cracker.

"This is the last straw," said she. "The one man in the world we least wanted. Shiver my timbers, what cheek!"

"Would it not be, advisable," suggested Bumpo, "while the varlet is still sleepy, to strike him on the head with some heavy object and push him through a port-hole into the sea?"

"No. We'd get into trouble," said Polynesia. "We're not in Jolliginki now, you know-worse luck!-Besides, there never was a port-hole big enough to push that man through. Bring him upstairs to the Doctor."

So we led the man to the wheel where he respectfully touched his cap to the Doctor.

"Another stowaway, Sir," said Bumpo smartly.

I thought the poor Doctor would have a fit.

"Good morning, Captain," said the man. "Ben Butcher, able seaman, at your service. I knew you'd need me, so I took the liberty of stowing away-much against my conscience. But I just couldn't bear to see you poor landsmen set out on this voyage without a single real seaman to help you. You'd never have got home alive if I hadn't come-Why look at your mainsail, Sir-all loose at the throat. First gust of wind come along, and away goes your canvas overboard-Well, it's all right now I'm here. We'll soon get things in shipshape."

"No, it isn't all right," said the Doctor, "it's all wrong. And I'm not at all glad to see you. I told you in Puddleby I didn't want you. You had no right to come."

"But Captain," said the able seaman, "you can't sail this ship without me. You don't understand navigation. Why, look at the compass now: you've let her swing a point and a half off her course. It's madness for you to try to do this trip alone-if you'll pardon my saying so, Sir. Why-why, you'll lose the ship!"

"Look here," said the Doctor, a sudden stern look coming into his eyes, "losing a ship is nothing to me. I've lost ships before and it doesn't bother me in the least. When I set out to go to a place, I get there. Do you understand? I may know nothing whatever about sailing and navigation, but I get there just the same. Now you may be the best seaman in the world, but on this ship you're just a plain ordinary nuisance-very plain and very ordinary. And I am now going to call at the nearest port and put you ashore."

"Yes, and think yourself lucky," Polynesia put in, "that you are not locked up for stowing away and eating all our salt beef."

"I don't know what the mischief we're going to do now," I heard her whisper to Bumpo. "We've no money to buy any more; and that salt beef was the most important part of the stores."

"Would it not be good political economy," Bumpo whispered back, "if we salted the able seaman and ate him instead? I should judge that he would weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds."

"How often must I tell you that we are not in Jolliginki," snapped Polynesia. "Those things are not done on white men's ships-Still," she murmured after a moment's thought, "it's an awfully bright idea. I don't suppose anybody saw him come on to the ship-Oh, but Heavens! we haven't got enough salt. Besides, he'd be sure to taste of tobacco."



The Fifth Chapter

Polynesia Has A Plan


THEN the Doctor told me to take the wheel while he made a little calculation with his map and worked out what new course we should take.

"I shall have to run for the Capa Blancas after all," he told me when the seaman's back was turned. "Dreadful nuisance! But I'd sooner swim back to Puddleby than have to listen to that fellow's talk all the way to Brazil."

Indeed he was a terrible person, this Ben Butcher. You'd think that any one after being told he wasn't wanted would have had the decency to keep quiet. But not Ben Butcher. He kept going round the deck pointing out all the things we had wrong. According to him there wasn't a thing right on the whole ship. The anchor was hitched up wrong; the hatches weren't fastened down properly; the sails were put on back to front; all our knots were the wrong kind of knots.

At last the Doctor told him to stop talking and go downstairs. He refused-said he wasn't going to be sunk by landlubbers while he was still able to stay on deck.

This made us feel a little uneasy. He was such an enormous man there was no knowing what he might do if he got really obstreperous.

Bumpo and I were talking about this downstairs in the dining-saloon when Polynesia, Jip and Chee-Chee came and joined us. And, as usual, Polynesia had a plan.

"Listen," she said, "I am certain this Ben Butcher is a smuggler and a bad man. I am a very good judge of seamen, remember, and I don't like the cut of this man's jib. I-"

"Do you really think," I interrupted, "that it is safe for the Doctor to cross the Atlantic without any regular seamen on his ship?"

You see it had upset me quite a good deal to find that all the things we had been doing were wrong; and I was beginning to wonder what might happen if we ran into a storm-particularly as Miranda had only said the weather would be good for a certain time; and we seemed to be having so many delays. But Polynesia merely tossed her head scornfully.

"Oh, bless you, my boy," said she, "you're always safe with John Dolittle. Remember that. Don't take any notice of that stupid old salt. Of course it is perfectly true the Doctor does do everything wrong. But with him it doesn't matter. Mark my words, if you travel with John Dolittle you always get there, as you heard him say. I've been with him lots of times and I know. Sometimes the ship is upside down when you get there, and sometimes it's right way up. But you get there just the same. And then of course there's another thing about the Doctor," she added thoughtfully: "he always has extraordinary good luck. He may have his troubles; but with him things seem to have a habit of turning out all right in the end. I remember once when we were going through the Straits of Magellan the wind was so strong-"

"But what are we going to do about Ben Butcher?" Jip put in. "You had some plan Polynesia, hadn't you?"

"Yes. What I'm afraid of is that he may hit the Doctor on the head when he's not looking and make himself captain of the Curlew. Bad sailors do that sometimes. Then they run the ship their own way and take it where they want. That's what you call a mutiny."

"Yes," said Jip, "and we ought to do something pretty quick. We can't reach the Capa Blancas before the day after to-morrow at best. I don't like to leave the Doctor alone with him for a minute. He smells like a very bad man to me."

"Well, I've got it all worked out," said Polynesia. "Listen: is there a key in that door?"

We looked outside the dining-room and found that there was.

"All right," said Polynesia. "Now Bumpo lays the table for lunch and we all go and hide. Then at twelve o'clock Bumpo rings the dinner-bell down here. As soon as Ben hears it he'll come down expecting more salt beef. Bumpo must hide behind the door outside. The moment that Ben is seated at the dining-table Bumpo slams the door and locks it. Then we've got him. See?"

"How stratagenious!" Bumpo chuckled. "As Cicero said, parrots cum parishioners facilime congregation. I'll lay the table at once."

"Yes and take that Worcestershire sauce off the dresser with you when you go out," said Polynesia. "Don't leave any loose eatables around. That fellow has had enough to last any man for three days. Besides, he won't be so inclined to start a fight when we put him ashore at the Capa Blancas if we thin him down a bit before we let him out."

So we all went and hid ourselves in the passage where we could watch what happened. And presently Bumpo came to the foot of the stairs and rang the dinner-bell like mad. Then he hopped behind the dining-room door and we all kept still and listened.

Almost immediately, thump, thump, thump, down the stairs tramped Ben Butcher, the able seaman. He walked into the dining-saloon, sat himself down at the head of the table in the Doctor's place, tucked a napkin under his fat chin and heaved a sigh of expectation.

Then, bang! Bumpo slammed the door and locked it.

"That settles him for a while," said Polynesia coming out from her hiding-place. "Now let him teach navigation to the side-board. Gosh, the cheek of the man! I've forgotten more about the sea than that lumbering lout will ever know. Let's go upstairs and tell the Doctor. Bumpo, you will have to serve the meals in the cabin for the next couple of days."

And bursting into a rollicking Norwegian sea-song, she climbed up to my shoulder and we went on deck.



The Sixth Chapter

The Bed-Maker Of Monteverde


WE remained three days in the Capa Blanca Islands.

There were two reasons why we stayed there so long when we were really in such a hurry to get away. One was the shortage in our provisions caused by the able seaman's enormous appetite. When we came to go over the stores and make a list, we found that he had eaten a whole lot of other things besides the beef. And having no money, we were sorely puzzled how to buy more. The Doctor went through his trunk to see if there was anything he could sell. But the only thing he could find was an old watch with the hands broken and the back dented in; and we decided this would not bring us in enough money to buy much more than a pound of tea. Bumpo suggested that he sing comic songs in the streets which he had learned in Jolliginki. But the Doctor said he did not think that the islanders would care for African music.

The other thing that kept us was the bullfight. In these islands, which belonged to Spain, they had bullfights every Sunday. It was on a Friday that we arrived there; and after we had got rid of the able seaman we took a walk through the town.

It was a very funny little town, quite different from any that I had ever seen. The streets were all twisty and winding and so narrow that a wagon could only just pass along them. The houses over-hung at the top and came so close together that people in the attics could lean out of the windows and shake hands with their neighbors on the opposite side of the street. The Doctor told us the town was very, very old. It was called Monteverde.

As we had no money of course we did not go to a hotel or anything like that. But on the second evening when we were passing by a bed-maker's shop we noticed several beds, which the man had made, standing on the pavement outside. The Doctor started chatting in Spanish to the bed-maker who was sitting at his door whistling to a parrot in a cage. The Doctor and the bed-maker got very friendly talking about birds and things. And as it grew near to supper-time the man asked us to stop and sup with him.

This of course we were very glad to do. And after the meal was over (very nice dishes they were, mostly cooked in olive-oil-I particularly liked the fried bananas) we sat outside on the pavement again and went on talking far into the night.

At last when we got up to go back to our ship, this very nice shopkeeper wouldn't hear of our going away on any account. He said the streets down by the harbor were very badly lighted and there was no moon. We would surely get lost. He invited us to spend the night with him and go back to our ship in the morning.

Well, we finally agreed; and as our good friend had no spare bedrooms, the three of us, the Doctor, Bumpo and I, slept on the beds set out for sale on the pavement before the shop. The night was so hot we needed no coverings. It was great fun to fall asleep out of doors like this, watching the people walking to and fro and the gay life of the streets. It seemed to me that Spanish people never went to bed at all. Late as it was, all the little restaurants and cafés around us were wide open, with customers drinking coffee and chatting merrily at the small tables outside. The sound of a guitar strumming softly in the distance mingled with the clatter of chinaware and the babble of voices.

Somehow it made me think of my mother and father far away in Puddleby, with their regular habits, the evening practise on the flute and the rest-doing the same thing every day. I felt sort of sorry for them in a way, because they missed the fun of this traveling life, where we were doing something new all the time-even sleeping differently. But I suppose if they had been invited to go to bed on a pavement in front of a shop they wouldn't have cared for the idea at all. It is funny how some people are.

"The Doctor started chatting in Spanish to the bed-maker"



The Seventh Chapter

The Doctor's Wager


NEXT morning we were awakened by a great racket. There was a procession coming down the street, a number of men in very gay clothes followed by a large crowd of admiring ladies and cheering children. I asked the Doctor who they were.

"They are the bullfighters," he said. "There is to be a bullfight to-morrow."

"What is a bullfight?" I asked.

To my great surprise the Doctor got red in the face with anger. It reminded me of the time when he had spoken of the lions and tigers in his private zoo.

"A bullfight is a stupid, cruel, disgusting business," said he. "These Spanish people are most lovable and hospitable folk. How they can enjoy these wretched bullfights is a thing I could never understand."

Then the Doctor went on to explain to me how a bull was first made very angry by teasing and then allowed to run into a circus where men came out with red cloaks, waved them at him, and ran away. Next the bull was allowed to tire himself out by tossing and killing a lot of poor, old, broken-down horses who couldn't defend themselves. Then, when the bull was thoroughly out of breath and wearied by this, a man came out with a sword and killed the bull.

"Every Sunday," said the Doctor, "in almost every big town in Spain there are six bulls killed like that and as many horses."

"But aren't the men ever killed by the bull?" I asked.

"Unfortunately very seldom," said he. "A bull is not nearly as dangerous as he looks, even when he's angry, if you are only quick on your feet and don't lose your head. These bullfighters are very clever and nimble. And the people, especially the Spanish ladies, think no end of them. A famous bullfighter (or matador, as they call them) is a more important man in Spain than a king-Here comes another crowd of them round the corner, look. See the girls throwing kisses to them. Ridiculous business!"

At that moment our friend the bed-maker came out to see the procession go past. And while he was wishing us good morning and enquiring how we had slept, a friend of his walked up and joined us. The bed-maker introduced this friend to us as Don Enrique Cardenas.

Don Enrique when he heard where we were from, spoke to us in English. He appeared to be a well-educated, gentlemanly sort of person.

"And you go to see the bullfight to-morrow, yes?" he asked the Doctor pleasantly.

"Certainly not," said John Dolittle firmly. "I don't like bullfights-cruel, cowardly shows."

Don Enrique nearly exploded. I never saw a man get so excited. He told the Doctor that he didn't know what he was talking about. He said bullfighting was a noble sport and that the matadors were the bravest men in the world.

"Oh, rubbish!" said the Doctor. "You never give the poor bull a chance. It is only when he is all tired and dazed that your precious matadors dare to try and kill him."

I thought the Spaniard was going to strike the Doctor he got so angry. While he was still spluttering to find words, the bed-maker came between them and took the Doctor aside. He explained to John Dolittle in a whisper that this Don Enrique Cardenas was a very important person; that he it was who supplied the bulls-a special, strong black kind-from his own farm for all the bullfights in the Capa Blancas. He was a very rich man, the bed-maker said, a most important personage. He mustn't be allowed to take offense on any account.

I watched the Doctor's face as the bed-maker finished, and I saw a flash of boyish mischief come into his eyes as though an idea had struck him. He turned to the angry Spaniard.

"Don Enrique," he said, "you tell me your bullfighters are very brave men and skilful. It seems I have offended you by saying that bullfighting is a poor sport. What is the name of the best matador you have for to-morrow's show?"

"Pepito de Malaga," said Don Enrique, "one of the greatest names, one of the bravest men, in all Spain."

"Very well," said the Doctor, "I have a proposal to make to you. I have never fought a bull in my life. Now supposing I were to go into the ring to-morrow with Pepito de Malaga and any other matadors you choose; and if I can do more tricks with a bull than they can, would you promise to do something for me?"

Don Enrique threw back his head and laughed.

"Man," he said, "you must be mad! You would be killed at once. One has to be trained for years to become a proper bullfighter."

"Supposing I were willing to take the risk of that-You are not afraid, I take it, to accept my offer?"

The Spaniard frowned.

"Afraid!" he cried, "Sir, if you can beat Pepito de Malaga in the bull-ring I'll promise you anything it is possible for me to grant."

"Very good," said the Doctor, "now I understand that you are quite a powerful man in these islands. If you wished to stop all bullfighting here after to-morrow, you could do it, couldn't you?"

"Yes," said Don Enrique proudly-"I could."

"Well that is what I ask of you-if I win my wager," said John Dolittle. "If I can do more with angry bulls than can Pepito de Malaga, you are to promise me that there shall never be another bullfight in the Capa Blancas so long as you are alive to stop it. Is it a bargain?"

The Spaniard held out his hand.

"It is a bargain," he said-"I promise. But I must warn you that you are merely throwing your life away, for you will certainly be killed. However, that is no more than you deserve for saying that bullfighting is an unworthy sport. I will meet you here to-morrow morning if you should wish to arrange any particulars. Good day, Sir."

As the Spaniard turned and walked into the shop with the bed-maker, Polynesia, who had been listening as usual, flew up on to my shoulder and whispered in my ear,

"I have a plan. Get hold of Bumpo and come some place where the Doctor can't hear us. I want to talk to you."

I nudged Bumpo's elbow and we crossed the street and pretended to look into a jeweler's window; while the Doctor sat down upon his bed to lace up his boots, the only part of his clothing he had taken off for the night.

"Listen," said Polynesia, "I've been breaking my head trying to think up some way we can get money to buy those stores with; and at last I've got it."

"The money?" said Bumpo.

"No, stupid. The idea-to make the money with. Listen: the Doctor is simply bound to win this game to-morrow, sure as you're alive. Now all we have to do is to make a side bet with these Spaniards-they're great on gambling-and the trick's done."

"What's a side bet?" I asked.

"Oh I know what that is," said Bumpo proudly. "We used to have lots of them at Oxford when boat-racing was on. I go to Don Enrique and say, 'I bet you a hundred pounds the Doctor wins.' Then if he does win, Don Enrique pays me a hundred pounds; and if he doesn't, I have to pay Don Enrique."

"That's the idea," said Polynesia. "Only don't say a hundred pounds: say two-thousand five-hundred pesetas. Now come and find old Don Ricky-ticky and try to look rich."

So we crossed the street again and slipped into the bed-maker's shop while the Doctor was still busy with his boots.

"Don Enrique," said Bumpo, "allow me to introduce myself. I am the Crown Prince of Jolliginki. Would you care to have a small bet with me on to-morrow's bullfight?"

Don Enrique bowed.

"Why certainly," he said, "I shall be delighted. But I must warn you that you are bound to lose. How much?"

"Oh a mere truffle," said Bumpo-"just for the fun of the thing, you know. What do you say to three-thousand pesetas?"

"I agree," said the Spaniard bowing once more. "I will meet you after the bullfight to-morrow."

"So that's all right," said Polynesia as we came out to join the Doctor. "I feel as though quite a load had been taken off my mind."



The Eighth Chapter

The Great Bullfight


THE next day was a great day in Monteverde. All the streets were hung with flags; and everywhere gaily dressed crowds were to be seen flocking towards the bull-ring, as the big circus was called where the fights took place.

The news of the Doctor's challenge had gone round the town and, it seemed, had caused much amusement to the islanders. The very idea of a mere foreigner daring to match himself against the great Pepito de Malaga!-Serve him right if he got killed!

The Doctor had borrowed a bullfighter's suit from Don Enrique; and very gay and wonderful he looked in it, though Bumpo and I had hard work getting the waistcoat to close in front and even then the buttons kept bursting off it in all directions.

When we set out from the harbor to walk to the bull-ring, crowds of small boys ran after us making fun of the Doctor's fatness, calling out, "Juan Hagapoco, el grueso matador!" which is the Spanish for, "John Dolittle, the fat bullfighter."

As soon as we arrived the Doctor said he would like to take a look at the bulls before the fight began; and we were at once led to the bull pen where, behind a high railing, six enormous black bulls were tramping around wildly.

In a few hurried words and signs the Doctor told the bulls what he was going to do and gave them careful instructions for their part of the show. The poor creatures were tremendously glad when they heard that there was a chance of bullfighting being stopped; and they promised to do exactly as they were told.

Of course the man who took us in there didn't understand what we were doing. He merely thought the fat Englishman was crazy when he saw the Doctor making signs and talking in ox tongue.

From there the Doctor went to the matadors' dressing-rooms while Bumpo and I with Polynesia made our way into the bull-ring and took our seats in the great open-air theatre.

It was a very gay sight. Thousands of ladies and gentlemen were there, all dressed in their smartest clothes; and everybody seemed very happy and cheerful.

Right at the beginning Don Enrique got up and explained to the people that the first item on the program was to be a match between the English Doctor and Pepito de Malaga. He told them what he had promised if the Doctor should win. But the people did not seem to think there was much chance of that. A roar of laughter went up at the very mention of such a thing.

When Pepito came into the ring everybody cheered, the ladies blew kisses and the men clapped and waved their hats.

Presently a large door on the other side of the ring was rolled back and in galloped one of the bulls; then the door was closed again. At once the matador became very much on the alert. He waved his red cloak and the bull rushed at him. Pepito stepped nimbly aside and the people cheered again.

This game was repeated several times. But I noticed that whenever Pepito got into a tight place and seemed to be in real danger from the bull, an assistant of his, who always hung around somewhere near, drew the bull's attention upon himself by waving another red cloak. Then the bull would chase the assistant and Pepito was left in safety. Most often, as soon as he had drawn the bull off, this assistant ran for the high fence and vaulted out of the ring to save himself. They evidently had it all arranged, these matadors; and it didn't seem to me that they were in any very great danger from the poor clumsy bull so long as they didn't slip and fall.

After about ten minutes of this kind of thing the small door into the matadors' dressing-room opened and the Doctor strolled into the ring. As soon as his fat figure, dressed in sky-blue velvet, appeared, the crowd rocked in their seats with laughter.

Juan Hagapoco, as they had called him, walked out into the centre of the ring and bowed ceremoniously to the ladies in the boxes. Then he bowed to the bull. Then he bowed to Pepito. While he was bowing to Pepito's assistant the bull started to rush at him from behind.

"Look out! Look out!-The bull! You will be killed!" yelled the crowd.

But the Doctor calmly finished his bow. Then turning round he folded his arms, fixed the on-rushing bull with his eye and frowned a terrible frown.

Presently a curious thing happened: the bull's speed got slower and slower. It almost looked as though he were afraid of that frown. Soon he stopped altogether. The Doctor shook his finger at him. He began to tremble. At last, tucking his tail between his legs, the bull turned round and ran away.

The crowd gasped. The Doctor ran after him. Round and round the ring they went, both of them puffing and blowing like grampuses. Excited whispers began to break out among the people. This was something new in bullfighting, to have the bull running away from the man, instead of the man away from the bull. At last in the tenth lap, with a final burst of speed, Juan Hagapoco, the English matador, caught the poor bull by the tail.

Then leading the now timid creature into the middle of the ring, the Doctor made him do all manner of tricks: standing on the hind legs, standing on the front legs, dancing, hopping, rolling over. He finished up by making the bull kneel down; then he got on to his back and did handsprings and other acrobatics on the beast's horns.

Pepito and his assistant had their noses sadly out of joint. The crowd had forgotten them entirely. They were standing together by the fence not far from where I sat, muttering to one another and slowly growing green with jealousy.

Finally the Doctor turned towards Don Enrique's seat and bowing said in a loud voice, "This bull is no good any more. He's terrified and out of breath. Take him away, please."

"Does the caballero wish for a fresh bull?" asked Don Enrique.

"No," said the Doctor, "I want five fresh bulls. And I would like them all in the ring at once, please."

At this a cry of horror burst from the people. They had been used to seeing matadors escaping from one bull at a time. But five!-That must mean certain death.

Pepito sprang forward and called to Don Enrique not to allow it, saying it was against all the rules of bullfighting. ("Ha!" Polynesia chuckled into my ear. "It's like the Doctor's navigation: he breaks all the rules; but he gets there. If they'll only let him, he'll give them the best show for their money they ever saw.") A great argument began. Half the people seemed to be on Pepito's side and half on the Doctor's side. At last the Doctor turned to Pepito and made another very grand bow which burst the last button off his waistcoat.

"Did acrobatics on the beast's horns"

"Well, of course if the caballero is afraid-" he began with a bland smile.

"Afraid!" screamed Pepito. "I am afraid of nothing on earth. I am the greatest matador in Spain. With this right hand I have killed nine hundred and fifty-seven bulls."

"All right then," said the Doctor, "let us see if you can kill five more. Let the bulls in!" he shouted. "Pepito de Malaga is not afraid."

A dreadful silence hung over the great theatre as the heavy door into the bull pen was rolled back. Then with a roar the five big bulls bounded into the ring.

"Look fierce," I heard the Doctor call to them in cattle language. "Don't scatter. Keep close. Get ready for a rush. Take Pepito, the one in purple, first. But for Heaven's sake don't kill him. Just chase him out of the ring-Now then, all together, go for him!"

The bulls put down their heads and all in line, like a squadron of cavalry, charged across the ring straight for poor Pepito.

For one moment the Spaniard tried his hardest to look brave. But the sight of the five pairs of horns coming at him at full gallop was too much. He turned white to the lips, ran for the fence, vaulted it and disappeared.

"Now the other one," the Doctor hissed. And in two seconds the gallant assistant was nowhere to be seen. Juan Hagapoco, the fat matador, was left alone in the ring with five rampaging bulls.

The rest of the show was really well worth seeing. First, all five bulls went raging round the ring, butting at the fence with their horns, pawing up the sand, hunting for something to kill. Then each one in turn would pretend to catch sight of the Doctor for the first time and giving a bellow of rage, would lower his wicked looking horns and shoot like an arrow across the ring as though he meant to toss him to the sky.

It was really frightfully exciting. And even I, who knew it was all arranged beforehand, held my breath in terror for the Doctor's life when I saw how near they came to sticking him. But just at the last moment, when the horns' points were two inches from the sky-blue waistcoat, the Doctor would spring nimbly to one side and the great brutes would go thundering harmlessly by, missing him by no more than a hair.

Then all five of them went for him together, completely surrounding him, slashing at him with their horns and bellowing with fury. How he escaped alive I don't know. For several minutes his round figure could hardly be seen at all in that scrimmage of tossing heads, stamping hoofs and waving tails.-It was, as Polynesia had prophesied, the greatest bullfight ever seen.

One woman in the crowd got quite hysterical and screamed up to Don Enrique,

"Stop the fight! Stop the fight! He is too brave a man to be killed. This is the most wonderful matador in the world. Let him live! Stop the fight!"

But presently the Doctor was seen to break loose from the mob of animals that surrounded him. Then catching each of them by the horns, one after another, he would give their heads a sudden twist and throw them down flat on the sand. The great fellows acted their parts extremely well. I have never seen trained animals in a circus do better. They lay there panting on the ground where the Doctor threw them as if they were exhausted and completely beaten.

Then with a final bow to the ladies John Dolittle took a cigar from his pocket, lit it and strolled out of the ring.



The Ninth Chapter

We Depart In A Hurry


AS soon as the door closed behind the Doctor the most tremendous noise I have ever heard broke loose. Some of the men appeared to be angry (friends of Pepito's, I suppose); but the ladies called and called to have the Doctor come back into the ring.

When at length he did so, the women seemed to go entirely mad over him. They blew kisses to him. They called him a darling. Then they started taking off their flowers, their rings, their necklaces, and their brooches and threw them down at his feet. You never saw anything like it-a perfect shower of jewelry and roses.

But the Doctor just smiled up at them, bowed once more and backed out.

"Now, Bumpo," said Polynesia, "this is where you go down and gather up all those trinkets and we'll sell 'em. That's what the big matadors do: leave the jewelry on the ground and their assistants collect it for them. We might as well lay in a good supply of money while we've got the chance-you never know when you may need it when you're traveling with the Doctor. Never mind the roses-you can leave them-but don't leave any rings. And when you've finished go and get your three-thousand pesetas out of Don Ricky-ticky. Tommy and I will meet you outside and we'll pawn the gew-gaws at that Jew's shop opposite the bed-maker's. Run along-and not a word to the Doctor, remember."

Outside the bull-ring we found the crowd still in a great state of excitement. Violent arguments were going on everywhere. Bumpo joined us with his pockets bulging in all directions; and we made our way slowly through the dense crowd to that side of the building where the matadors' dressing-room was. The Doctor was waiting at the door for us.

"Good work, Doctor!" said Polynesia, flying on to his shoulder-"Great work!-But listen: I smell danger. I think you had better get back to the ship now as quick and as quietly as you can. Put your overcoat on over that giddy suit. I don't like the looks of this crowd. More than half of them are furious because you've won. Don Ricky-ticky must now stop the bullfighting-and you know how they love it. What I'm afraid of is that some of these matadors who are just mad with jealousy may start some dirty work. I think this would be a good time for us to get away."

"I dare say you're right, Polynesia," said the Doctor-"You usually are. The crowd does seem to be a bit restless. I'll slip down to the ship alone-so I shan't be so noticeable; and I'll wait for you there. You come by some different way. But don't be long about it. Hurry!"

As soon as the Doctor had departed Bumpo sought out Don Enrique and said,

"Honorable Sir, you owe me three-thousand pesetas."

Without a word, but looking cross-eyed with annoyance, Don Enrique paid his bet.

We next set out to buy the provisions; and on the way we hired a cab and took it along with us.

Not very far away we found a big grocer's shop which seemed to sell everything to eat. We went in and bought up the finest lot of food you ever saw in your life.

As a matter of fact, Polynesia had been right about the danger we were in. The news of our victory must have spread like lightning through the whole town. For as we came out of the shop and loaded the cab up with our stores, we saw various little knots of angry men hunting round the streets, waving sticks and shouting,

"The Englishmen! Where are those accursed Englishmen who stopped the bullfighting?-Hang them to a lamp-post!-Throw them in the sea! The Englishmen!-We want the Englishmen!"

After that we didn't waste any time, you may be sure. Bumpo grabbed the Spanish cab-driver and explained to him in signs that if he didn't drive down to the harbor as fast as he knew how and keep his mouth shut the whole way, he would choke the life out of him. Then we jumped into the cab on top of the food, slammed the door, pulled down the blinds and away we went.

"We won't get a chance to pawn the jewelry now," said Polynesia, as we bumped over the cobbly streets. "But never mind-it may come in handy later on. And anyway we've got two-thousand five-hundred pesetas left out of the bet. Don't give the cabby more than two pesetas fifty, Bumpo. That's the right fare, I know."

Well, we reached the harbor all right and we were mighty glad to find that the Doctor had sent Chee-Chee back with the row-boat to wait for us at the landing-wall.

Unfortunately while we were in the middle of loading the supplies from the cab into the boat, the angry mob arrived upon the wharf and made a rush for us. Bumpo snatched up a big beam of wood that lay near and swung it round and round his head, letting out dreadful African battle-yells the while. This kept the crowd off while Chee-Chee and I hustled the last of the stores into the boat and clambered in ourselves. Bumpo threw his beam of wood into the thick of the Spaniards and leapt in after us. Then we pushed off and rowed like mad for the Curlew.

The mob upon the wall howled with rage, shook their fists and hurled stones and all manner of things after us. Poor old Bumpo got hit on the head with a bottle. But as he had a very strong head it only raised a small bump while the bottle smashed into a thousand pieces.

When we reached the ship's side the Doctor had the anchor drawn up and the sails set and everything in readiness to get away. Looking back we saw boats coming out from the harbor-wall after us, filled with angry, shouting men. So we didn't bother to unload our rowboat but just tied it on to the ship's stern with a rope and jumped aboard.

It only took a moment more to swing the Curlew round into the wind; and soon we were speeding out of the harbor on our way to Brazil.

"Ha!" sighed Polynesia, as we all flopped down on the deck to take a rest and get our breath. "That wasn't a bad adventure-quite reminds me of my old seafaring days when I sailed with the smugglers-Golly, that was the life!-Never mind your head, Bumpo. It will be all right when the Doctor puts a little arnica on it. Think what we got out of the scrap: a boat-load of ship's stores, pockets full of jewelry and thousands of pesetas. Not bad, you know-not bad."



Part Four



The First Chapter

Shellfish Languages Again


MIRANDA, the Purple Bird-of-Paradise had prophesied rightly when she had foretold a good spell of weather. For three weeks the good ship Curlew plowed her way through smiling seas before a steady powerful wind.

I suppose most real sailors would have found this part of the voyage dull. But not I. As we got further South and further West the face of the sea seemed different every day. And all the little things of a voyage which an old hand would have hardly bothered to notice were matters of great interest for my eager eyes.

We did not pass many ships. When we did see one, the Doctor would get out his telescope and we would all take a look at it. Sometimes he would signal to it, asking for news, by hauling up little colored flags upon the mast; and the ship would signal back to us in the same way. The meaning of all the signals was printed in a book which the Doctor kept in the cabin. He told me it was the language of the sea and that all ships could understand it whether they be English, Dutch, or French.

Our greatest happening during those first weeks was passing an iceberg. When the sun shone on it it burst into a hundred colors, sparkling like a jeweled palace in a fairy-story. Through the telescope we saw a mother polar bear with a cub sitting on it, watching us. The Doctor recognized her as one of the bears who had spoken to him when he was discovering the North Pole. So he sailed the ship up close and offered to take her and her baby on to the Curlew if she wished it. But she only shook her head, thanking him; she said it would be far too hot for the cub on the deck of our ship, with no ice to keep his feet cool. It had been indeed a very hot day; but the nearness of that great mountain of ice made us all turn up our coat-collars and shiver with the cold.

During those quiet peaceful days I improved my reading and writing a great deal with the Doctor's help. I got on so well that he let me keep the ship's log. This is a big book kept on every ship, a kind of diary, in which the number of miles run, the direction of your course and everything else that happens is written down.

The Doctor too, in what spare time he had, was nearly always writing-in his note-books. I used to peep into these sometimes, now that I could read, but I found it hard work to make out the Doctor's handwriting. Many of these note-books seemed to be about sea things. There were six thick ones filled full with notes and sketches of different seaweeds; and there were others on sea birds; others on sea worms; others on seashells. They were all some day to be re-written, printed and bound like regular books.

One afternoon we saw, floating around us, great quantities of stuff that looked like dead grass. The Doctor told me this was gulf-weed. A little further on it became so thick that it covered all the water as far as the eye could reach; it made the Curlew look as though she were moving across a meadow instead of sailing the Atlantic.

Crawling about upon this weed, many crabs were to be seen. And the sight of them reminded the Doctor of his dream of learning the language of the shellfish. He fished several of these crabs up with a net and put them in his listening-tank to see if he could understand them. Among the crabs he also caught a strange-looking, chubby, little fish which he told me was called a Silver Fidgit.

After he had listened to the crabs for a while with no success, he put the fidgit into the tank and began to listen to that. I had to leave him at this moment to go and attend to some duties on the deck. But presently I heard him below shouting for me to come down again.

"Stubbins," he cried as soon as he saw me-"a most extraordinary thing-Quite unbelievable-I'm not sure whether I'm dreaming-Can't believe my own senses. I-I-I-"

"'He talks English!'"

"Why, Doctor," I said, "what is it?-What's the matter?"

"The fidgit," he whispered, pointing with a trembling finger to the listening-tank in which the little round fish was still swimming quietly, "he talks English! And-and-and he whistles tunes-English tunes!"

"Talks English!" I cried-"Whistles!-Why, it's impossible."

"It's a fact," said the Doctor, white in the face with excitement. "It's only a few words, scattered, with no particular sense to them-all mixed up with his own language which I can't make out yet. But they're English words, unless there's something very wrong with my hearing-And the tune he whistles, it's as plain as anything-always the same tune. Now you listen and tell me what you make of it. Tell me everything you hear. Don't miss a word."

I went to the glass tank upon the table while the Doctor grabbed a note-book and a pencil. Undoing my collar I stood upon the empty packing-case he had been using for a stand and put my right ear down under the water.

For some moments I detected nothing at all-except, with my dry ear, the heavy breathing of the Doctor as he waited, all stiff and anxious, for me to say something. At last from within the water, sounding like a child singing miles and miles away, I heard an unbelievably thin, small voice.

"Ah!" I said.

"What is it?" asked the Doctor in a hoarse, trembly whisper. "What does he say?"

"I can't quite make it out," I said. "It's mostly in some strange fish language-Oh, but wait a minute!-Yes, now I get it-'No smoking'.... 'My, here's a queer one!' 'Popcorn and picture postcards here'.... 'This way out'.... 'Don't spit'-What funny things to say, Doctor!-Oh, but wait!-Now he's whistling the tune."

"What tune is it?" gasped the Doctor.

"John Peel."

"Ah hah," cried the Doctor, "that's what I made it out to be." And he wrote furiously in his note-book.

I went on listening.

"This is most extraordinary," the Doctor kept muttering to himself as his pencil went wiggling over the page-"Most extraordinary-but frightfully thrilling. I wonder where he-"

"Here's some more," I cried-"some more English.... 'The big tank needs cleaning'.... That's all. Now he's talking fish-talk again."

"The big tank!" the Doctor murmured frowning in a puzzled kind of way. "I wonder where on earth he learned-"

Then he bounded up out of his chair.

"I have it," he yelled, "this fish has escaped from an aquarium. Why, of course! Look at the kind of things he has learned: 'Picture postcards'-they always sell them in aquariums; 'Don't spit'; 'No smoking'; 'This way out'-the things the attendants say. And then, 'My, here's a queer one!' That's the kind of thing that people exclaim when they look into the tanks. It all fits. There's no doubt about it, Stubbins: we have here a fish who has escaped from captivity. And it's quite possible-not certain, by any means, but quite possible-that I may now, through him, be able to establish communication with the shellfish. This is a great piece of luck."



The Second Chapter

The Fidgit's Story


WELL, now that he was started once more upon his old hobby of the shellfish languages, there was no stopping the Doctor. He worked right through the night.

A little after midnight I fell asleep in a chair; about two in the morning Bumpo fell asleep at the wheel; and for five hours the Curlew was allowed to drift where she liked. But still John Dolittle worked on, trying his hardest to understand the fidgit's language, struggling to make the fidgit understand him.

When I woke up it was broad daylight again. The Doctor was still standing at the listening-tank, looking as tired as an owl and dreadfully wet. But on his face there was a proud and happy smile.

"Stubbins," he said as soon as he saw me stir, "I've done it. I've got the key to the fidgit's language. It's a frightfully difficult language-quite different from anything I ever heard. The only thing it reminds me of-slightly-is ancient Hebrew. It isn't shellfish; but it's a big step towards it. Now, the next thing, I want you to take a pencil and a fresh notebook and write down everything I say. The fidgit has promised to tell me the story of his life. I will translate it into English and you put it down in the book. Are you ready?"

Once more the Doctor lowered his ear beneath the level of the water; and as he began to speak, I started to write. And this is the story that the fidgit told us.


Thirteen Months In An Aquarium

"I was born in the Pacific Ocean, close to the coast of Chile. I was one of a family of two-thousand five-hundred and ten. Soon after our mother and father left us, we youngsters got scattered. The family was broken up-by a herd of whales who chased us. I and my sister, Clippa (she was my favorite sister) had a very narrow escape for our lives. As a rule, whales are not very hard to get away from if you are good at dodging-if you've only got a quick swerve. But this one that came after Clippa and myself was a very mean whale. Every time he lost us under a stone or something he'd come back and hunt and hunt till he routed us out into the open again. I never saw such a nasty, persevering brute.

"Well, we shook him at last-though not before he had worried us for hundreds of miles northward, up the west coast of South America. But luck was against us that day. While we were resting and trying to get our breath, another family of fidgits came rushing by, shouting, 'Come on! Swim for your lives! The dog-fish are coming!'

"Now dog-fish are particularly fond of fidgits. We are, you might say, their favorite food-and for that reason we always keep away from deep, muddy waters. What's more, dog-fish are not easy to escape from; they are terribly fast and clever hunters. So up we had to jump and on again.

"After we had gone a few more hundred miles we looked back and saw that the dog-fish were gaining on us. So we turned into a harbor. It happened to be one on the west coast of the United States. Here we guessed, and hoped, the dog-fish would not be likely to follow us. As it happened, they didn't even see us turn in, but dashed on northward and we never saw them again. I hope they froze to death in the Arctic Seas.

"But, as I said, luck was against us that day. While I and my sister were cruising gently round the ships anchored in the harbor looking for orange-peels, a great delicacy with us-Swoop! Bang!-we were caught in a net.

"We struggled for all we were worth; but it was no use. The net was small-meshed and strongly made. Kicking and flipping we were hauled up the side of the ship and dumped down on the deck, high and dry in a blazing noon-day sun.

"Here a couple of old men in whiskers and spectacles leant over us, making strange sounds. Some codling had got caught in the net the same time as we were. These the old men threw back into the sea; but us they seemed to think very precious. They put us carefully into a large jar and after they had taken us on shore they went to a big house and changed us from the jar into glass boxes full of water. This house was on the edge of the harbor; and a small stream of sea-water was made to flow through the glass tank so we could breathe properly. Of course we had never lived inside glass walls before; and at first we kept on trying to swim through them and got our noses awfully sore bumping the glass at full speed.

"Then followed weeks and weeks of weary idleness. They treated us well, so far as they knew how. The old fellows in spectacles came and looked at us proudly twice a day and saw that we had the proper food to eat, the right amount of light and that the water was not too hot or too cold. But oh, the dullness of that life! It seemed we were a kind of a show. At a certain hour every morning the big doors of the house were thrown open and everybody in the city who had nothing special to do came in and looked at us. There were other tanks filled with different kinds of fishes all round the walls of the big room. And the crowds would go from tank to tank, looking in at us through the glass-with their mouths open, like half-witted flounders. We got so sick of it that we used to open our mouths back at them; and this they seemed to think highly comical.

"One day my sister said to me, 'Think you, Brother, that these strange creatures who have captured us can talk?'

"'Surely,' said I, 'have you not noticed that some talk with the lips only, some with the whole face, and yet others discourse with the hands? When they come quite close to the glass you can hear them. Listen!'

"At that moment a female, larger than the rest, pressed her nose up against the glass, pointed at me and said to her young behind her, 'Oh, look, here's a queer one!'

"And then we noticed that they nearly always said this when they looked in. And for a long time we thought that such was the whole extent of the language, this being a people of but few ideas. To help pass away the weary hours we learned it by heart, 'Oh, look, here's a queer one!' But we never got to know what it meant. Other phrases, however, we did get the meaning of; and we even learned to read a little in man-talk. Many big signs there were, set up upon the walls; and when we saw that the keepers stopped the people from spitting and smoking, pointed to these signs angrily and read them out loud, we knew then that these writings signified, No Smoking and Don't Spit.

"Then in the evenings, after the crowd had gone, the same aged male with one leg of wood, swept up the peanut-shells with a broom every night. And while he was so doing he always whistled the same tune to himself. This melody we rather liked; and we learned that too by heart-thinking it was part of the language.

"Thus a whole year went by in this dismal place. Some days new fishes were brought in to the other tanks; and other days old fishes were taken out. At first we had hoped we would only be kept here for a while, and that after we had been looked at sufficiently we would be returned to freedom and the sea. But as month after month went by, and we were left undisturbed, our hearts grew heavy within our prison-walls of glass and we spoke to one another less and less.

"One day, when the crowd was thickest in the big room, a woman with a red face fainted from the heat. I watched through the glass and saw that the rest of the people got highly excited-though to me it did not seem to be a matter of very great importance. They threw cold water on her and carried her out into the open air.

"This made me think mightily; and presently a great idea burst upon me.

"'Sister,' I said, turning to poor Clippa who was sulking at the bottom of our prison trying to hide behind a stone from the stupid gaze of the children who thronged about our tank, 'supposing that we pretended we were sick: do you think they would take us also from this stuffy house?'

"'Brother,' said she wearily, 'that they might do. But most likely they would throw us on a rubbish-heap, where we would die in the hot sun.'

"'But,' said I, 'why should they go abroad to seek a rubbish-heap, when the harbor is so close? While we were being brought here I saw men throwing their rubbish into the water. If they would only throw us also there, we could quickly reach the sea.'

"'The Sea!' murmured poor Clippa with a far-away look in her eyes (she had fine eyes, had my sister, Clippa). 'How like a dream it sounds-the Sea! Oh brother, will we ever swim in it again, think you? Every night as I lie awake on the floor of this evil-smelling dungeon I hear its hearty voice ringing in my ears. How I have longed for it! Just to feel it once again, the nice, big, wholesome homeliness of it all! To jump, just to jump from the crest of an Atlantic wave, laughing in the trade wind's spindrift, down into the blue-green swirling trough! To chase the shrimps on a summer evening, when the sky is red and the light's all pink within the foam! To lie on the top, in the doldrums' noonday calm, and warm your tummy in the tropic sun! To wander hand in hand once more through the giant seaweed forests of the Indian Ocean, seeking the delicious eggs of the pop-pop! To play hide-and-seek among the castles of the coral towns with their pearl and jasper windows spangling the floor of the Spanish Main! To picnic in the anemone-meadows, dim blue and lilac-gray, that lie in the lowlands beyond the South Sea Garden! To throw somersaults on the springy sponge-beds of the Mexican Gulf! To poke about among the dead ships and see what wonders and adventures lie inside!-And then, on winter nights when the Northeaster whips the water into froth, to swoop down and down to get away from the cold, down to where the water's warm and dark, down and still down, till we spy the twinkle of the fire-eels far below where our friends and cousins sit chatting round the Council Grotto-chatting, Brother, over the news and gossip of the Sea!... Oh-'

"And then she broke down completely, sniffling.

"'Stop it!' I said. 'You make me homesick. Look here: let's pretend we're sick-or better still, let's pretend we're dead; and see what happens. If they throw us on a rubbish-heap and we fry in the sun, we'll not be much worse off than we are here in this smelly prison. What do you say? Will you risk it?'

"'I will,' she said-'and gladly.'

"So next morning two fidgits were found by the keeper floating on the top of the water in their tank, stiff and dead. We gave a mighty good imitation of dead fish-although I say it myself. The keeper ran and got the old gentlemen with spectacles and whiskers. They threw up their hands in horror when they saw us. Lifting us carefully out of the water they laid us on wet cloths. That was the hardest part of all. If you're a fish and get taken out of the water you have to keep opening and shutting your mouth to breathe at all-and even that you can't keep up for long. And all this time we had to stay stiff as sticks and breathe silently through half-closed lips.

"Well, the old fellows poked us and felt us and pinched us till I thought they'd never be done. Then, when their backs were turned a moment, a wretched cat got up on the table and nearly ate us. Luckily the old men turned round in time and shooed her away. You may be sure though that we took a couple of good gulps of air while they weren't looking; and that was the only thing that saved us from choking. I wanted to whisper to Clippa to be brave and stick it out. But I couldn't even do that; because, as you know, most kinds of fish-talk cannot be heard-not even a shout-unless you're under water.

"Then, just as we were about to give it up and let on that we were alive, one of the old men shook his head sadly, lifted us up and carried us out of the building.

"'Now for it!' I thought to myself. 'We'll soon know our fate: liberty or the garbage-can.'

"Outside, to our unspeakable horror, he made straight for a large ash-barrel which stood against the wall on the other side of a yard. Most happily for us, however, while he was crossing this yard a very dirty man with a wagon and horses drove up and took the ash-barrel away. I suppose it was his property.

"Then the old man looked around for some other place to throw us. He seemed about to cast us upon the ground. But he evidently thought that this would make the yard untidy and he desisted. The suspense was terrible. He moved outside the yard-gate and my heart sank once more as I saw that he now intended to throw us in the gutter of the roadway. But (fortune was indeed with us that day), a large man in blue clothes and silver buttons stopped him in the nick of time. Evidently, from the way the large man lectured and waved a short thick stick, it was against the rules of the town to throw dead fish in the streets.

"At last, to our unutterable joy, the old man turned and moved off with us towards the harbor. He walked so slowly, muttering to himself all the way and watching the man in blue out of the corner of his eye, that I wanted to bite his finger to make him hurry up. Both Clippa and I were actually at our last gasp.

"Finally he reached the sea-wall and giving us one last sad look he dropped us into the waters of the harbor.

"Never had we realized anything like the thrill of that moment, as we felt the salt wetness close over our heads. With one flick of our tails we came to life again. The old man was so surprised that he fell right into the water, almost on top of us. From this he was rescued by a sailor with a boat-hook; and the last we saw of him, the man in blue was dragging him away by the coat-collar, lecturing him again. Apparently it was also against the rules of the town to throw dead fish into the harbor.

"But we?-What time or thought had we for his troubles? We were free! In lightning leaps, in curving spurts, in crazy zig-zags-whooping, shrieking with delight, we sped for home and the open sea!

"That is all of my story and I will now, as I promised last night, try to answer any questions you may ask about the sea, on condition that I am set at liberty as soon as you have done."

The Doctor: "Is there any part of the sea deeper than that known as the Nero Deep-I mean the one near the Island of Guam?"

The Fidgit: "Why, certainly. There's one much deeper than that near the mouth of the Amazon River. But it's small and hard to find. We call it 'The Deep Hole.' And there's another in the Antarctic Sea."

The Doctor: "Can you talk any shellfish language yourself?"

The Fidgit: "No, not a word. We regular fishes don't have anything to do with the shellfish. We consider them a low class."

The Doctor: "But when you're near them, can you hear the sound they make talking-I mean without necessarily understanding what they say?"

The Fidgit: "Only with the very largest ones. Shellfish have such weak small voices it is almost impossible for any but their own kind to hear them. But with the bigger ones it is different. They make a sad, booming noise, rather like an iron pipe being knocked with a stone-only not nearly so loud of course."

The Doctor: "I am most anxious to get down to the bottom of the sea-to study many things. But we land animals, as you no doubt know, are unable to breathe under water. Have you any ideas that might help me?"

The Fidgit: "I think that for both your difficulties the best thing for you to do would be to try and get hold of the Great Glass Sea Snail."

The Doctor: "Er-who, or what, is the Great Glass Sea Snail?"

The Fidgit: "He is an enormous salt-water snail, one of the winkle family, but as large as a big house. He talks quite loudly-when he speaks, but this is not often. He can go to any part of the ocean, at all depths because he doesn't have to be afraid of any creature in the sea. His shell is made of transparent mother-o'-pearl so that you can see through it; but it's thick and strong. When he is out of his shell and he carries it empty on his back, there is room in it for a wagon and a pair of horses. He has been seen carrying his food in it when traveling."

The Doctor: "I feel that that is just the creature I have been looking for. He could take me and my assistant inside his shell and we could explore the deepest depths in safety. Do you think you could get him for me?"

The Fidgit: "Alas! no. I would willingly if I could; but he is hardly ever seen by ordinary fish. He lives at the bottom of the Deep Hole, and seldom comes out-And into the Deep Hole, the lower waters of which are muddy, fishes such as we are afraid to go."

The Doctor: "Dear me! That's a terrible disappointment. Are there many of this kind of snail in the sea?"

The Fidgit: "Oh no. He is the only one in existence, since his second wife died long, long ago. He is the last of the Giant Shellfish. He belongs to past ages when the whales were land-animals and all that. They say he is over seventy thousand years old."

The Doctor: "Good Gracious, what wonderful things he could tell me! I do wish I could meet him."

The Fidgit: "Were there any more questions you wished to ask me? This water in your tank is getting quite warm and sickly. I'd like to be put back into the sea as soon as you can spare me."

The Doctor: "Just one more thing: when Christopher Columbus crossed the Atlantic in 1492, he threw overboard two copies of his diary sealed up in barrels. One of them was never found. It must have sunk. I would like to get it for my library. Do you happen to know where it is?"

The Fidgit: "Yes, I do. That too is in the Deep Hole. When the barrel sank the currents drifted it northwards down what we call the Orinoco Slope, till it finally disappeared into the Deep Hole. If it was any other part of the sea I'd try and get it for you; but not there."

The Doctor: "Well, that is all, I think. I hate to put you back into the sea, because I know that as soon as I do, I'll think of a hundred other questions I wanted to ask you. But I must keep my promise. Would you care for anything before you go?-it seems a cold day-some cracker-crumbs or something?"

The Fidgit: "No, I won't stop. All I want just at present is fresh sea-water."

The Doctor: "I cannot thank you enough for all the information you have given me. You have been very helpful and patient."

The Fidgit: "Pray do not mention it. It has been a real pleasure to be of assistance to the great John Dolittle. You are, as of course you know, already quite famous among the better class of fishes. Goodbye!-and good luck to you, to your ship and to all your plans!"

The Doctor carried the listening-tank to a port-hole, opened it and emptied the tank into the sea.

"Good-bye!" he murmured as a faint splash reached us from without.

I dropped my pencil on the table and leaned back with a sigh. My fingers were so stiff with writers' cramp that I felt as though I should never be able to open my hand again. But I, at least, had had a night's sleep. As for the poor Doctor, he was so weary that he had hardly put the tank back upon the table and dropped into a chair, when his eyes closed and he began to snore.

In the passage outside Polynesia scratched angrily at the door. I rose and let her in.

"A nice state of affairs!" she stormed. "What sort of a ship is this? There's that colored man upstairs asleep under the wheel; the Doctor asleep down here; and you making pot-hooks in a copybook with a pencil! Expect the ship to steer herself to Brazil? We're just drifting around the sea like an empty bottle-and a week behind time as it is. What's happened to you all?"

She was so angry that her voice rose to a scream. But it would have taken more than that to wake the Doctor.

I put the note-book carefully in a drawer and went on deck to take the wheel.



The Third Chapter

Bad Weather


AS soon as I had the Curlew swung round upon her course again I noticed something peculiar: we were not going as fast as we had been. Our favorable wind had almost entirely disappeared.

This, at first, we did not worry about, thinking that at any moment it might spring up again. But the whole day went by; then two days; then a week,-ten days, and the wind grew no stronger. The Curlew just dawdled along at the speed of a toddling babe.

I now saw that the Doctor was becoming uneasy. He kept getting out his sextant (an instrument which tells you what part of the ocean you are in) and making calculations. He was forever looking at his maps and measuring distances on them. The far edge of the sea, all around us, he examined with his telescope a hundred times a day.

"But Doctor," I said when I found him one afternoon mumbling to himself about the misty appearance of the sky, "it wouldn't matter so much, would it, if we did take a little longer over the trip? We've got plenty to eat on board now; and the Purple Bird-of-Paradise will know that we have been delayed by something that we couldn't help."

"Yes, I suppose so," he said thoughtfully. "But I hate to keep her waiting. At this season of the year she generally goes to the Peruvian mountains-for her health. And besides, the good weather she prophesied is likely to end any day now and delay us still further. If we could only keep moving at even a fair speed, I wouldn't mind. It's this hanging around, almost dead still, that gets me restless-Ah, here comes a wind-Not very strong-but maybe it'll grow."

A gentle breeze from the Northeast came singing through the ropes; and we smiled up hopefully at the Curlew's leaning masts.

"We've only got another hundred and fifty miles to make, to sight the coast of Brazil," said the Doctor. "If that wind would just stay with us, steady, for a full day we'd see land."

But suddenly the wind changed, swung to the East, then back to the Northeast-then to the North. It came in fitful gusts, as though it hadn't made up its mind which way to blow; and I was kept busy at the wheel, swinging the Curlew this way and that to keep the right side of it.

Presently we heard Polynesia, who was in the rigging keeping a look-out for land or passing ships, screech down to us,

"Bad weather coming. That jumpy wind is an ugly sign. And look!-over there in the East-see that black line, low down? If that isn't a storm I'm a land-lubber. The gales round here are fierce, when they do blow-tear your canvas out like paper. You take the wheel, Doctor: it'll need a strong arm if it's a real storm. I'll go wake Bumpo and Chee-Chee. This looks bad to me. We'd best get all the sail down right away, till we see how strong she's going to blow."

Indeed the whole sky was now beginning to take on a very threatening look. The black line to the eastward grew blacker as it came nearer and nearer. A low, rumbly, whispering noise went moaning over the sea. The water which had been so blue and smiling turned to a ruffled ugly gray. And across the darkening sky, shreds of cloud swept like tattered witches flying from the storm.

I must confess I was frightened. You see I had only so far seen the sea in friendly moods: sometimes quiet and lazy; sometimes laughing, venturesome and reckless; sometimes brooding and poetic, when moonbeams turned her ripples into silver threads and dreaming snowy night-clouds piled up fairy-castles in the sky. But as yet I had not known, or even guessed at, the terrible strength of the Sea's wild anger.

When that storm finally struck us we leaned right over flatly on our side, as though some invisible giant had slapped the poor Curlew on the cheek.

After that things happened so thick and so fast that what with the wind that stopped your breath, the driving, blinding water, the deafening noise and the rest, I haven't a very clear idea of how our shipwreck came about.

I remember seeing the sails, which we were now trying to roll up upon the deck, torn out of our hands by the wind and go overboard like a penny balloon-very nearly carrying Chee-Chee with them. And I have a dim recollection of Polynesia screeching somewhere for one of us to go downstairs and close the port-holes.

In spite of our masts being bare of sail we were now scudding along to the southward at a great pace. But every once in a while huge gray-black waves would arise from under the ship's side like nightmare monsters, swell and climb, then crash down upon us, pressing us into the sea; and the poor Curlew would come to a standstill, half under water, like a gasping, drowning pig.

While I was clambering along towards the wheel to see the Doctor, clinging like a leech with hands and legs to the rails lest I be blown overboard, one of these tremendous seas tore loose my hold, filled my throat with water and swept me like a cork the full length of the deck. My head struck a door with an awful bang. And then I fainted.



The Fourth Chapter

Wrecked!


WHEN I awoke I was very hazy in my head. The sky was blue and the sea was calm. At first I thought that I must have fallen asleep in the sun on the deck of the Curlew. And thinking that I would be late for my turn at the wheel, I tried to rise to my feet. I found I couldn't; my arms were tied to something behind me with a piece of rope. By twisting my neck around I found this to be a mast, broken off short. Then I realized that I wasn't sitting on a ship at all; I was only sitting on a piece of one. I began to feel uncomfortably scared. Screwing up my eyes, I searched the rim of the sea North, East, South and West: no land: no ships; nothing was in sight. I was alone in the ocean!

At last, little by little, my bruised head began to remember what had happened: first, the coming of the storm; the sails going overboard; then the big wave which had banged me against the door. But what had become of the Doctor and the others? What day was this, to-morrow or the day after?-And why was I sitting on only part of a ship?

"I was alone in the ocean!"

Working my hand into my pocket, I found my penknife and cut the rope that tied me. This reminded me of a shipwreck story which Joe had once told me, of a captain who had tied his son to a mast in order that he shouldn't be washed overboard by the gale. So of course it must have been the Doctor who had done the same to me.

But where was he?

The awful thought came to me that the Doctor and the rest of them must be drowned, since there was no other wreckage to be seen upon the waters. I got to my feet and stared around the sea again-Nothing-nothing but water and sky!

Presently a long way off I saw the small dark shape of a bird skimming low down over the swell. When it came quite close I saw it was a Stormy Petrel. I tried to talk to it, to see if it could give me news. But unluckily I hadn't learned much seabird language and I couldn't even attract its attention, much less make it understand what I wanted.

Twice it circled round my raft, lazily, with hardly a flip of the wing. And I could not help wondering, in spite of the distress I was in, where it had spent last night-how it, or any other living thing, had weathered such a smashing storm. It made me realize the great big difference between different creatures; and that size and strength are not everything. To this petrel, a frail little thing of feathers, much smaller and weaker than I, the Sea could do anything she liked, it seemed; and his only answer was a lazy, saucy flip of the wing! He was the one who should be called the able seaman. For, come raging gale, come sunlit calm, this wilderness of water was his home.

After swooping over the sea around me (just looking for food, I supposed) he went off in the direction from which he had come. And I was alone once more.

I found I was somewhat hungry-and a little thirsty too. I began to think all sorts of miserable thoughts, the way one does when he is lonesome and has missed breakfast. What was going to become of me now, if the Doctor and the rest were drowned? I would starve to death or die of thirst. Then the sun went behind some clouds and I felt cold. How many hundreds or thousands of miles was I from any land? What if another storm should come and smash up even this poor raft on which I stood?

I went on like this for a while, growing gloomier and gloomier, when suddenly I thought of Polynesia. "You're always safe with the Doctor," she had said. "He gets there. Remember that."

I'm sure I wouldn't have minded so much if he had been here with me. It was this being all alone that made me want to weep. And yet the petrel was alone!-What a baby I was, I told myself, to be scared to the verge of tears just by loneliness! I was quite safe where I was-for the present anyhow. John Dolittle wouldn't get scared by a little thing like this. He only got excited when he made a discovery, found a new bug or something. And if what Polynesia had said was true, he couldn't be drowned and things would come out all right in the end somehow.

I threw out my chest, buttoned up my collar and began walking up and down the short raft to keep warm. I would be like John Dolittle. I wouldn't cry-And I wouldn't get excited.

How long I paced back and forth I don't know. But it was a long time-for I had nothing else to do.

At last I got tired and lay down to rest. And in spite of all my troubles, I soon fell fast asleep.

This time when I woke up, stars were staring down at me out of a cloudless sky. The sea was still calm; and my strange craft was rocking gently under me on an easy swell. All my fine courage left me as I gazed up into the big silent night and felt the pains of hunger and thirst set to work in my stomach harder than ever.

"Are you awake?" said a high silvery voice at my elbow.

I sprang up as though some one had stuck a pin in me. And there, perched at the very end of my raft, her beautiful golden tail glowing dimly in the starlight, sat Miranda, the Purple Bird-of-Paradise!

Never have I been so glad to see any one in my life. I almost fell into the water as I leapt to hug her.

"I didn't want to wake you," said she. "I guessed you must be tired after all you've been through-Don't squash the life out of me, boy: I'm not a stuffed duck, you know."

"Oh, Miranda, you dear old thing," said I, "I'm so glad to see you. Tell me, where is the Doctor? Is he alive?"

"Of course he's alive-and it's my firm belief he always will be. He's over there, about forty miles to the westward."

"What's he doing there?"

"He's sitting on the other half of the Curlew shaving himself-or he was, when I left him."

"Well, thank Heaven he's alive!" said I-"And Bumpo-and the animals, are they all right?"

"Yes, they're with him. Your ship broke in half in the storm. The Doctor had tied you down when he found you stunned. And the part you were on got separated and floated away. Golly, it was a storm! One has to be a gull or an albatross to stand that sort of weather. I had been watching for the Doctor for three weeks, from a cliff-top; but last night I had to take refuge in a cave to keep my tail-feathers from blowing out. As soon as I found the Doctor, he sent me off with some porpoises to help us in our search. There had been quite a gathering of sea-birds waiting to greet the Doctor; but the rough weather sort of broke up the arrangements that had been made to welcome him properly. It was the petrel that first gave us the tip where you were."

"Well, but how can I get to the Doctor, Miranda?-I haven't any oars."

"Get to him!-Why, you're going to him now. Look behind you."

I turned around. The moon was just rising on the sea's edge. And I now saw that my raft was moving through the water, but so gently that I had not noticed it before.

"What's moving us?" I asked.

"The porpoises," said Miranda.

I went to the back of the raft and looked down into the water. And just below the surface I could see the dim forms of four big porpoises, their sleek skins glinting in the moonlight, pushing at the raft with their noses.

"They're old friends of the Doctor's," said Miranda. "They'd do anything for John Dolittle. We should see his party soon now. We're pretty near the place I left them-Yes, there they are! See that dark shape?-No, more to the right of where you're looking. Can't you make out the figure of the black man standing against the sky?-Now Chee-Chee spies us-he's waving. Don't you see them?"

I didn't-for my eyes were not as sharp as Miranda's. But presently from somewhere in the murky dusk I heard Bumpo singing his African comic songs with the full force of his enormous voice. And in a little, by peering and peering in the direction of the sound, I at last made out a dim mass of tattered, splintered wreckage-all that remained of the poor Curlew-floating low down upon the water.

A hulloa came through the night. And I answered it. We kept it up, calling to one another back and forth across the calm night sea. And a few minutes later the two halves of our brave little ruined ship bumped gently together again.

Now that I was nearer and the moon was higher I could see more plainly. Their half of the ship was much bigger than mine.

It lay partly upon its side; and most of them were perched upon the top munching ship's biscuit.

But close down to the edge of the water, using the sea's calm surface for a mirror and a piece of broken bottle for a razor, John Dolittle was shaving his face by the light of the moon.



The Fifth Chapter

Land!


THEY all gave me a great greeting as I clambered off my half of the ship on to theirs. Bumpo brought me a wonderful drink of fresh water which he drew from a barrel; and Chee-Chee and Polynesia stood around me feeding me ship's biscuit.

But it was the sight of the Doctor's smiling face-just knowing that I was with him once again-that cheered me more than anything else. As I watched him carefully wipe his glass razor and put it away for future use, I could not help comparing him in my mind with the Stormy Petrel. Indeed the vast strange knowledge which he had gained from his speech and friendship with animals had brought him the power to do things which no other human being would dare to try. Like the petrel, he could apparently play with the sea in all her moods. It was no wonder that many of the ignorant savage peoples among whom he passed in his voyages made statues of him showing him as half a fish, half a bird, and half a man. And ridiculous though it was, I could quite understand what Miranda meant when she said she firmly believed that he could never die. Just to be with him gave you a wonderful feeling of comfort and safety.

Except for his appearance (his clothes were crumpled and damp and his battered high hat was stained with salt water) that storm which had so terrified me had disturbed him no more than getting stuck on the mud-bank in Puddleby River.

Politely thanking Miranda for getting me so quickly, he asked her if she would now go ahead of us and show us the way to Spidermonkey Island. Next, he gave orders to the porpoises to leave my old piece of the ship and push the bigger half wherever the Bird-of-Paradise should lead us.

How much he had lost in the wreck besides his razor I did not know-everything, most likely, together with all the money he had saved up to buy the ship with. And still he was smiling as though he wanted for nothing in the world. The only things he had saved, as far as I could see-beyond the barrel of water and bag of biscuit-were his precious note-books. These, I saw when he stood up, he had strapped around his waist with yards and yards of twine. He was, as old Matthew Mugg used to say, a great man. He was unbelievable.

And now for three days we continued our journey slowly but steadily-southward.

The only inconvenience we suffered from was the cold. This seemed to increase as we went forward. The Doctor said that the island, disturbed from its usual paths by the great gale, had evidently drifted further South than it had ever been before.

On the third night poor Miranda came back to us nearly frozen. She told the Doctor that in the morning we would find the island quite close to us, though we couldn't see it now as it was a misty dark night. She said that she must hurry back at once to a warmer climate; and that she would visit the Doctor in Puddleby next August as usual.

"Don't forget, Miranda," said John Dolittle, "if you should hear anything of what happened to Long Arrow, to get word to me."

The Bird-of-Paradise assured him she would. And after the Doctor had thanked her again and again for all that she had done for us, she wished us good luck and disappeared into the night.

We were all awake early in the morning, long before it was light, waiting for our first glimpse of the country we had come so far to see. And as the rising sun turned the eastern sky to gray, of course it was old Polynesia who first shouted that she could see palm-trees and mountain tops.

With the growing light it became plain to all of us: a long island with high rocky mountains in the middle-and so near to us that you could almost throw your hat upon the shore.

The porpoises gave us one last push and our strange-looking craft bumped gently on a low beach. Then, thanking our lucky stars for a chance to stretch our cramped legs, we all bundled off on to the land-the first land, even though it was floating land, that we had trodden for six weeks. What a thrill I felt as I realized that Spidermonkey Island, the little spot in the atlas which my pencil had touched, lay at last beneath my feet!

When the light increased still further we noticed that the palms and grasses of the island seemed withered and almost dead. The Doctor said that it must be on account of the cold that the island was now suffering from in its new climate. These trees and grasses, he told us, were the kind that belonged to warm, tropical weather.

The porpoises asked if we wanted them any further. And the Doctor said that he didn't think so, not for the present-nor the raft either, he added; for it was already beginning to fall to pieces and could not float much longer.

As we were preparing to go inland and explore the island, we suddenly noticed a whole band of Red Indians watching us with great curiosity from among the trees. The Doctor went forward to talk to them. But he could not make them understand. He tried by signs to show them that he had come on a friendly visit. The Indians didn't seem to like us however. They had bows and arrows and long hunting spears, with stone points, in their hands; and they made signs back to the Doctor to tell him that if he came a step nearer they would kill us all. They evidently wanted us to leave the island at once. It was a very uncomfortable situation.

At last the Doctor made them understand that he only wanted to see the island all over and that then he would go away-though how he meant to do it, with no boat to sail in, was more than I could imagine.

While they were talking among themselves another Indian arrived-apparently with a message that they were wanted in some other part of the island. Because presently, shaking their spears threateningly at us, they went off with the newcomer.

"What discourteous pagans!" said Bumpo. "Did you ever see such inhospitability?-Never even asked us if we'd had breakfast, the benighted bounders!"

"Sh! They're going off to their village," said Polynesia. "I'll bet there's a village on the other side of those mountains. If you take my advice, Doctor, you'll get away from this beach while their backs are turned. Let us go up into the higher land for the present-some place where they won't know where we are. They may grow friendlier when they see we mean no harm. They have honest, open faces and look like a decent crowd to me. They're just ignorant-probably never saw white folks before."

So, feeling a little bit discouraged by our first reception, we moved off towards the mountains in the centre of the island.



The Sixth Chapter

The Jabizri


WE found the woods at the feet of the hills thick and tangly and somewhat hard to get through. On Polynesia's advice, we kept away from all paths and trails, feeling it best to avoid meeting any Indians for the present.

But she and Chee-Chee were good guides and splendid jungle-hunters; and the two of them set to work at once looking for food for us. In a very short space of time they had found quite a number of different fruits and nuts which made excellent eating, though none of us knew the names of any of them. We discovered a nice clean stream of good water which came down from the mountains; so we were supplied with something to drink as well.

We followed the stream up towards the heights. And presently we came to parts where the woods were thinner and the ground rocky and steep. Here we could get glimpses of wonderful views all over the island, with the blue sea beyond.

While we were admiring one of these the Doctor suddenly said, "Sh!-A Jabizri!-Don't you hear it?"

We listened and heard, somewhere in the air about us, an extraordinarily musical hum-like a bee, but not just one note. This hum rose and fell, up and down-almost like some one singing.

"No other insect but the Jabizri beetle hums like that," said the Doctor. "I wonder where he is-quite near, by the sound-flying among the trees probably. Oh, if I only had my butterfly-net! Why didn't I think to strap that around my waist too. Confound the storm: I may miss the chance of a lifetime now of getting the rarest beetle in the world-Oh look! There he goes!"

A huge beetle, easily three inches long I should say, suddenly flew by our noses. The Doctor got frightfully excited. He took off his hat to use as a net, swooped at the beetle and caught it. He nearly fell down a precipice on to the rocks below in his wild hurry, but that didn't bother him in the least. He knelt down, chortling, upon the ground with the Jabizri safe under his hat. From his pocket he brought out a glass-topped box, and into this he very skilfully made the beetle walk from under the rim of the hat. Then he rose up, happy as a child, to examine his new treasure through the glass lid.

It certainly was a most beautiful insect. It was pale blue underneath; but its back was glossy black with huge red spots on it.

"There isn't an entymologist in the whole world who wouldn't give all he has to be in my shoes to-day," said the Doctor-"Hulloa! This Jabizri's got something on his leg-Doesn't look like mud. I wonder what it is."

He took the beetle carefully out of the box and held it by its back in his fingers, where it waved its six legs slowly in the air. We all crowded about him peering at it. Rolled around the middle section of its right foreleg was something that looked like a thin dried leaf. It was bound on very neatly with strong spider-web.

It was marvelous to see how John Dolittle with his fat heavy fingers undid that cobweb cord and unrolled the leaf, whole, without tearing it or hurting the precious beetle. The Jabizri he put back into the box. Then he spread the leaf out flat and examined it.

You can imagine our surprise when we found that the inside of the leaf was covered with signs and pictures, drawn so tiny that you almost needed a magnifying-glass to tell what they were. Some of the signs we couldn't make out at all; but nearly all of the pictures were quite plain, figures of men and mountains mostly. The whole was done in a curious sort of brown ink.

For several moments there was a dead silence while we all stared at the leaf, fascinated and mystified.

"I think this is written in blood," said the Doctor at last. "It turns that color when it's dry. Somebody pricked his finger to make these pictures. It's an old dodge when you're short of ink-but highly unsanitary-What an extraordinary thing to find tied to a beetle's leg! I wish I could talk beetle language, and find out where the Jabizri got it from."

"But what is it?" I asked-"Rows of little pictures and signs. What do you make of it, Doctor?"

"It's a letter," he said-"a picture letter. All these little things put together mean a message-But why give a message to a beetle to carry-and to a Jabizri, the rarest beetle in the world?-What an extraordinary thing!"

Then he fell to muttering over the pictures.

"I wonder what it means: men walking up a mountain; men walking into a hole in a mountain; a mountain falling down-it's a good drawing, that; men pointing to their open mouths; bars-prison-bars, perhaps; men praying; men lying down-they look as though they might be sick; and last of all, just a mountain-a peculiar-shaped mountain."

All of a sudden the Doctor looked up sharply at me, a wonderful smile of delighted understanding spreading over his face.

"Long Arrow!" he cried, "don't you see, Stubbins?-Why, of course! Only a naturalist would think of doing a thing like this: giving his letter to a beetle-not to a common beetle, but to the rarest of all, one that other naturalists would try to catch-Well, well! Long Arrow!-A picture-letter from Long Arrow. For pictures are the only writing that he knows."

"Yes, but who is the letter to?" I asked.

"It's to me very likely. Miranda had told him, I know, years ago, that some day I meant to come here. But if not for me, then it's for any one who caught the beetle and read it. It's a letter to the world."

"Well, but what does it say? It doesn't seem to me that it's much good to you now you've got it."

"Yes, it is," he said, "because, look, I can read it now. First picture: men walking up a mountain-that's Long Arrow and his party; men going into a hole in a mountain-they enter a cave looking for medicine-plants or mosses; a mountain falling down-some hanging rocks must have slipped and trapped them, imprisoned them in the cave. And this was the only living creature that could carry a message for them to the outside world-a beetle, who could burrow his way into the open air. Of course it was only a slim chance that the beetle would be ever caught and the letter read. But it was a chance; and when men are in great danger they grab at any straw of hope.... All right. Now look at the next picture: men pointing to their open mouths-they are hungry; men praying-begging any one who finds this letter to come to their assistance; men lying down-they are sick, or starving. This letter, Stubbins, is their last cry for help."

He sprang to his feet as he ended, snatched out a note-book and put the letter between the leaves. His hands were trembling with haste and agitation.

"Come on!" he cried-"up the mountain-all of you. There's not a moment to lose. Bumpo, bring the water and nuts with you. Heaven only knows how long they've been pining underground. Let's hope and pray we're not too late!"

"But where are you going to look?" I asked. "Miranda said the island was a hundred miles long and the mountains seem to run all the way down the centre of it."

"Didn't you see the last picture?" he said, grabbing up his hat from the ground and cramming it on his head. "It was an oddly shaped mountain-looked like a hawk's head. Well, there's where he is-if he's still alive. First thing for us to do, is to get up on a high peak and look around the island for a mountain shaped like a hawks' head-Just to think of it! There's a chance of my meeting Long Arrow, the son of Golden Arrow, after all!-Come on! Hurry! To delay may mean death to the greatest naturalist ever born!"



The Seventh Chapter

Hawk's-Head Mountain


WE all agreed afterwards that none of us had ever worked so hard in our lives before as we did that day. For my part, I know I was often on the point of dropping exhausted with fatigue; but I just kept on going-like a machine-determined that, whatever happened, I would not be the first to give up.

When we had scrambled to the top of a high peak, almost instantly we saw the strange mountain pictured in the letter. In shape it was the perfect image of a hawk's head, and was, as far as we could see, the second highest summit in the island.

Although we were all out of breath from our climb, the Doctor didn't let us rest a second as soon as he had sighted it. With one look at the sun for direction, down he dashed again, breaking through thickets, splashing over brooks, taking all the short cuts. For a fat man, he was certainly the swiftest cross-country runner I ever saw.

We floundered after him as fast as we could. When I say we, I mean Bumpo and myself; for the animals, Jip, Chee-Chee and Polynesia, were a long way ahead-even beyond the Doctor-enjoying the hunt like a paper-chase.

At length we arrived at the foot of the mountain we were making for; and we found its sides very steep. Said the Doctor,

"Now we will separate and search for caves. This spot where we now are, will be our meeting-place. If anyone finds anything like a cave or a hole where the earth and rocks have fallen in, he must shout and hulloa to the rest of us. If we find nothing we will all gather here in about an hour's time-Everybody understand?"

Then we all went off our different ways.

Each of us, you may be sure, was anxious to be the one to make a discovery. And never was a mountain searched so thoroughly. But alas! nothing could we find that looked in the least like a fallen-in cave. There were plenty of places where rocks had tumbled down to the foot of the slopes; but none of these appeared as though caves or passages could possibly lie behind them.

One by one, tired and disappointed, we straggled back to the meeting-place. The Doctor seemed gloomy and impatient but by no means inclined to give up.

"Jip," he said, "couldn't you smell anything like an Indian anywhere?"

"No," said Jip. "I sniffed at every crack on the mountainside. But I am afraid my nose will be of no use to you here, Doctor. The trouble is, the whole air is so saturated with the smell of spider-monkeys that it drowns every other scent-And besides, it's too cold and dry for good smelling."

"It is certainly that," said the Doctor-"and getting colder all the time. I'm afraid the island is still drifting to the southward. Let's hope it stops before long, or we won't be able to get even nuts and fruit to eat-everything in the island will perish-Chee-Chee, what luck did you have?"

"None, Doctor. I climbed to every peak and pinnacle I could see. I searched every hollow and cleft. But not one place could I find where men might be hidden."

"And Polynesia," asked the Doctor, "did you see nothing that might put us on the right track?"

"Not a thing, Doctor-But I have a plan."

"Oh good!" cried John Dolittle, full of hope renewed. "What is it? Let's hear it."

"You still have that beetle with you," she asked-"the Biz-biz, or whatever it is you call the wretched insect?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, producing the glass-topped box from his pocket, "here it is."

"All right. Now listen," said she. "If what you have supposed is true-that is, that Long Arrow had been trapped inside the mountain by falling rock, he probably found that beetle inside the cave-perhaps many other different beetles too, eh? He wouldn't have been likely to take the Biz-biz in with him, would he?-He was hunting plants, you say, not beetles. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, "that's probably so."

"Very well. It is fair to suppose then that the beetle's home, or his hole, is in that place-the part of the mountain where Long Arrow and his party are imprisoned, isn't it?"

"Quite, quite."

"All right. Then the thing to do is to let the beetle go-and watch him; and sooner or later he'll return to his home in Long Arrow's cave. And there we will follow him-Or at all events," she added smoothing down her wing-feathers with a very superior air, "we will follow him till the miserable bug starts nosing under the earth. But at least he will show us what part of the mountain Long Arrow is hidden in."

"But he may fly, if I let him out," said the Doctor. "Then we shall just lose him and be no better off than we were before."

"Let him fly," snorted Polynesia scornfully. "A parrot can wing it as fast as a Biz-biz, I fancy. If he takes to the air, I'll guarantee not to let the little devil out of my sight. And if he just crawls along the ground you can follow him yourself."

"Splendid!" cried the Doctor. "Polynesia, you have a great brain. I'll set him to work at once and see what happens."

Again we all clustered round the Doctor as he carefully lifted off the glass lid and let the big beetle climb out upon his finger.

"Ladybug, Ladybug, fly away home!" crooned Bumpo. "Your house is on fire and your chil-"

"Oh, be quiet!" snapped Polynesia crossly. "Stop insulting him! Don't you suppose he has wits enough to go home without your telling him?"

"I thought perchance he might be of a philandering disposition," said Bumpo humbly. "It could be that he is tired of his home and needs to be encouraged. Shall I sing him 'Home Sweet Home,' think you?"

"No. Then he'd never go back. Your voice needs a rest. Don't sing to him: just watch him-Oh, and Doctor, why not tie another message to the creature's leg, telling Long Arrow that we're doing our best to reach him and that he mustn't give up hope?"

"I will," said the Doctor. And in a minute he had pulled a dry leaf from a bush near by and was covering it with little pictures in pencil.

At last, neatly fixed up with his new mail-bag, Mr. Jabizri crawled off the Doctor's finger to the ground and looked about him. He stretched his legs, polished his nose with his front feet and then moved off leisurely to the westward.

We had expected him to walk up the mountain; instead, he walked around it. Do you know how long it takes a beetle to walk round a mountain? Well, I assure you it takes an unbelievably long time. As the hours dragged by, we hoped and hoped that he would get up and fly the rest, and let Polynesia carry on the work of following him. But he never opened his wings once. I had not realized before how hard it is for a human being to walk slowly enough to keep up with a beetle. It was the most tedious thing I have ever gone through. And as we dawdled along behind, watching him like hawks lest we lose him under a leaf or something, we all got so cross and ill-tempered we were ready to bite one another's heads off. And when he stopped to look at the scenery or polish his nose some more, I could hear Polynesia behind me letting out the most dreadful seafaring swear-words you ever heard.

After he had led us the whole way round the mountain he brought us to the exact spot where we started from and there he came to a dead stop.

"Well," said Bumpo to Polynesia, "what do you think of the beetle's sense now? You see he doesn't know enough to go home."

"Oh, be still, you Hottentot!" snapped Polynesia. "Wouldn't you want to stretch your legs for exercise if you'd been shut up in a box all day. Probably his home is near here, and that's why he's come back."

"But why," I asked, "did he go the whole way round the mountain first?"

Then the three of us got into a violent argument. But in the middle of it all the Doctor suddenly called out,

"Look, look!"

We turned and found that he was pointing to the Jabizri, who was now walking up the mountain at a much faster and more business-like gait.

"Well," said Bumpo sitting down wearily; "if he is going to walk over the mountain and back, for more exercise, I'll wait for him here. Chee-Chee and Polynesia can follow him."

Indeed it would have taken a monkey or a bird to climb the place which the beetle was now walking up. It was a smooth, flat part of the mountain's side, steep as a wall.

But presently, when the Jabizri was no more than ten feet above our heads, we all cried out together. For, even while we watched him, he had disappeared into the face of the rock like a raindrop soaking into sand.

"He's gone," cried Polynesia. "There must be a hole up there." And in a twinkling she had fluttered up the rock and was clinging to the face of it with her claws.

"Yes," she shouted down, "we've run him to earth at last. His hole is right here, behind a patch of lichen-big enough to get two fingers in."

"Ah," cried the Doctor, "this great slab of rock then must have slid down from the summit and shut off the mouth of the cave like a door. Poor fellows! What a dreadful time they must have spent in there!-Oh, if we only had some picks and shovels now!"

"Picks and shovels wouldn't do much good," said Polynesia. "Look at the size of the slab: a hundred feet high and as many broad. You would need an army for a week to make any impression on it."

"I wonder how thick it is," said the Doctor; and he picked up a big stone and banged it with all his might against the face of the rock. It made a hollow booming sound, like a giant drum. We all stood still listening while the echo of it died slowly away.

And then a cold shiver ran down my spine. For, from within the mountain, back came three answering knocks: Boom!... Boom!... Boom!

Wide-eyed we looked at one another as though the earth itself had spoken. And the solemn little silence that followed was broken by the Doctor.

"Thank Heaven," he said in a hushed reverent voice, "some of them at least are alive!"



Part Five



The First Chapter

A Great Moment


THE next part of our problem was the hardest of all: how to roll aside, pull down or break open, that gigantic slab. As we gazed up at it towering above our heads, it looked indeed a hopeless task for our tiny strength.

But the sounds of life from inside the mountain had put new heart in us. And in a moment we were all scrambling around trying to find any opening or crevice which would give us something to work on. Chee-Chee scaled up the sheer wall of the slab and examined the top of it where it leaned against the mountain's side; I uprooted bushes and stripped off hanging creepers that might conceal a weak place; the Doctor got more leaves and composed new picture-letters for the Jabizri to take in if he should turn up again; whilst Polynesia carried up a handful of nuts and pushed them into the beetle's hole, one by one, for the prisoners inside to eat.

"Nuts are so nourishing," she said.

But Jip it was who, scratching at the foot of the slab like a good ratter, made the discovery which led to our final success.

"Doctor," he cried, running up to John Dolittle with his nose all covered with black mud, "this slab is resting on nothing but a bed of soft earth. You never saw such easy digging. I guess the cave behind must be just too high up for the Indians to reach the earth with their hands, or they could have scraped a way out long ago. If we can only scratch the earth-bed away from under, the slab might drop a little. Then maybe the Indians can climb out over the top."

The Doctor hurried to examine the place where Jip had dug.

"Why, yes," he said, "if we can get the earth away from under this front edge, the slab is standing up so straight, we might even make it fall right down in this direction. It's well worth trying. Let's get at it, quick."

We had no tools but the sticks and slivers of stone which we could find around. A strange sight we must have looked, the whole crew of us squatting down on our heels, scratching and burrowing at the foot of the mountain, like six badgers in a row.

After about an hour, during which in spite of the cold the sweat fell from our foreheads in all directions, the Doctor said,

"Be ready to jump from under, clear out of the way, if she shows signs of moving. If this slab falls on anybody, it will squash him flatter than a pancake."

Presently there was a grating, grinding sound.

"Look out!" yelled John Dolittle, "here she comes!-Scatter!"

We ran for our lives, outwards, toward the sides. The big rock slid gently down, about a foot, into the trough which we had made beneath it. For a moment I was disappointed, for like that, it was as hopeless as before-no signs of a cave-mouth showing above it. But as I looked upward, I saw the top coming very slowly away from the mountainside. We had unbalanced it below. As it moved apart from the face of the mountain, sounds of human voices, crying gladly in a strange tongue, issued from behind. Faster and faster the top swung forward, downward. Then, with a roaring crash which shook the whole mountain-range beneath our feet, it struck the earth and cracked in halves.

How can I describe to any one that first meeting between the two greatest naturalists the world ever knew, Long Arrow, the son of Golden Arrow and John Dolittle, M.D., of Puddleby-on-the-Marsh? The scene rises before me now, plain and clear in every detail, though it took place so many, many years ago. But when I come to write of it, words seem such poor things with which to tell you of that great occasion.

I know that the Doctor, whose life was surely full enough of big happenings, always counted the setting free of the Indian scientist as the greatest thing he ever did. For my part, knowing how much this meeting must mean to him, I was on pins and needles of expectation and curiosity as the great stone finally thundered down at our feet and we gazed across it to see what lay behind.

The gloomy black mouth of a tunnel, full twenty feet high, was revealed. In the centre of this opening stood an enormous red Indian, seven feet tall, handsome, muscular, slim and naked-but for a beaded cloth about his middle and an eagle's feather in his hair. He held one hand across his face to shield his eyes from the blinding sun which he had not seen in many days.

"It is he!" I heard the Doctor whisper at my elbow. "I know him by his great height and the scar upon his chin."

And he stepped forward slowly across the fallen stone with his hand outstretched to the red man.

Presently the Indian uncovered his eyes. And I saw that they had a curious piercing gleam in them-like the eyes of an eagle, but kinder and more gentle. He slowly raised his right arm, the rest of him still and motionless like a statue, and took the Doctor's hand in his. It was a great moment. Polynesia nodded to me in a knowing, satisfied kind of way. And I heard old Bumpo sniffle sentimentally.

Then the Doctor tried to speak to Long Arrow. But the Indian knew no English of course, and the Doctor knew no Indian. Presently, to my surprise, I heard the Doctor trying him in different animal languages.

"It was a great moment"

"How do you do?" he said in dog-talk; "I am glad to see you," in horse-signs; "How long have you been buried?" in deer-language. Still the Indian made no move but stood there, straight and stiff, understanding not a word.

The Doctor tried again, in several other animal dialects. But with no result.

Till at last he came to the language of eagles.

"Great Red-Skin," he said in the fierce screams and short grunts that the big birds use, "never have I been so glad in all my life as I am to-day to find you still alive."

In a flash Long Arrow's stony face lit up with a smile of understanding; and back came the answer in eagle-tongue,

"Mighty White Man, I owe my life to you. For the remainder of my days I am your servant to command."

Afterwards Long Arrow told us that this was the only bird or animal language that he had ever been able to learn. But that he had not spoken it in a long time, for no eagles ever came to this island.

Then the Doctor signaled to Bumpo who came forward with the nuts and water. But Long Arrow neither ate nor drank. Taking the supplies with a nod of thanks, he turned and carried them into the inner dimness of the cave. We followed him.

Inside we found nine other Indians, men, women and boys, lying on the rock floor in a dreadful state of thinness and exhaustion.

Some had their eyes closed, as if dead. Quickly the Doctor went round them all and listened to their hearts. They were all alive; but one woman was too weak even to stand upon her feet.

At a word from the Doctor, Chee-Chee and Polynesia sped off into the jungles after more fruit and water.

While Long Arrow was handing round what food we had to his starving friends, we suddenly heard a sound outside the cave. Turning about we saw, clustered at the entrance, the band of Indians who had met us so inhospitably at the beach.

They peered into the dark cave cautiously at first. But as soon as they saw Long Arrow and the other Indians with us, they came rushing in, laughing, clapping their hands with joy and jabbering away at a tremendous rate.

Long Arrow explained to the Doctor that the nine Indians we had found in the cave with him were two families who had accompanied him into the mountains to help him gather medicine-plants. And while they had been searching for a kind of moss-good for indigestion-which grows only inside of damp caves, the great rock slab had slid down and shut them in. Then for two weeks they had lived on the medicine-moss and such fresh water as could be found dripping from the damp walls of the cave. The other Indians on the island had given them up for lost and mourned them as dead; and they were now very surprised and happy to find their relatives alive.

When Long Arrow turned to the newcomers and told them in their own language that it was the white man who had found and freed their relatives, they gathered round John Dolittle, all talking at once and beating their breasts.

Long Arrow said they were apologizing and trying to tell the Doctor how sorry they were that they had seemed unfriendly to him at the beach. They had never seen a white man before and had really been afraid of him-especially when they saw him conversing with the porpoises. They had thought he was the Devil, they said.

Then they went outside and looked at the great stone we had thrown down, big as a meadow; and they walked round and round it, pointing to the break running through the middle and wondering how the trick of felling it was done.

Travelers who have since visited Spidermonkey Island tell me that that huge stone slab is now one of the regular sights of the island. And that the Indian guides, when showing it to visitors, always tell their story of how it came there. They say that when the Doctor found that the rocks had entrapped his friend, Long Arrow, he was so angry that he ripped the mountain in halves with his bare hands and let him out.



The Second Chapter

"The Men Of The Moving Land"


FROM that time on the Indians' treatment of us was very different. We were invited to their village for a feast to celebrate the recovery of the lost families. And after we had made a litter from saplings to carry the sick woman in, we all started off down the mountain.

On the way the Indians told Long Arrow something which appeared to be sad news, for on hearing it, his face grew very grave. The Doctor asked him what was wrong. And Long Arrow said he had just been informed that the chief of the tribe, an old man of eighty, had died early that morning.

"That," Polynesia whispered in my ear, "must have been what they went back to the village for, when the messenger fetched them from the beach.-Remember?"

"What did he die of?" asked the Doctor.

"He died of cold," said Long Arrow.

Indeed, now that the sun was setting, we were all shivering ourselves.

"This is a serious thing," said the Doctor to me. "The island is still in the grip of that wretched current flowing southward. We will have to look into this to-morrow. If nothing can be done about it, the Indians had better take to canoes and leave the island. The chance of being wrecked will be better than getting frozen to death in the ice-floes of the Antarctic."

Presently we came over a saddle in the hills, and looking downward on the far side of the island, we saw the village-a large cluster of grass huts and gaily colored totem-poles close by the edge of the sea.

"How artistic!" said the Doctor-"Delightfully situated. What is the name of the village?"

"Popsipetel," said Long Arrow. "That is the name also of the tribe. The word signifies in Indian tongue, The Men of The Moving Land. There are two tribes of Indians on the island: the Popsipetels at this end and the Bag-jagderags at the other."

"Which is the larger of the two peoples?"

"The Bag-jagderags, by far. Their city covers two square leagues. But," added Long Arrow a slight frown darkening his handsome face, "for me, I would rather have one Popsipetel than a hundred Bag-jagderags."

The news of the rescue we had made had evidently gone ahead of us. For as we drew nearer to the village we saw crowds of Indians streaming out to greet the friends and relatives whom they had never thought to see again.

These good people, when they too were told how the rescue had been the work of the strange white visitor to their shores, all gathered round the Doctor, shook him by the hands, patted him and hugged him. Then they lifted him up upon their strong shoulders and carried him down the hill into the village.

There the welcome we received was even more wonderful. In spite of the cold air of the coming night, the villagers, who had all been shivering within their houses, threw open their doors and came out in hundreds. I had no idea that the little village could hold so many. They thronged about us, smiling and nodding and waving their hands; and as the details of what we had done were recited by Long Arrow they kept shouting strange singing noises, which we supposed were words of gratitude or praise.

We were next escorted to a brand-new grass house, clean and sweet-smelling within, and informed that it was ours. Six strong Indian boys were told off to be our servants.

On our way through the village we noticed a house, larger than the rest, standing at the end of the main street. Long Arrow pointed to it and told us it was the Chief's house, but that it was now empty-no new chief having yet been elected to take the place of the old one who had died.

Inside our new home a feast of fish and fruit had been prepared. Most of the more important men of the tribe were already seating themselves at the long dining-table when we got there. Long Arrow invited us to sit down and eat.

This we were glad enough to do, as we were all hungry. But we were both surprised and disappointed when we found that the fish had not been cooked. The Indians did not seem to think this extraordinary in the least, but went ahead gobbling the fish with much relish the way it was, raw.

With many apologies, the Doctor explained to Long Arrow that if they had no objection we would prefer our fish cooked.

Imagine our astonishment when we found that the great Long Arrow, so learned in the natural sciences, did not know what the word cooked meant!

Polynesia who was sitting on the bench between John Dolittle and myself pulled the Doctor by the sleeve.

"I'll tell you what's wrong, Doctor," she whispered as he leant down to listen to her: "these people have no fires! They don't know how to make a fire. Look outside: It's almost dark, and there isn't a light showing in the whole village. This is a fireless people."



The Third Chapter

Fire


THEN the Doctor asked Long Arrow if he knew what fire was, explaining it to him by pictures drawn on the buckskin table-cloth. Long Arrow said he had seen such a thing-coming out of the tops of volcanoes; but that neither he nor any of the Popsipetels knew how it was made.

"Poor perishing heathens!" muttered Bumpo. "No wonder the old chief died of cold!"

At that moment we heard a crying sound at the door. And turning round, we saw a weeping Indian mother with a baby in her arms. She said something to the Indians which we could not understand; and Long Arrow told us the baby was sick and she wanted the white doctor to try and cure it.

"Oh Lord!" groaned Polynesia in my ear-"Just like Puddleby: patients arriving in the middle of dinner. Well, one thing: the food's raw, so nothing can get cold anyway."

The Doctor examined the baby and found at once that it was thoroughly chilled.

"Fire-fire! That's what it needs," he said turning to Long Arrow-"That's what you all need. This child will have pneumonia if it isn't kept warm."

"Aye, truly. But how to make a fire," said Long Arrow-"where to get it: that is the difficulty. All the volcanoes in this land are dead."

Then we fell to hunting through our pockets to see if any matches had survived the shipwreck. The best we could muster were two whole ones and a half-all with the heads soaked off them by salt water.

"Hark, Long Arrow," said the Doctor: "divers ways there be of making fire without the aid of matches. One: with a strong glass and the rays of the sun. That however, since the sun has set, we cannot now employ. Another is by grinding a hard stick into a soft log-Is the daylight gone without?-Alas yes. Then I fear we must await the morrow; for besides the different woods, we need an old squirrel's nest for fuel-And that without lamps you could not find in your forests at this hour."

"Great are your cunning and your skill, oh White Man," Long Arrow replied. "But in this you do us an injustice. Know you not that all fireless peoples can see in the dark? Having no lamps we are forced to train ourselves to travel through the blackest night, lightless. I will despatch a messenger and you shall have your squirrel's nest within the hour."

He gave an order to two of our boy-servants who promptly disappeared running. And sure enough, in a very short space of time a squirrel's nest, together with hard and soft woods, was brought to our door.

The moon had not yet risen and within the house it was practically pitch-black. I could feel and hear, however, that the Indians were moving about comfortably as though it were daylight. The task of making fire the Doctor had to perform almost entirely by the sense of touch, asking Long Arrow and the Indians to hand him his tools when he mislaid them in the dark. And then I made a curious discovery: now that I had to, I found that I was beginning to see a little in the dark myself. And for the first time I realized that of course there is no such thing as pitch-dark, so long as you have a door open or a sky above you.

Calling for the loan of a bow, the Doctor loosened the string, put the hard stick into a loop and began grinding this stick into the soft wood of the log. Soon I smelt that the log was smoking. Then he kept feeding the part that was smoking with the inside lining of the squirrel's nest, and he asked me to blow upon it with my breath. He made the stick drill faster and faster. More smoke filled the room. And at last the darkness about us was suddenly lit up. The squirrel's nest had burst into flame.

The Indians murmured and grunted with astonishment. At first they were all for falling on their knees and worshiping the fire. Then they wanted to pick it up with their bare hands and play with it. We had to teach them how it was to be used; and they were quite fascinated when we laid our fish across it on sticks and cooked it. They sniffed the air with relish as, for the first time in history, the smell of fried fish passed through the village of Popsipetel.

Then we got them to bring us piles and stacks of dry wood; and we made an enormous bonfire in the middle of the main street. Round this, when they felt its warmth, the whole tribe gathered and smiled and wondered. It was a striking sight, one of the pictures from our voyages that I most frequently remember: that roaring jolly blaze beneath the black night sky, and all about it a vast ring of Indians, the firelight gleaming on bronze cheeks, white teeth and flashing eyes-a whole town trying to get warm, giggling and pushing like school-children.

In a little, when we had got them more used to the handling of fire, the Doctor showed them how it could be taken into their houses if a hole were only made in the roof to let the smoke out. And before we turned in after that long, long, tiring day, we had fires going in every hut in the village.

The poor people were so glad to get really warm again that we thought they'd never go to bed. Well on into the early hours of the morning the little town fairly buzzed with a great low murmur: the Popsipetels sitting up talking of their wonderful pale-faced visitor and this strange good thing he had brought with him-fire!



The Fourth Chapter

What Makes An Island Float


VERY early in our experience of Popsipetel kindness we saw that if we were to get anything done at all, we would almost always have to do it secretly. The Doctor was so popular and loved by all that as soon as he showed his face at his door in the morning crowds of admirers, waiting patiently outside, flocked about him and followed him wherever he went. After his fire-making feat, this childlike people expected him, I think, to be continually doing magic; and they were determined not to miss a trick.

It was only with great difficulty that we escaped from the crowd the first morning and set out with Long Arrow to explore the island at our leisure.

In the interior we found that not only the plants and trees were suffering from the cold: the animal life was in even worse straits. Everywhere shivering birds were to be seen, their feathers all fluffed out, gathering together for flight to summer lands. And many lay dead upon the ground. Going down to the shore, we watched land-crabs in large numbers taking to the sea to find some better home. While away to the Southeast we could see many icebergs floating-a sign that we were now not far from the terrible region of the Antarctic.

As we were looking out to sea, we noticed our friends the porpoises jumping through the waves. The Doctor hailed them and they came inshore.

He asked them how far we were from the South Polar Continent.

About a hundred miles, they told him. And then they asked why he wanted to know.

"Because this floating island we are on," said he, "is drifting southward all the time in a current. It's an island that ordinarily belongs somewhere in the tropic zone-real sultry weather, sunstrokes and all that. If it doesn't stop going southward pretty soon everything on it is going to perish."

"Well," said the porpoises, "then the thing to do is to get it back into a warmer climate, isn't it?"

"Yes, but how?" said the Doctor. "We can't row it back."

"No," said they, "but whales could push it-if you only got enough of them."

"What a splendid idea!-Whales, the very thing!" said the Doctor. "Do you think you could get me some?"

"Why, certainly," said the porpoises, "we passed one herd of them out there, sporting about among the icebergs. We'll ask them to come over. And if they aren't enough, we'll try and hunt up some more. Better have plenty."

"Thank you," said the Doctor. "You are very kind-By the way, do you happen to know how this island came to be a floating island? At least half of it, I notice, is made of stone. It is very odd that it floats at all, isn't it?"

"It is unusual," they said. "But the explanation is quite simple. It used to be a mountainous part of South America-an overhanging part-sort of an awkward corner, you might say. Way back in the glacial days, thousands of years ago, it broke off from the mainland; and by some curious accident the inside of it, which is hollow, got filled with air as it fell into the ocean. You can only see less than half of the island: the bigger half is under water. And in the middle of it, underneath, is a huge rock air-chamber, running right up inside the mountains. And that's what keeps it floating."

"What a pecurious phenometer!" said Bumpo.

"It is indeed," said the Doctor. "I must make a note of that." And out came the everlasting note-book.

The porpoises went bounding off towards the icebergs. And not long after, we saw the sea heaving and frothing as a big herd of whales came towards us at full speed.

They certainly were enormous creatures; and there must have been a good two hundred of them.

"Here they are," said the porpoises, poking their heads out of the water.

"Good!" said the Doctor. "Now just explain to them, will you please? that this is a very serious matter for all the living creatures in this land. And ask them if they will be so good as to go down to the far end of the island, put their noses against it and push it back near the coast of Southern Brazil."

The porpoises evidently succeeded in persuading the whales to do as the Doctor asked; for presently we saw them thrashing through the seas, going off towards the south end of the island.

Then we lay down upon the beach and waited.

After about an hour the Doctor got up and threw a stick into the water. For a while this floated motionless. But soon we saw it begin to move gently down the coast.

"Ah!" said the Doctor, "see that?-The island is going North at last. Thank goodness!"

Faster and faster we left the stick behind; and smaller and dimmer grew the icebergs on the skyline.

The Doctor took out his watch, threw more sticks into the water and made a rapid calculation.

"Humph!-Fourteen and a half knots an hour," he murmured-"A very nice speed. It should take us about five days to get back near Brazil. Well, that's that-Quite a load off my mind. I declare I feel warmer already. Let's go and get something to eat."



The Fifth Chapter

War!


ON our way back to the village the Doctor began discussing natural history with Long Arrow. But their most interesting talk, mainly about plants, had hardly begun when an Indian runner came dashing up to us with a message.

Long Arrow listened gravely to the breathless, babbled words, then turned to the Doctor and said in eagle tongue,

"Great White Man, an evil thing has befallen the Popsipetels. Our neighbors to the southward, the thievish Bag-jagderags, who for so long have cast envious eyes on our stores of ripe corn, have gone upon the war-path; and even now are advancing to attack us."

"Evil news indeed," said the Doctor. "Yet let us not judge harshly. Perhaps it is that they are desperate for food, having their own crops frost-killed before harvest. For are they not even nearer the cold South than you?"

"Make no excuses for any man of the tribe of the Bag-jagderags," said Long Arrow shaking his head. "They are an idle shiftless race. They do but see a chance to get corn without the labor of husbandry. If it were not that they are a much bigger tribe and hope to defeat their neighbor by sheer force of numbers, they would not have dared to make open war upon the brave Popsipetels."

When we reached the village we found it in a great state of excitement. Everywhere men were seen putting their bows in order, sharpening spears, grinding battle-axes and making arrows by the hundred. Women were raising a high fence of bamboo poles all round the village. Scouts and messengers kept coming and going, bringing news of the movements of the enemy. While high up in the trees and hills about the village we could see look-outs watching the mountains to the southward.

Long Arrow brought another Indian, short but enormously broad, and introduced him to the Doctor as Big Teeth, the chief warrior of the Popsipetels.

The Doctor volunteered to go and see the enemy and try to argue the matter out peacefully with them instead of fighting; for war, he said, was at best a stupid wasteful business. But the two shook their heads. Such a plan was hopeless, they said. In the last war when they had sent a messenger to do peaceful arguing, the enemy had merely hit him with an ax.

While the Doctor was asking Big Teeth how he meant to defend the village against attack, a cry of alarm was raised by the look-outs.

"They're coming!-The Bag-jagderags-swarming down the mountains in thousands!"

"Well," said the Doctor, "it's all in the day's work, I suppose. I don't believe in war; but if the village is attacked we must help defend it."

And he picked up a club from the ground and tried the heft of it against a stone.

"This," he said, "seems like a pretty good tool to me." And he walked to the bamboo fence and took his place among the other waiting fighters.

Then we all got hold of some kind of weapon with which to help our friends, the gallant Popsipetels: I borrowed a bow and a quiver full of arrows; Jip was content to rely upon his old, but still strong teeth; Chee-Chee took a bag of rocks and climbed a palm where he could throw them down upon the enemies' heads; and Bumpo marched after the Doctor to the fence armed with a young tree in one hand and a door-post in the other.

When the enemy drew near enough to be seen from where we stood we all gasped with astonishment. The hillsides were actually covered with them-thousands upon thousands. They made our small army within the village look like a mere handful.

"Saints alive!" muttered Polynesia, "our little lot will stand no chance against that swarm. This will never do. I'm going off to get some help."

Where she was going and what kind of help she meant to get, I had no idea. She just disappeared from my side. But Jip, who had heard her, poked his nose between the bamboo bars of the fence to get a better view of the enemy and said,

"Likely enough she's gone after the Black Parrots. Let's hope she finds them in time. Just look at those ugly ruffians climbing down the rocks-millions of 'em! This fight's going to keep us all hopping."

And Jip was right. Before a quarter of an hour had gone by our village was completely surrounded by one huge mob of yelling, raging Bag-jagderags.

I now come again to a part in the story of our voyages where things happened so quickly, one upon the other, that looking backwards I see the picture only in a confused kind of way. I know that if it had not been for the Terrible Three-as they came afterwards to be fondly called in Popsipetel history-Long Arrow, Bumpo and the Doctor, the war would have been soon over and the whole island would have belonged to the worthless Bag-jagderags. But the Englishman, the African and the Indian were a regiment in themselves; and between them they made that village a dangerous place for any man to try to enter.

The bamboo fencing which had been hastily set up around the town was not a very strong affair; and right from the start it gave way in one place after another as the enemy thronged and crowded against it. Then the Doctor, Long Arrow and Bumpo would hurry to the weak spot, a terrific hand-to-hand fight would take place and the enemy be thrown out. But almost instantly a cry of alarm would come from some other part of the village-wall; and the Three would have to rush off and do the same thing all over again.

The Popsipetels were themselves no mean fighters; but the strength and weight of those three men of different lands and colors, standing close together, swinging their enormous war-clubs, was really a sight for the wonder and admiration of any one.

Many weeks later when I was passing an Indian camp-fire at night I heard this song being sung. It has since become one of the traditional folksongs of the Popsipetels.

The Song Of The Terrible Three

Oh hear ye the Song of the Terrible Three And the fight that they fought by the edge of the sea. Down from the mountains, the rocks and the crags, Swarming like wasps, came the Bag-jagderags.

Surrounding our village, our walls they broke down. Oh, sad was the plight of our men and our town! But Heaven determined our land to set free And sent us the help of the Terrible Three.

One was a Black-he was dark as the night; One was a Red-skin, a mountain of height; But the chief was a White Man, round like a bee; And all in a row stood the Terrible Three.

Shoulder to shoulder, they hammered and hit. Like demons of fury they kicked and they bit. Like a wall of destruction they stood in a row, Flattening enemies, six at a blow.

Oh, strong was the Red-skin fierce was the Black. Bag-jagderags trembled and tried to turn back. But 'twas of the White Man they shouted, "Beware! He throws men in handfuls, straight up in the air!"

Long shall they frighten bad children at night With tales of the Red and the Black and the White. And long shall we sing of the Terrible Three And the fight that they fought by the edge of the sea.



The Sixth Chapter

General Polynesia


BUT alas! even the Three, mighty though they were, could not last forever against an army which seemed to have no end. In one of the hottest scrimmages, when the enemy had broken a particularly wide hole through the fence, I saw Long Arrow's great figure topple and come down with a spear sticking in his broad chest.

For another half-hour Bumpo and the Doctor fought on side by side. How their strength held out so long I cannot tell, for never a second were they given to get their breath or rest their arms.

The Doctor-the quiet, kindly, peaceable, little Doctor!-well, you wouldn't have known him if you had seen him that day dealing out whacks you could hear a mile off, walloping and swatting in all directions.

As for Bumpo, with staring eye-balls and grim set teeth, he was a veritable demon. None dared come within yards of that wicked, wide-circling door-post. But a stone, skilfully thrown, struck him at last in the centre of the forehead. And down went the second of the Three. John Dolittle, the last of the Terribles, was left fighting alone.

Jip and I rushed to his side and tried to take the places of the fallen ones. But, far too light and too small, we made but a poor exchange. Another length of the fence crashed down, and through the widened gap the Bag-jagderags poured in on us like a flood.

"To the canoes!-To the sea!" shouted the Popsipetels. "Fly for your lives!-All is over!-The war is lost!"

But the Doctor and I never got a chance to fly for our lives. We were swept off our feet and knocked down flat by the sheer weight of the mob. And once down, we were unable to get up again. I thought we would surely be trampled to death.

But at that moment, above the din and racket of the battle, we heard the most terrifying noise that ever assaulted human ears: the sound of millions and millions of parrots all screeching with fury together.

The army, which in the nick of time Polynesia had brought to our rescue, darkened the whole sky to the westward. I asked her afterwards, how many birds there were; and she said she didn't know exactly but that they certainly numbered somewhere between sixty and seventy millions. In that extraordinarily short space of time she had brought them from the mainland of South America.

If you have ever heard a parrot screech with anger you will know that it makes a truly frightful sound; and if you have ever been bitten by one, you will know that its bite can be a nasty and a painful thing.

The Black Parrots (coal-black all over, they were-except for a scarlet beak and a streak of red in wing and tail) on the word of command from Polynesia set to work upon the Bag-jagderags who were now pouring through the village looking for plunder.

And the Black Parrots' method of fighting was peculiar. This is what they did: on the head of each Bag-jagderag three or four parrots settled and took a good foot-hold in his hair with their claws; then they leant down over the sides of his head and began clipping snips out of his ears, for all the world as though they were punching tickets. That is all they did. They never bit them anywhere else except the ears. But it won the war for us.

With howls pitiful to hear, the Bag-jagderags fell over one another in their haste to get out of that accursed village. It was no use their trying to pull the parrots off their heads; because for each head there were always four more parrots waiting impatiently to get on.

Some of the enemy were lucky; and with only a snip or two managed to get outside the fence-where the parrots immediately left them alone. But with most, before the black birds had done with them, the ears presented a very singular appearance-like the edge of a postage-stamp. This treatment, very painful at the time, did not however do them any permanent harm beyond the change in looks. And it later got to be the tribal mark of the Bag-jagderags. No really smart young lady of this tribe would be seen walking with a man who did not have scalloped ears-for such was a proof that he had been in the Great War. And that (though it is not generally known to scientists) is how this people came to be called by the other Indian nations, the Ragged-Eared Bag-jagderags.

As soon as the village was cleared of the enemy the Doctor turned his attention to the wounded.

In spite of the length and fierceness of the struggle, there were surprisingly few serious injuries. Poor Long Arrow was the worst off. However, after the Doctor had washed his wound and got him to bed, he opened his eyes and said he already felt better. Bumpo was only badly stunned.

With this part of the business over, the Doctor called to Polynesia to have the Black Parrots drive the enemy right back into their own country and to wait there, guarding them all night.

Polynesia gave the short word of command; and like one bird those millions of parrots opened their red beaks and let out once more their terrifying battle-scream.

The Bag-jagderags didn't wait to be bitten a second time, but fled helter-skelter over the mountains from which they had come; whilst Polynesia and her victorious army followed watchfully behind like a great, threatening, black cloud.

The Doctor picked up his high hat which had been knocked off in the fight, dusted it carefully and put it on.

"To-morrow," he said, shaking his fist towards the hills, "we will arrange the terms of peace-and we will arrange them-in the City of Bag-jagderag!"

His words were greeted with cheers of triumph from the admiring Popsipetels. The war was over.



The Seventh Chapter

The Peace Of The Parrots


THE next day we set out for the far end of the island, and reaching it in canoes (for we went by sea) after a journey of twenty-five hours, we remained no longer than was necessary in the City of Bag-jagderag.

When he threw himself into that fight at Popsipetel, I saw the Doctor really angry for the first time in my life. But his anger, once aroused, was slow to die. All the way down the coast of the island he never ceased to rail against this cowardly people who had attacked his friends, the Popsipetels, for no other reason but to rob them of their corn, because they were too idle to till the land themselves. And he was still angry when he reached the City of Bag-jagderag.

Long Arrow had not come with us for he was as yet too weak from his wound. But the Doctor-always clever at languages-was already getting familiar with the Indian tongue. Besides, among the half-dozen Popsipetels who accompanied us to paddle the canoes, was one boy to whom we had taught a little English. He and the Doctor between them managed to make themselves understood to the Bag-jagderags. This people, with the terrible parrots still blackening the hills about their stone town, waiting for the word to descend and attack, were, we found, in a very humble mood.

Leaving our canoes we passed up the main street to the palace of the chief. Bumpo and I couldn't help smiling with satisfaction as we saw how the waiting crowds which lined the roadway bowed their heads to the ground, as the little, round, angry figure of the Doctor strutted ahead of us with his chin in the air.

At the foot of the palace-steps the chief and all the more important personages of the tribe were waiting to meet him, smiling humbly and holding out their hands in friendliness. The Doctor took not the slightest notice. He marched right by them, up the steps to the door of the palace. There he turned around and at once began to address the people in a firm voice.

I never heard such a speech in my life-and I am quite sure that they never did either. First he called them a long string of names: cowards, loafers, thieves, vagabonds, good-for-nothings, bullies and what not. Then he said he was still seriously thinking of allowing the parrots to drive them on into the sea, in order that this pleasant land might be rid, once for all, of their worthless carcases.

At this a great cry for mercy went up, and the chief and all of them fell on their knees, calling out that they would submit to any conditions of peace he wished.

Then the Doctor called for one of their scribes-that is, a man who did picture-writing. And on the stone walls of the palace of Bag-jagderag he bade him write down the terms of the peace as he dictated it. This peace is known as The Peace of The Parrots, and-unlike most peaces-was, and is, strictly kept-even to this day.

It was quite long in words. The half of the palace-front was covered with picture-writing, and fifty pots of paint were used, before the weary scribe had done. But the main part of it all was that there should be no more fighting; and that the two tribes should give solemn promise to help one another whenever there was corn-famine or other distress in the lands belonging to either.

This greatly surprised the Bag-jagderags. They had expected from the Doctor's angry face that he would at least chop a couple of hundred heads off-and probably make the rest of them slaves for life.

But when they saw that he only meant kindly by them, their great fear of him changed to a tremendous admiration. And as he ended his long speech and walked briskly down the steps again on his way back to the canoes, the group of chieftains threw themselves at his feet and cried,

"Do but stay with us, Great Lord, and all the riches of Bag-jagderag shall be poured into your lap. Gold-mines we know of in the mountains and pearl-beds beneath the sea. Only stay with us, that your all-powerful wisdom may lead our Council and our people in prosperity and peace."

The Doctor held up his hand for silence.

"No man," said he, "would wish to be the guest of the Bag-jagderags till they had proved by their deeds that they are an honest race. Be true to the terms of the Peace and from yourselves shall come good government and prosperity-Farewell!"

Then he turned and followed by Bumpo, the Popsipetels and myself, walked rapidly down to the canoes.



The Eighth Chapter

The Hanging Stone


BUT the change of heart in the Bag-jagderags was really sincere. The Doctor had made a great impression on them-a deeper one than even he himself realized at the time. In fact I sometimes think that that speech of his from the palace-steps had more effect upon the Indians of Spidermonkey Island than had any of his great deeds which, great though they were, were always magnified and exaggerated when the news of them was passed from mouth to mouth.

A sick girl was brought to him as he reached the place where the boats lay. She turned out to have some quite simple ailment which he quickly gave the remedy for. But this increased his popularity still more. And when he stepped into his canoe, the people all around us actually burst into tears. It seems (I learned this afterwards) that they thought he was going away across the sea, for good, to the mysterious foreign lands from which he had come.

Some of the chieftains spoke to the Popsipetels as we pushed off. What they said I did not understand; but we noticed that several canoes filled with Bag-jagderags followed us at a respectful distance all the way back to Popsipetel.

The Doctor had determined to return by the other shore, so that we should be thus able to make a complete trip round the island's shores.

Shortly after we started, while still off the lower end of the island, we sighted a steep point on the coast where the sea was in a great state of turmoil, white with soapy froth. On going nearer, we found that this was caused by our friendly whales who were still faithfully working away with their noses against the end of the island, driving us northward. We had been kept so busy with the war that we had forgotten all about them. But as we paused and watched their mighty tails lashing and churning the sea, we suddenly realized that we had not felt cold in quite a long while. Speeding up our boat lest the island be carried away from us altogether, we passed on up the coast; and here and there we noticed that the trees on the shore already looked greener and more healthy. Spidermonkey Island was getting back into her home climates.

About halfway to Popsipetel we went ashore and spent two or three days exploring the central part of the island. Our Indian paddlers took us up into the mountains, very steep and high in this region, overhanging the sea. And they showed us what they called the Whispering Rocks.

This was a very peculiar and striking piece of scenery. It was like a great vast basin, or circus, in the mountains, and out of the centre of it there rose a table of rock with an ivory chair upon it. All around this the mountains went up like stairs, or theatre-seats, to a great height-except at one narrow end which was open to a view of the sea. You could imagine it a council-place or concert-hall for giants, and the rock table in the centre the stage for performers or the stand for the speaker.

"Working away with their noses against the end of the island"

We asked our guides why it was called the Whispering Rocks; and they said, "Go down into it and we will show you."

The great bowl was miles deep and miles wide. We scrambled down the rocks and they showed us how, even when you stood far, far apart from one another, you merely had to whisper in that great place and every one in the theatre could hear you. This was, the Doctor said, on account of the echoes which played backwards and forwards between the high walls of rock.

Our guides told us that it was here, in days long gone by when the Popsipetels owned the whole of Spidermonkey Island, that the kings were crowned. The ivory chair upon the table was the throne in which they sat. And so great was the big theatre that all the Indians in the island were able to get seats in it to see the ceremony.

They showed us also an enormous hanging stone perched on the edge of a volcano's crater-the highest summit in the whole island. Although it was very far below us, we could see it quite plainly; and it looked wobbly enough to be pushed off its perch with the hand. There was a legend among the people, they said, that when the greatest of all Popsipetel kings should be crowned in the ivory chair, this hanging stone would tumble into the volcano's mouth and go straight down to the centre of the earth.

"The Whispering Rocks"

The Doctor said he would like to go and examine it closer.

And when we were come to the lip of the volcano (it took us half a day to get up to it) we found the stone was unbelievably large-big as a cathedral. Underneath it we could look right down into a black hole which seemed to have no bottom. The Doctor explained to us that volcanoes sometimes spurted up fire from these holes in their tops; but that those on floating islands were always cold and dead.

"Stubbins," he said, looking up at the great stone towering above us, "do you know what would most likely happen if that boulder should fall in?"

"No," said I, "what?"

"You remember the air-chamber which the porpoises told us lies under the centre of the island?"

"Yes."

"Well, this stone is heavy enough, if it fell into the volcano, to break through into that air-chamber from above. And once it did, the air would escape and the floating island would float no more. It would sink."

"But then everybody on it would be drowned, wouldn't they?" said Bumpo.

"Oh no, not necessarily. That would depend on the depth of the sea where the sinking took place. The island might touch bottom when it had only gone down, say, a hundred feet. But there would be lots of it still sticking up above the water then, wouldn't there?"

"Yes," said Bumpo, "I suppose there would. Well, let us hope that the ponderous fragment does not lose its equilibriosity, for I don't believe it would stop at the centre of the earth-more likely it would fall right through the world and come out the other side."

Many other wonders there were which these men showed us in the central regions of their island. But I have not time or space to tell you of them now.

Descending towards the shore again, we noticed that we were still being watched, even here among the highlands, by the Bag-jagderags who had followed us. And when we put to sea once more a boatload of them proceeded to go ahead of us in the direction of Popsipetel. Having lighter canoes, they traveled faster than our party; and we judged that they should reach the village-if that was where they were going-many hours before we could.

The Doctor was now becoming anxious to see how Long Arrow was getting on, so we all took turns at the paddles and went on traveling by moonlight through the whole night.

We reached Popsipetel just as the dawn was breaking.

To our great surprise we found that not only we, but the whole village also, had been up all night. A great crowd was gathered about the dead chief's house. And as we landed our canoes upon the beach we saw a large number of old men, the seniors of the tribe, coming out at the main door.

We inquired what was the meaning of all this; and were told that the election of a new chief had been going on all through the whole night. Bumpo asked the name of the new chief; but this, it seemed, had not yet been given out. It would be announced at mid-day.

As soon as the Doctor had paid a visit to Long Arrow and seen that he was doing nicely, we proceeded to our own house at the far end of the village. Here we ate some breakfast and then lay down to take a good rest.

Rest, indeed, we needed; for life had been strenuous and busy for us ever since we had landed on the island. And it wasn't many minutes after our weary heads struck the pillows that the whole crew of us were sound asleep.



The Ninth Chapter

The Election


WE were awakened by music. The glaring noonday sunlight was streaming in at our door, outside of which some kind of a band appeared to be playing. We got up and looked out. Our house was surrounded by the whole population of Popsipetel. We were used to having quite a number of curious and admiring Indians waiting at our door at all hours; but this was quite different. The vast crowd was dressed in its best clothes. Bright beads, gawdy feathers and gay blankets gave cheerful color to the scene. Every one seemed in very good humor, singing or playing on musical instruments-mostly painted wooden whistles or drums made from skins.

We found Polynesia-who while we slept had arrived back from Bag-jagderag-sitting on our door-post watching the show. We asked her what all the holiday-making was about.

"The result of the election has just been announced," said she. "The name of the new chief was given out at noon."

"And who is the new chief?" asked the Doctor.

"You are," said Polynesia quietly.

"I!" gasped the Doctor-"Well, of all things!"

"Yes," said she. "You're the one-And what's more, they've changed your surname for you. They didn't think that Dolittle was a proper or respectful name for a man who had done so much. So you are now to be known as Jong Thinkalot. How do you like it?"

"But I don't want to be a chief," said the Doctor in an irritable voice.

"I'm afraid you'll have hard work to get out of it now," said she-"unless you're willing to put to sea again in one of their rickety canoes. You see you've been elected not merely the Chief of the Popsipetels; you're to be a king-the King of the whole of Spidermonkey Island. The Bag-jagderags, who were so anxious to have you govern them, sent spies and messengers ahead of you; and when they found that you had been elected Chief of the Popsipetels overnight they were bitterly disappointed. However, rather than lose you altogether, the Bag-jagderags were willing to give up their independence, and insisted that they and their lands be united to the Popsipetels in order that you could be made king of both. So now you're in for it."

"Oh Lord!" groaned the Doctor, "I do wish they wouldn't be so enthusiastic! Bother it, I don't want to be a king!"

"I should think, Doctor," said I, "you'd feel rather proud and glad. I wish I had a chance to be a king."

"Oh I know it sounds grand," said he, pulling on his boots miserably. "But the trouble is, you can't take up responsibilities and then just drop them again when you feel like it. I have my own work to do. Scarcely one moment have I had to give to natural history since I landed on this island. I've been doing some one else's business all the time. And now they want me to go on doing it! Why, once I'm made King of the Popsipetels, that's the end of me as a useful naturalist. I'd be too busy for anything. All I'd be then is just a er-er-just a king."

"Well, that's something!" said Bumpo. "My father is a king and has a hundred and twenty wives."

"That would make it worse," said the Doctor-"a hundred and twenty times worse. I have my work to do. I don't want to be a king."

"Look," said Polynesia, "here come the head men to announce your election. Hurry up and get your boots laced."

The throng before our door had suddenly parted asunder, making a long lane; and down this we now saw a group of personages coming towards us. The man in front, a handsome old Indian with a wrinkled face, carried in his hands a wooden crown-a truly beautiful and gorgeous crown, even though of wood. Wonderfully carved and painted, it had two lovely blue feathers springing from the front of it. Behind the old man came eight strong Indians bearing a litter, a sort of chair with long handles underneath to carry it by.

Kneeling down on one knee, bending his head almost to the ground, the old man addressed the Doctor who now stood in the doorway putting on his collar and tie.

"Oh, Mighty One," said he, "we bring you word from the Popsipetel people. Great are your deeds beyond belief, kind is your heart and your wisdom, deeper than the sea. Our chief is dead. The people clamor for a worthy leader. Our old enemies, the Bag-jagderags are become, through you, our brothers and good friends. They too desire to bask beneath the sunshine of your smile. Behold then, I bring to you the Sacred Crown of Popsipetel which, since ancient days when this island and its peoples were one, beneath one monarch, has rested on no kingly brow. Oh Kindly One, we are bidden by the united voices of the peoples of this land to carry you to the Whispering Rocks, that there, with all respect and majesty, you may be crowned our king-King of all the Moving Land."

The good Indians did not seem to have even considered the possibility of John Dolittle's refusing. As for the poor Doctor, I never saw him so upset by anything. It was in fact the only time I have known him to get thoroughly fussed.

"Oh dear!" I heard him murmur, looking around wildly for some escape. "What shall I do?-Did any of you see where I laid that stud of mine?-How on earth can I get this collar on without a stud? What a day this is, to be sure!-Maybe it rolled under the bed, Bumpo-I do think they might have given me a day or so to think it over in. Who ever heard of waking a man right out of his sleep, and telling him he's got to be a king, before he has even washed his face? Can't any of you find it? Maybe you're standing on it, Bumpo. Move your feet."

"Oh don't bother about your stud," said Polynesia. "You will have to be crowned without a collar. They won't know the difference."

"I tell you I'm not going to be crowned," cried the Doctor-"not if I can help it. I'll make them a speech. Perhaps that will satisfy them."

He turned back to the Indians at the door.

"My friends," he said, "I am not worthy of this great honor you would do me. Little or no skill have I in the arts of kingcraft. Assuredly among your own brave men you will find many better fitted to lead you. For this compliment, this confidence and trust, I thank you. But, I pray you, do not think of me for such high duties which I could not possibly fulfil."

The old man repeated his words to the people behind him in a louder voice. Stolidly they shook their heads, moving not an inch. The old man turned back to the Doctor.

"You are the chosen one," said he. "They will have none but you."

Into the Doctor's perplexed face suddenly there came a flash of hope.

"I'll go and see Long Arrow," he whispered to me. "Perhaps he will know of some way to get me out of this."

And asking the personages to excuse him a moment, he left them there, standing at his door, and hurried off in the direction of Long Arrow's house. I followed him.

We found our big friend lying on a grass bed outside his home, where he had been moved that he might witness the holiday-making.

"Long Arrow," said the Doctor speaking quickly in eagle tongue so that the bystanders should not overhear, "in dire peril I come to you for help. These men would make me their king. If such a thing befall me, all the great work I hoped to do must go undone, for who is there unfreer than a king? I pray you speak with them and persuade their kind well-meaning hearts that what they plan to do would be unwise."

Long Arrow raised himself upon his elbow.

"Oh Kindly One," said he (this seemed now to have become the usual manner of address when speaking to the Doctor), "sorely it grieves me that the first wish you ask of me I should be unable to grant. Alas! I can do nothing. These people have so set their hearts on keeping you for king that if I tried to interfere they would drive me from their land and likely crown you in the end in any case. A king you must be, if only for a while. We must so arrange the business of governing that you may have time to give to Nature's secrets. Later we may be able to hit upon some plan to relieve you of the burden of the crown. But for now you must be king. These people are a headstrong tribe and they will have their way. There is no other course."

Sadly the Doctor turned away from the bed and faced about. And there behind him stood the old man again, the crown still held in his wrinkled hands and the royal litter waiting at his elbow. With a deep reverence the bearers motioned towards the seat of the chair, inviting the white man to get in.

Once more the poor Doctor looked wildly, hopelessly about him for some means of escape. For a moment I thought he was going to take to his heels and run for it. But the crowd around us was far too thick and densely packed for anyone to break through it. A band of whistles and drums near by suddenly started the music of a solemn processional march. He turned back pleadingly again to Long Arrow in a last appeal for help. But the big Indian merely shook his head and pointed, like the bearers, to the waiting chair.

At last, almost in tears, John Dolittle stepped slowly into the litter and sat down. As he was hoisted on to the broad shoulders of the bearers I heard him still feebly muttering beneath his breath,

"Botheration take it!-I don't want to be a king!"

"Farewell!" called Long Arrow from his bed, "and may good fortune ever stand within the shadow of your throne!"

"He comes!-He comes!" murmured the crowd. "Away! Away!-To the Whispering Rocks!"

And as the procession formed up to leave the village, the crowd about us began hurrying off in the direction of the mountains to make sure of good seats in the giant theatre where the crowning ceremony would take place.



The Tenth Chapter

The Coronation Of King Jong


IN my long lifetime I have seen many grand and inspiring things, but never anything that impressed me half as much as the sight of the Whispering Rocks as they looked on the day King Jong was crowned. As Bumpo, Chee-Chee, Polynesia, Jip and I finally reached the dizzy edge of the great bowl and looked down inside it, it was like gazing over a never-ending ocean of copper-colored faces; for every seat in the theatre was filled, every man, woman and child in the island-including Long Arrow who had been carried up on his sick bed-was there to see the show.

Yet not a sound, not a pin-drop, disturbed the solemn silence of the Whispering Rocks. It was quite creepy and sent chills running up and down your spine. Bumpo told me afterwards that it took his breath away too much for him to speak, but that he hadn't known before that there were that many people in the world.

Away down by the Table of the Throne stood a brand-new, brightly colored totem-pole. All the Indian families had totem-poles and kept them set up before the doors of their houses. The idea of a totem-pole is something like a door-plate or a visiting card. It represents in its carvings the deeds and qualities of the family to which it belongs. This one, beautifully decorated and much higher than any other, was the Dolittle or, as it was to be henceforth called, the Royal Thinkalot totem. It had nothing but animals on it, to signify the Doctor's great knowledge of creatures. And the animals chosen to be shown were those which to the Indians were supposed to represent good qualities of character, such as, the deer for speed; the ox for perseverance; the fish for discretion, and so on. But at the top of the totem is always placed the sign or animal by which the family is most proud to be known. This, on the Thinkalot pole, was an enormous parrot, in memory of the famous Peace of the Parrots.

The Ivory Throne had been all polished with scented oil and it glistened whitely in the strong sunlight. At the foot of it there had been strewn great quantities of branches of flowering trees, which with the new warmth of milder climates were now blossoming in the valleys of the island.

Soon we saw the royal litter, with the Doctor seated in it, slowly ascending the winding steps of the Table. Reaching the flat top at last, it halted and the Doctor stepped out upon the flowery carpet. So still and perfect was the silence that even at that distance above I distinctly heard a twig snap beneath his tread.

Walking to the throne accompanied by the old man, the Doctor got up upon the stand and sat down. How tiny his little round figure looked when seen from that tremendous height! The throne had been made for longer-legged kings; and when he was seated, his feet did not reach the ground but dangled six inches from the top step.

Then the old man turned round and looking up at the people began to speak in a quiet even voice; but every word he said was easily heard in the furthest corner of the Whispering Rocks.

First he recited the names of all the great Popsipetel kings who in days long ago had been crowned in this ivory chair. He spoke of the greatness of the Popsipetel people, of their triumphs, of their hardships. Then waving his hand towards the Doctor he began recounting the things which this king-to-be had done. And I am bound to say that they easily outmatched the deeds of those who had gone before him.

As soon as he started to speak of what the Doctor had achieved for the tribe, the people, still strictly silent, all began waving their right hands towards the throne. This gave to the vast theatre a very singular appearance: acres and acres of something moving-with never a sound.

At last the old man finished his speech and stepping up to the chair, very respectfully removed the Doctor's battered high hat. He was about to put it upon the ground; but the Doctor took it from him hastily and kept it on his lap. Then taking up the Sacred Crown he placed it upon John Dolittle's head. It did not fit very well (for it had been made for smaller-headed kings), and when the wind blew in freshly from the sunlit sea the Doctor had some difficulty in keeping it on. But it looked very splendid.

Turning once more to the people, the old man said,

"Men of Popsipetel, behold your elected king!-Are you content?"

And then at last the voice of the people broke loose.

"JONG! JONG!" they shouted, "LONG LIVE KING JONG!"

The sound burst upon the solemn silence with the crash of a hundred cannon. There, where even a whisper carried miles, the shock of it was like a blow in the face. Back and forth the mountains threw it to one another. I thought the echoes of it would never die away as it passed rumbling through the whole island, jangling among the lower valleys, booming in the distant sea-caves.

Suddenly I saw the old man point upward, to the highest mountain in the island; and looking over my shoulder, I was just in time to see the Hanging Stone topple slowly out of sight-down into the heart of the volcano.

"See ye, Men of the Moving Land!" the old man cried: "The stone has fallen and our legend has come true: the King of Kings is crowned this day!"

The Doctor too had seen the stone fall and he was now standing up looking at the sea expectantly.

"He's thinking of the air-chamber," said Bumpo in my ear. "Let us hope that the sea isn't very deep in these parts."

After a full minute (so long did it take the stone to fall that depth) we heard a muffled, distant, crunching thud-and then immediately after, a great hissing of escaping air. The Doctor, his face tense with anxiety, sat down in the throne again still watching the blue water of the ocean with staring eyes.

Soon we felt the island slowly sinking beneath us. We saw the sea creep inland over the beaches as the shores went down-one foot, three feet, ten feet, twenty, fifty, a hundred. And then, thank goodness, gently as a butterfly alighting on a rose, it stopped! Spidermonkey Island had come to rest on the sandy bottom of the Atlantic, and earth was joined to earth once more.

Of course many of the houses near the shores were now under water. Popsipetel Village itself had entirely disappeared. But it didn't matter. No one was drowned; for every soul in the island was high up in the hills watching the coronation of King Jong.

The Indians themselves did not realize at the time what was taking place, though of course they had felt the land sinking beneath them. The Doctor told us afterwards that it must have been the shock of that tremendous shout, coming from a million throats at once, which had toppled the Hanging Stone off its perch. But in Popsipetel history the story was handed down (and it is firmly believed to this day) that when King Jong sat upon the throne, so great was his mighty weight, that the very island itself sank down to do him honor and never moved again.



Part Six



The First Chapter

New Popsipetel


JONG THINKALOT had not ruled over his new kingdom for more than a couple of days before my notions about kings and the kind of lives they led changed very considerably. I had thought that all that kings had to do was to sit on a throne and have people bow down before them several times a day. I now saw that a king can be the hardest-working man in the world-if he attends properly to his business.

From the moment that he got up, early in the morning, till the time he went to bed, late at night-seven days in the week-John Dolittle was busy, busy, busy. First of all there was the new town to be built. The village of Popsipetel had disappeared: the City of New Popsipetel must be made. With great care a place was chosen for it-and a very beautiful position it was, at the mouth of a large river. The shores of the island at this point formed a lovely wide bay where canoes-and ships too, if they should ever come-could lie peacefully at anchor without danger from storms.

In building this town the Doctor gave the Indians a lot of new ideas. He showed them what town-sewers were, and how garbage should be collected each day and burnt. High up in the hills he made a large lake by damming a stream. This was the water-supply for the town. None of these things had the Indians ever seen; and many of the sicknesses which they had suffered from before were now entirely prevented by proper drainage and pure drinking-water.

Peoples who don't use fire do not of course have metals either; because without fire it is almost impossible to shape iron and steel. One of the first things that John Dolittle did was to search the mountains till he found iron and copper mines. Then he set to work to teach the Indians how these metals could be melted and made into knives and plows and water-pipes and all manner of things.

In his kingdom the Doctor tried his hardest to do away with most of the old-fashioned pomp and grandeur of a royal court. As he said to Bumpo and me, if he must be a king he meant to be a thoroughly democratic one, that is a king who is chummy and friendly with his subjects and doesn't put on airs. And when he drew up the plans for the City of New Popsipetel he had no palace shown of any kind. A little cottage in a back street was all that he had provided for himself.

But this the Indians would not permit on any account. They had been used to having their kings rule in a truly grand and kingly manner; and they insisted that he have built for himself the most magnificent palace ever seen. In all else they let him have his own way absolutely; but they wouldn't allow him to wriggle out of any of the ceremony or show that goes with being a king. A thousand servants he had to keep in his palace, night and day, to wait on him. The Royal Canoe had to be kept up-a gorgeous, polished mahogany boat, seventy feet long, inlaid with mother-o'-pearl and paddled by the hundred strongest men in the island. The palace-gardens covered a square mile and employed a hundred and sixty gardeners.

Even in his dress the poor man was compelled always to be grand and elegant and uncomfortable. The beloved and battered high hat was put away in a closet and only looked at secretly. State robes had to be worn on all occasions. And when the Doctor did once in a while manage to sneak off for a short, natural-history expedition he never dared to wear his old clothes, but had to chase his butterflies with a crown upon his head and a scarlet cloak flying behind him in the wind.

There was no end to the kinds of duties the Doctor had to perform and the questions he had to decide upon-everything, from settling disputes about lands and boundaries, to making peace between husband and wife who had been throwing shoes at one another. In the east wing of the Royal Palace was the Hall of Justice. And here King Jong sat every morning from nine to eleven passing judgment on all cases that were brought before him.

"Had to chase his butterflies with a crown upon his head"

Then in the afternoon he taught school. The sort of things he taught were not always those you find in ordinary schools. Grown-ups as well as children came to learn. You see, these Indians were ignorant of many of the things that quite small white children know-though it is also true that they knew a lot that white grown-ups never dreamed of.

Bumpo and I helped with the teaching as far as we could-simple arithmetic, and easy things like that. But the classes in astronomy, farming science, the proper care of babies, with a host of other subjects, the Doctor had to teach himself. The Indians were tremendously keen about the schooling and they came in droves and crowds; so that even with the open-air classes (a school-house was impossible of course) the Doctor had to take them in relays and batches of five or six thousand at a time and used a big megaphone or trumpet to make himself heard.

The rest of his day was more than filled with road-making, building water-mills, attending the sick and a million other things.

In spite of his being so unwilling to become a king, John Dolittle made a very good one-once he got started. He may not have been as dignified as many kings in history who were always running off to war and getting themselves into romantic situations; but since I have grown up and seen something of foreign lands and governments I have often thought that Popsipetel under the reign of Jong Thinkalot was perhaps the best ruled state in the history of the world.

The Doctor's birthday came round after we had been on the island six months and a half. The people made a great public holiday of it and there was much feasting, dancing, fireworks, speechmaking and jollification.

Towards the close of the day the chief men of the two tribes formed a procession and passed through the streets of the town, carrying a very gorgeously painted tablet of ebony wood, ten feet high. This was a picture-history, such as they preserved for each of the ancient kings of Popsipetel to record their deeds.

With great and solemn ceremony it was set up over the door of the new palace: and everybody then clustered round to look at it. It had six pictures on it commemorating the six great events in the life of King Jong and beneath were written the verses that explained them. They were composed by the Court Poet; and this is a translation:


I

(His Landing on The Island)

Heaven-sent, In his dolphin-drawn canoe From worlds unknown He landed on our shores. The very palms Bowed down their heads In welcome to the coming King.


II

(His Meeting With The Beetle)

By moonlight in the mountains He communed with beasts. The shy Jabizri brings him picture-words Of great distress.


III

(He liberates The Lost Families)

Big was his heart with pity; Big were his hands with strength. See how he tears the mountain like a yam! See how the lost ones Dance forth to greet the day!


IV

(He Makes Fire)

Our land was cold and dying. He waved his hand and lo! Lightning leapt from cloudless skies; The sun leant down; And Fire was born! Then while we crowded round The grateful glow, pushed he Our wayward, floating land Back to peaceful anchorage In sunny seas.


V

(He Leads The People To Victory in War)

Once only Was his kindly countenance Darkened by a deadly frown. Woe to the wicked enemy That dares attack The tribe with Thinkalot for Chief!


VI

(He Is Crowned King)

The birds of the air rejoiced; The Sea laughed and gambolled with her shores; All Red-skins wept for joy The day we crowned him King. He is the Builder, the Healer, the Teacher and the Prince; He is the greatest of them all. May he live a thousand thousand years, Happy in his heart, To bless our land with Peace.



The Second Chapter

Thoughts Of Home


IN the Royal Palace Bumpo and I had a beautiful suite of rooms of our very own-which Polynesia, Jip and Chee-Chee shared with us. Officially Bumpo was Minister of the Interior; while I was First Lord of the Treasury. Long Arrow also had quarters there; but at present he was absent, traveling abroad.

One night after supper when the Doctor was away in the town somewhere visiting a new-born baby, we were all sitting round the big table in Bumpo's reception-room. This we did every evening, to talk over the plans for the following day and various affairs of state. It was a kind of Cabinet Meeting.

To-night however we were talking about England-and also about things to eat. We had got a little tired of Indian food. You see, none of the natives knew how to cook; and we had the most discouraging time training a chef for the Royal Kitchen. Most of them were champions at spoiling good food. Often we got so hungry that the Doctor would sneak downstairs with us into the palace basement, after all the cooks were safe in bed, and fry pancakes secretly over the dying embers of the fire. The Doctor himself was the finest cook that ever lived. But he used to make a terrible mess of the kitchen; and of course we had to be awfully careful that we didn't get caught.

Well, as I was saying, to-night food was the subject of discussion at the Cabinet Meeting; and I had just been reminding Bumpo of the nice dishes we had had at the bed-maker's house in Monteverde.

"I tell you what I would like now," said Bumpo: "a large cup of cocoa with whipped cream on the top of it. In Oxford we used to be able to get the most wonderful cocoa. It is really too bad they haven't any cocoa-trees in this island, or cows to give cream."

"When do you suppose," asked Jip, "the Doctor intends to move on from here?"

"I was talking to him about that only yesterday," said Polynesia. "But I couldn't get any satisfactory answer out of him. He didn't seem to want to speak about it."

There was a pause in the conversation.

"Do you know what I believe?" she added presently. "I believe the Doctor has given up even thinking of going home."

"Good Lord!" cried Bumpo. "You don't say!"

"Sh!" said Polynesia. "What's that noise?"

We listened; and away off in the distant corridors of the palace we heard the sentries crying,

"The King!-Make way!-The King!"

"It's he-at last," whispered Polynesia-"late, as usual. Poor man, how he does work!-Chee-Chee, get the pipe and tobacco out of the cupboard and lay the dressing-gown ready on his chair."

When the Doctor came into the room he looked serious and thoughtful. Wearily he took off his crown and hung it on a peg behind the door. Then he exchanged the royal cloak for the dressing-gown, dropped into his chair at the head of the table with a deep sigh and started to fill his pipe.

"Well," asked Polynesia quietly, "how did you find the baby?"

"The baby?" he murmured-his thoughts still seemed to be very far away-"Ah yes. The baby was much better, thank you-It has cut its second tooth."

Then he was silent again, staring dreamily at the ceiling through a cloud of tobacco-smoke; while we all sat round quite still, waiting.

"We were wondering, Doctor," said I at last,-"just before you came in-when you would be starting home again. We will have been on this island seven months to-morrow."

The Doctor sat forward in his chair looking rather uncomfortable.

"Well, as a matter of fact," said he after a moment, "I meant to speak to you myself this evening on that very subject. But it's-er-a little hard to make any one exactly understand the situation. I am afraid that it would be impossible for me to leave the work I am now engaged on.... You remember, when they first insisted on making me king, I told you it was not easy to shake off responsibilities, once you had taken them up. These people have come to rely on me for a great number of things. We found them ignorant of much that white people enjoy. And we have, one might say, changed the current of their lives considerably. Now it is a very ticklish business, to change the lives of other people. And whether the changes we have made will be, in the end, for good or for bad, is our lookout."

He thought a moment-then went on in a quieter, sadder voice:

"I would like to continue my voyages and my natural history work; and I would like to go back to Puddleby-as much as any of you. This is March, and the crocuses will be showing in the lawn.... But that which I feared has come true: I cannot close my eyes to what might happen if I should leave these people and run away. They would probably go back to their old habits and customs: wars, superstitions, devil-worship and what not; and many of the new things we have taught them might be put to improper use and make their condition, then, worse by far than that in which we found them.... They like me; they trust me; they have come to look to me for help in all their problems and troubles. And no man wants to do unfair things to them who trust him.... And then again, I like them. They are, as it were, my children-I never had any children of my own-and I am terribly interested in how they will grow up. Don't you see what I mean?-How can I possibly run away and leave them in the lurch?... No. I have thought it over a good deal and tried to decide what was best. And I am afraid that the work I took up when I assumed the crown I must stick to. I'm afraid-I've got to stay."

"For good-for your whole life?" asked Bumpo in a low voice.

For some moments the Doctor, frowning, made no answer.

"I don't know," he said at last-"Anyhow for the present there is certainly no hope of my leaving. It wouldn't be right."

The sad silence that followed was broken finally by a knock upon the door.

With a patient sigh the Doctor got up and put on his crown and cloak again.

"Come in," he called, sitting down in his chair once more.

The door opened and a footman-one of the hundred and forty-three who were always on night duty-stood bowing in the entrance.

"Oh, Kindly One," said he, "there is a traveler at the palace-gate who would have speech with Your Majesty."

"Another baby's been born, I'll bet a shilling," muttered Polynesia.

"Did you ask the traveler's name?" enquired the Doctor.

"Yes, Your Majesty," said the footman. "It is Long Arrow, the son of Golden Arrow."



The Third Chapter

The Red Man's Science


"LONG ARROW!" cried the Doctor. "How splendid! Show him in-show him in at once."

"I'm so glad," he continued, turning to us as soon as the footman had gone. "I've missed Long Arrow terribly. He's an awfully good man to have around-even if he doesn't talk much. Let me see: it's five months now since he went off to Brazil. I'm so glad he's back safe. He does take such tremendous chances with that canoe of his-clever as he is. It's no joke, crossing a hundred miles of open sea in a twelve-foot canoe. I wouldn't care to try it."

Another knock; and when the door swung open in answer to the Doctor's call, there stood our big friend on the threshold, a smile upon his strong, bronzed face. Behind him appeared two porters carrying loads done up in Indian palm-matting. These, when the first salutations were over, Long Arrow ordered to lay their burdens down.

"Behold, oh Kindly One," said he, "I bring you, as I promised, my collection of plants which I had hidden in a cave in the Andes. These treasures represent the labors of my life."

The packages were opened; and inside were many smaller packages and bundles. Carefully they were laid out in rows upon the table.

It appeared at first a large but disappointing display. There were plants, flowers, fruits, leaves, roots, nuts, beans, honeys, gums, bark, seeds, bees and a few kinds of insects.

The study of plants-or botany, as it is called-was a kind of natural history which had never interested me very much. I had considered it, compared with the study of animals, a dull science. But as Long Arrow began taking up the various things in his collection and explaining their qualities to us, I became more and more fascinated. And before he had done I was completely absorbed by the wonders of the Vegetable Kingdom which he had brought so far.

"These," said he, taking up a little packet of big seeds, "are what I have called laughing-beans.'"

"What are they for?" asked Bumpo.

"To cause mirth," said the Indian.

Bumpo, while Long Arrow's back was turned, took three of the beans and swallowed them.

"Alas!" said the Indian when he discovered what Bumpo had done. "If he wished to try the powers of these seeds he should have eaten no more than a quarter of a one. Let us hope that he does not die of laughter."

The beans' effect upon Bumpo was most extraordinary. First he broke into a broad smile; then he began to giggle; finally he burst into such prolonged roars of hearty laughter that we had to carry him into the next room and put him to bed. The Doctor said afterwards that he probably would have died laughing if he had not had such a strong constitution. All through the night he gurgled happily in his sleep. And even when we woke him up the next morning he rolled out of bed still chuckling.

Returning to the Reception Room, we were shown some red roots which Long Arrow told us had the property, when made into a soup with sugar and salt, of causing people to dance with extraordinary speed and endurance. He asked us to try them; but we refused, thanking him. After Bumpo's exhibition we were a little afraid of any more experiments for the present.

There was no end to the curious and useful things that Long Arrow had collected: an oil from a vine which would make hair grow in one night; an orange as big as a pumpkin which he had raised in his own mountain-garden in Peru; a black honey (he had brought the bees that made it too and the seeds of the flowers they fed on) which would put you to sleep, just with a teaspoonful, and make you wake up fresh in the morning; a nut that made the voice beautiful for singing; a water-weed that stopped cuts from bleeding; a moss that cured snake-bite; a lichen that prevented sea-sickness.

The Doctor of course was tremendously interested. Well into the early hours of the morning he was busy going over the articles on the table one by one, listing their names and writing their properties and descriptions into a note-book as Long Arrow dictated.

"There are things here, Stubbins," he said as he ended, "which in the hands of skilled druggists will make a vast difference to the medicine and chemistry of the world. I suspect that this sleeping-honey by itself will take the place of half the bad drugs we have had to use so far. Long Arrow has discovered a pharmacopeia of his own. Miranda was right: he is a great naturalist. His name deserves to be placed beside Linneus. Some day I must get all these things to England-But when," he added sadly-"Yes, that's the problem: when?"



The Fourth Chapter

The Sea-Serpent


FOR a long time after that Cabinet Meeting of which I have just told you we did not ask the Doctor anything further about going home. Life in Spidermonkey Island went forward, month in month out, busily and pleasantly. The Winter, with Christmas celebrations, came and went, and Summer was with us once again before we knew it.

As time passed the Doctor became more and more taken up with the care of his big family; and the hours he could spare for his natural history work grew fewer and fewer. I knew that he often still thought of his house and garden in Puddleby and of his old plans and ambitions; because once in a while we would notice his face grow thoughtful and a little sad, when something reminded him of England or his old life. But he never spoke of these things. And I truly believe he would have spent the remainder of his days on Spidermonkey Island if it hadn't been for an accident-and for Polynesia.

The old parrot had grown very tired of the Indians and she made no secret of it.

"The very idea," she said to me one day as we were walking on the seashore-"the idea of the famous John Dolittle spending his valuable life waiting on these greasy natives!-Why, it's preposterous!"

All that morning we had been watching the Doctor superintend the building of the new theatre in Popsipetel-there was already an opera-house and a concert-hall; and finally she had got so grouchy and annoyed at the sight that I had suggested her taking a walk with me.

"Do you really think," I asked as we sat down on the sands, "that he will never go back to Puddleby again?"

"I don't know," said she. "At one time I felt sure that the thought of the pets he had left behind at the house would take him home soon. But since Miranda brought him word last August that everything was all right there, that hope's gone. For months and months I've been racking my brains to think up a plan. If we could only hit upon something that would turn his thoughts back to natural history again-I mean something big enough to get him really excited-we might manage it. But how?"-she shrugged her shoulders in disgust-"How?-when all he thinks of now is paving streets and teaching papooses that twice one are two!"

It was a perfect Popsipetel day, bright and hot, blue and yellow. Drowsily I looked out to sea thinking of my mother and father. I wondered if they were getting anxious over my long absence. Beside me old Polynesia went on grumbling away in low steady tones; and her words began to mingle and mix with the gentle lapping of the waves upon the shore. It may have been the even murmur of her voice, helped by the soft and balmy air, that lulled me to sleep. I don't know. Anyhow I presently dreamed that the island had moved again-not floatingly as before, but suddenly, jerkily, as though something enormously powerful had heaved it up from its bed just once and let it down.

How long I slept after that I have no idea. I was awakened by a gentle pecking on the nose.

"Tommy!-Tommy!" (it was Polynesia's voice) "Wake up!-Gosh, what a boy, to sleep through an earthquake and never notice it!-Tommy, listen: here's our chance now. Wake up, for goodness' sake!"

"What's the matter?" I asked sitting up with a yawn.

"Sh!-Look!" whispered Polynesia pointing out to sea.

Still only half awake, I stared before me with bleary, sleep-laden eyes. And in the shallow water, not more than thirty yards from shore I saw an enormous pale pink shell. Dome-shaped, it towered up in a graceful rainbow curve to a tremendous height; and round its base the surf broke gently in little waves of white. It could have belonged to the wildest dream.

"What in the world is it?" I asked.

"That," whispered Polynesia, "is what sailors for hundreds of years have called the Sea-serpent. I've seen it myself more than once from the decks of ships, at long range, curving in and out of the water. But now that I see it close and still, I very strongly suspect that the Sea-serpent of history is no other than the Great Glass Sea-snail that the fidgit told us of. If that isn't the only fish of its kind in the seven seas, call me a carrion-crow-Tommy, we're in luck. Our job is to get the Doctor down here to look at that prize specimen before it moves off to the Deep Hole. If we can, then trust me, we may leave this blessed island yet. You stay here and keep an eye on it while I go after the Doctor. Don't move or speak-don't even breathe heavy: he might get scared-awful timid things, snails. Just watch him; and I'll be back in two shakes."

Stealthily creeping up the sands till she could get behind the cover of some bushes before she took to her wings, Polynesia went off in the direction of the town; while I remained alone upon the shore fascinatedly watching this unbelievable monster wallowing in the shallow sea.

It moved very little. From time to time it lifted its head out of the water showing its enormously long neck and horns. Occasionally it would try and draw itself up, the way a snail does when he goes to move, but almost at once it would sink down again as if exhausted. It seemed to me to act as though it were hurt underneath; but the lower part of it, which was below the level of the water, I could not see.

I was still absorbed in watching the great beast when Polynesia returned with the Doctor. They approached so silently and so cautiously that I neither saw nor heard them coming till I found them crouching beside me on the sand.

One sight of the snail changed the Doctor completely. His eyes just sparkled with delight. I had not seen him so thrilled and happy since the time we caught the Jabizri beetle when we first landed on the island.

"It is he!" he whispered-"the Great Glass Sea-snail himself-not a doubt of it. Polynesia, go down the shore a way and see if you can find any of the porpoises for me. Perhaps they can tell us what the snail is doing here-It's very unusual for him to be in shallow water like this. And Stubbins, you go over to the harbor and bring me a small canoe. But be most careful how you paddle it round into this bay. If the snail should take fright and go out into the deeper water, we may never get a chance to see him again."

"And don't tell any of the Indians," Polynesia added in a whisper as I moved to go. "We must keep this a secret or we'll have a crowd of sightseers round here in five minutes. It's mighty lucky we found the snail in a quiet bay."

Reaching the harbor, I picked out a small light canoe from among the number that were lying there and without telling any one what I wanted it for, got in and started off to paddle it down the shore.

I was mortally afraid that the snail might have left before I got back. And you can imagine how delighted I was, when I rounded a rocky cape and came in sight of the bay, to find he was still there.

Polynesia, I saw, had got her errand done and returned ahead of me, bringing with her a pair of porpoises. These were already conversing in low tones with John Dolittle. I beached the canoe and went up to listen.

"What I want to know," the Doctor was saying, "is how the snail comes to be here. I was given to understand that he usually stayed in the Deep Hole; and that when he did come to the surface it was always in mid-ocean."

"Oh, didn't you know?-Haven't you heard?" the porpoises replied: "you covered up the Deep Hole when you sank the island. Why yes: you let it down right on top of the mouth of the Hole-sort of put the lid on, as it were. The fishes that were in it at the time have been trying to get out ever since. The Great Snail had the worst luck of all: the island nipped him by the tail just as he was leaving the Hole for a quiet evening stroll. And he was held there for six months trying to wriggle himself free. Finally he had to heave the whole island up at one end to get his tail loose. Didn't you feel a sort of an earthquake shock about an hour ago?"

"Yes I did," said the Doctor, "it shook down part of the theatre I was building."

"Well, that was the snail heaving up the island to get out of the Hole," they said. "All the other fishes saw their chance and escaped when he raised the lid. It was lucky for them he's so big and strong. But the strain of that terrific heave told on him: he sprained a muscle in his tail and it started swelling rather badly. He wanted some quiet place to rest up; and seeing this soft beach handy he crawled in here."

"Dear me!" said the Doctor. "I'm terribly sorry. I suppose I should have given some sort of notice that the island was going to be let down. But, to tell the truth, we didn't know it ourselves; it happened by a kind of an accident. Do you imagine the poor fellow is hurt very badly?"

"We're not sure," said the porpoises; "because none of us can speak his language. But we swam right around him on our way in here, and he did not seem to be really seriously injured."

"Can't any of your people speak shellfish?" the Doctor asked.

"Not a word," said they. "It's a most frightfully difficult language."

"Do you think that you might be able to find me some kind of a fish that could?"

"We don't know," said the porpoises. "We might try."

"I should be extremely grateful to you if you would," said the Doctor. "There are many important questions I want to ask this snail-And besides, I would like to do my best to cure his tail for him. It's the least I can do. After all, it was my fault, indirectly, that he got hurt."

"Well, if you wait here," said the porpoises, "we'll see what can be done."



The Fifth Chapter

The Shellfish Riddle Solved At Last


SO Doctor Dolittle with a crown on his head sat down upon the shore like King Knut, and waited. And for a whole hour the porpoises kept going and coming, bringing up different kinds of sea-beasts from the deep to see if they could help him.

Many and curious were the creatures they produced. It would seem however that there were very few things that spoke shellfish except the shellfish themselves. Still, the porpoises grew a little more hopeful when they discovered a very old sea-urchin (a funny, ball-like, little fellow with long whiskers all over him) who said he could not speak pure shellfish, but he used to understand starfish-enough to get along-when he was young. This was coming nearer, even if it wasn't anything to go crazy about. Leaving the urchin with us, the porpoises went off once more to hunt up a starfish.

They were not long getting one, for they were quite common in those parts. Then, using the sea-urchin as an interpreter, they questioned the starfish. He was a rather stupid sort of creature; but he tried his best to be helpful. And after a little patient examination we found to our delight that he could speak shellfish moderately well.

Feeling quite encouraged, the Doctor and I now got into the canoe; and, with the porpoises, the urchin and the starfish swimming alongside, we paddled very gently out till we were close under the towering shell of the Great Snail.

And then began the most curious conversation I have ever witnessed. First the starfish would ask the snail something; and whatever answer the snail gave, the starfish would tell it to the sea-urchin, the urchin would tell it to the porpoises and the porpoises would tell it to the Doctor.

In this way we obtained considerable information, mostly about the very ancient history of the Animal Kingdom; but we missed a good many of the finer points in the snail's longer speeches on account of the stupidity of the starfish and all this translating from one language to another.

While the snail was speaking, the Doctor and I put our ears against the wall of his shell and found that we could in this way hear the sound of his voice quite plainly. It was, as the fidgit had described, deep and bell-like. But of course we could not understand a single word he said. However the Doctor was by this time terrifically excited about getting near to learning the language he had sought so long. And presently by making the other fishes repeat over and over again short phrases which the snail used, he began to put words together for himself. You see, he was already familiar with one or two fish languages; and that helped him quite a little. After he had practised for a while like this he leant over the side of the canoe and putting his face below the water, tried speaking to the snail direct.

It was hard and difficult work; and hours went by before he got any results. But presently I could tell by the happy look on his face that little by little he was succeeding.

The sun was low in the West and the cool evening breeze was beginning to rustle softly through the bamboo-groves when the Doctor finally turned from his work and said to me,

"Stubbins, I have persuaded the snail to come in on to the dry part of the beach and let me examine his tail. Will you please go back to the town and tell the workmen to stop working on the theatre for to-day? Then go on to the palace and get my medicine-bag. I think I left it under the throne in the Audience Chamber."

"And remember," Polynesia whispered as I turned away, "not a word to a soul. If you get asked questions, keep your mouth shut. Pretend you have a toothache or something."

This time when I got back to the shore-with the medicine-bag-I found the snail high and dry on the beach. Seeing him in his full length like this, it was easy to understand how old-time, superstitious sailors had called him the Sea-serpent. He certainly was a most gigantic, and in his way, a graceful, beautiful creature. John Dolittle was examining a swelling on his tail.

From the bag which I had brought the Doctor took a large bottle of embrocation and began rubbing the sprain. Next he took all the bandages he had in the bag and fastened them end to end. But even like that, they were not long enough to go more than halfway round the enormous tail. The Doctor insisted that he must get the swelling strapped tight somehow. So he sent me off to the palace once more to get all the sheets from the Royal Linen-closet. These Polynesia and I tore into bandages for him. And at last, after terrific exertions, we got the sprain strapped to his satisfaction.

The snail really seemed to be quite pleased with the attention he had received; and he stretched himself in lazy comfort when the Doctor was done. In this position, when the shell on his back was empty, you could look right through it and see the palm-trees on the other side.

"I think one of us had better sit up with him all night," said the Doctor. "We might put Bumpo on that duty; he's been napping all day, I know-in the summer-house. It's a pretty bad sprain, that; and if the snail shouldn't be able to sleep, he'll be happier with some one with him for company. He'll get all right though-in a few days I should judge. If I wasn't so confoundedly busy I'd sit up with him myself. I wish I could, because I still have a lot of things to talk over with him."

"But Doctor," said Polynesia as we prepared to go back to the town, "you ought to take a holiday. All Kings take holidays once in the while-every one of them. King Charles, for instance-of course Charles was before your time-but he!-why, he was always holiday-making. Not that he was ever what you would call a model king. But just the same, he was frightfully popular. Everybody liked him-even the golden-carp in the fish-pond at Hampton Court. As a king, the only thing I had against him was his inventing those stupid, little, snappy dogs they call King Charles Spaniels. There are lots of stories told about poor Charles; but that, in my opinion, is the worst thing he did. However, all this is beside the point. As I was saying, kings have to take holidays the same as anybody else. And you haven't taken one since you were crowned, have you now?"

"No," said the Doctor, "I suppose that's true."

"Well now I tell you what you do," said she: "as soon as you get back to the palace you publish a royal proclamation that you are going away for a week into the country for your health. And you're going without any servants, you understand-just like a plain person. It's called traveling incognito, when kings go off like that. They all do it-It's the only way they can ever have a good time. Then the week you're away you can spend lolling on the beach back there with the snail. How's that?"

"I'd like to," said the Doctor. "It sounds most attractive. But there's that new theatre to be built; none of our carpenters would know how to get those rafters on without me to show them-And then there are the babies: these native mothers are so frightfully ignorant."

"Oh bother the theatre-and the babies too," snapped Polynesia. "The theatre can wait a week. And as for babies, they never have anything more than colic. How do you suppose babies got along before you came here, for heaven's sake?-Take a holiday.... You need it."



The Sixth Chapter

The Last Cabinet Meeting


FROM the way Polynesia talked, I guessed that this idea of a holiday was part of her plan.

The Doctor made no reply; and we walked on silently towards the town. I could see, nevertheless that her words had made an impression on him.

After supper he disappeared from the palace without saying where he was going-a thing he had never done before. Of course we all knew where he had gone: back to the beach to sit up with the snail. We were sure of it because he had said nothing to Bumpo about attending to the matter.

As soon as the doors were closed upon the Cabinet Meeting that night, Polynesia addressed the Ministry:

"Look here, you fellows," said she: "we've simply got to get the Doctor to take this holiday somehow-unless we're willing to stay in this blessed island for the rest of our lives."

"But what difference," Bumpo asked, "is his taking a holiday going to make?"

Impatiently Polynesia turned upon the Minister of the Interior.

"Don't you see? If he has a clear week to get thoroughly interested in his natural history again-marine stuff, his dream of seeing the floor of the ocean and all that-there may be some chance of his consenting to leave this pesky place. But while he is here on duty as king he never gets a moment to think of anything outside of the business of government."

"Yes, that's true. He's far too consententious," Bumpo agreed.

"And besides," Polynesia went on, "his only hope of ever getting away from here would be to escape secretly. He's got to leave while he is holiday-making, incognito-when no one knows where he is or what he's doing, but us. If he built a ship big enough to cross the sea in, all the Indians would see it, and hear it, being built; and they'd ask what it was for. They would interfere. They'd sooner have anything happen than lose the Doctor. Why, I believe if they thought he had any idea of escaping they would put chains on him."

"Yes, I really think they would," I agreed. "Yet without a ship of some kind I don't see how the Doctor is going to get away, even secretly."

"Well, I'll tell you," said Polynesia. "If we do succeed in making him take this holiday, our next step will be to get the sea-snail to promise to take us all in his shell and carry us to the mouth of Puddleby River. If we can once get the snail willing, the temptation will be too much for John Dolittle and he'll come, I know-especially as he'll be able to take those new plants and drugs of Long Arrow's to the English doctors, as well as see the floor of the ocean on the way."

"How thrilling!" I cried. "Do you mean the snail could take us under the sea all the way back to Puddleby?"

"Certainly," said Polynesia, "a little trip like that is nothing to him. He would crawl along the floor of the ocean and the Doctor could see all the sights. Perfectly simple. Oh, John Dolittle will come all right, if we can only get him to take that holiday-and if the snail will consent to give us the ride."

"Golly, I hope he does!" sighed Jip. "I'm sick of these beastly tropics-they make you feel so lazy and good-for-nothing. And there are no rats or anything here-not that a fellow would have the energy to chase 'em even if there were. My, wouldn't I be glad to see old Puddleby and the garden again! And won't Dab-Dab be glad to have us back!"

"By the end of next month," said I, "it will be two whole years since we left England-since we pulled up the anchor at Kingsbridge and bumped our way out into the river."

"And got stuck on the mud-bank," added Chee-Chee in a dreamy, far-away voice.

"Do you remember how all the people waved to us from the river-wall?" I asked.

"Yes. And I suppose they've often talked about us in the town since," said Jip-"wondering whether we're dead or alive."

"Cease," said Bumpo, "I feel I am about to weep from sediment."



The Seventh Chapter

The Doctor's Decision


WELL, you can guess how glad we were when next morning the Doctor, after his all-night conversation with the snail, told us that he had made up his mind to take the holiday. A proclamation was published right away by the Town Crier that His Majesty was going into the country for a seven-day rest, but that during his absence the palace and the government offices would be kept open as usual.

Polynesia was immensely pleased. She at once set quietly to work making arrangements for our departure-taking good care the while that no one should get an inkling of where we were going, what we were taking with us, the hour of our leaving or which of the palace-gates we would go out by.

Cunning old schemer that she was, she forgot nothing. And not even we, who were of the Doctor's party, could imagine what reasons she had for some of her preparations. She took me inside and told me that the one thing I must remember to bring with me was all of the Doctor's note-books. Long Arrow, who was the only Indian let into the secret of our destination, said he would like to come with us as far as the beach to see the Great Snail; and him Polynesia told to be sure and bring his collection of plants. Bumpo she ordered to carry the Doctor's high hat-carefully hidden under his coat. She sent off nearly all the footmen who were on night duty to do errands in the town, so that there should be as few servants as possible to see us leave. And midnight, the hour when most of the townspeople would be asleep, she finally chose for our departure.

We had to take a week's food-supply with us for the royal holiday. So, with our other packages, we were heavy laden when on the stroke of twelve we opened the west door of the palace and stepped cautiously and quietly into the moonlit garden.

"Tiptoe incognito," whispered Bumpo as we gently closed the heavy doors behind us.

No one had seen us leave.

At the foot of the stone steps leading from the Peacock Terrace to the Sunken Rosary, something made me pause and look back at the magnificent palace which we had built in this strange, far-off land where no white men but ourselves had ever come. Somehow I felt it in my bones that we were leaving it to-night never to return again. And I wondered what other kings and ministers would dwell in its splendid halls when we were gone. The air was hot; and everything was deadly still but for the gentle splashing of the tame flamingoes paddling in the lily-pond. Suddenly the twinkling lantern of a night watchman appeared round the corner of a cypress hedge. Polynesia plucked at my stocking and, in an impatient whisper, bade me hurry before our flight be discovered.

On our arrival at the beach we found the snail already feeling much better and now able to move his tail without pain.

The porpoises (who are by nature inquisitive creatures) were still hanging about in the offing to see if anything of interest was going to happen. Polynesia, the plotter, while the Doctor was occupied with his new patient, signaled to them and drew them aside for a little private chat.

"Now see here, my friends," said she speaking low: "you know how much John Dolittle has done for the animals-given his whole life up to them, one might say. Well, here is your chance to do something for him. Listen: he got made king of this island against his will, see? And now that he has taken the job on, he feels that he can't leave it-thinks the Indians won't be able to get along without him and all that-which is nonsense, as you and I very well know. All right. Then here's the point: if this snail were only willing to take him and us-and a little baggage-not very much, thirty or forty pieces, say-inside his shell and carry us to England, we feel sure that the Doctor would go; because he's just crazy to mess about on the floor of the ocean. What's more this would be his one and only chance of escape from the island. Now it is highly important that the Doctor return to his own country to carry on his proper work which means such a lot to the animals of the world. So what we want you to do is to tell the sea-urchin to tell the starfish to tell the snail to take us in his shell and carry us to Puddleby River. Is that plain?"

"'Tiptoe incognito,' whispered Bumpo"

"Quite, quite," said the porpoises. "And we will willingly do our very best to persuade him-for it is, as you say, a perfect shame for the great man to be wasting his time here when he is so much needed by the animals."

"And don't let the Doctor know what you're about," said Polynesia as they started to move off. "He might balk if he thought we had any hand in it. Get the snail to offer on his own account to take us. See?"

John Dolittle, unaware of anything save the work he was engaged on, was standing knee-deep in the shallow water, helping the snail try out his mended tail to see if it were well enough to travel on. Bumpo and Long Arrow, with Chee-Chee and Jip, were lolling at the foot of a palm a little way up the beach. Polynesia and I now went and joined them.

Half an hour passed.

What success the porpoises had met with, we did not know, till suddenly the Doctor left the snail's side and came splashing out to us, quite breathless.

"What do you think?" he cried, "while I was talking to the snail just now he offered, of his own accord, to take us all back to England inside his shell. He says he has got to go on a voyage of discovery anyway, to hunt up a new home, now that the Deep Hole is closed. Said it wouldn't be much out of his way to drop us at Puddleby River, if we cared to come along-Goodness, what a chance! I'd love to go. To examine the floor of the ocean all the way from Brazil to Europe! No man ever did it before. What a glorious trip!-Oh that I had never allowed myself to be made king! Now I must see the chance of a lifetime slip by."

He turned from us and moved down the sands again to the middle beach, gazing wistfully, longingly out at the snail. There was something peculiarly sad and forlorn about him as he stood there on the lonely, moonlit shore, the crown upon his head, his figure showing sharply black against the glittering sea behind.

Out of the darkness at my elbow Polynesia rose and quietly moved down to his side.

"Now Doctor," said she in a soft persuasive voice as though she were talking to a wayward child, "you know this king business is not your real work in life. These natives will be able to get along without you-not so well as they do with you of course-but they'll manage-the same as they did before you came. Nobody can say you haven't done your duty by them. It was their fault: they made you king. Why not accept the snail's offer; and just drop everything now, and go? The work you'll do, the information you'll carry home, will be of far more value than what you're doing here."

"Good friend," said the Doctor turning to her sadly, "I cannot. They would go back to their old unsanitary ways: bad water, uncooked fish, no drainage, enteric fever and the rest.... No. I must think of their health, their welfare. I began life as a people's doctor: I seem to have come back to it in the end. I cannot desert them. Later perhaps something will turn up. But I cannot leave them now."

"That's where you're wrong, Doctor," said she. "Now is when you should go. Nothing will 'turn up.' The longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave-Go now. Go to-night."

"What, steal away without even saying good-bye to them! Why, Polynesia, what a thing to suggest!"

"A fat chance they would give you to say good-bye!" snorted Polynesia growing impatient at last. "I tell you, Doctor, if you go back to that palace tonight, for goodbys or anything else, you will stay there. Now-this moment-is the time for you to go."

The truth of the old parrot's words seemed to be striking home; for the Doctor stood silent a minute, thinking.

"But there are the note-books," he said presently: "I would have to go back to fetch them."

"I have them here, Doctor," said I, speaking up-"all of them."

Again he pondered.

"And Long Arrow's collection," he said. "I would have to take that also with me."

"It is here, Oh Kindly One," came the Indian's deep voice from the shadow beneath the palm.

"But what about provisions," asked the Doctor-"food for the journey?"

"We have a week's supply with us, for our holiday," said Polynesia-"that's more than we will need."

For a third time the Doctor was silent and thoughtful.

"And then there's my hat," he said fretfully at last. "That settles it: I'll have to go back to the palace. I can't leave without my hat. How could I appear in Puddleby with this crown on my head?"

"Here it is, Doctor," said Bumpo producing the hat, old, battered and beloved, from under his coat.

Polynesia had indeed thought of everything.

Yet even now we could see the Doctor was still trying to think up further excuses.

"Oh Kindly One," said Long Arrow, "why tempt ill fortune? Your way is clear. Your future and your work beckon you back to your foreign home beyond the sea. With you will go also what lore I too have gathered for mankind-to lands where it will be of wider use than it can ever here. I see the glimmerings of dawn in the eastern heaven. Day is at hand. Go before your subjects are abroad. Go before your project is discovered. For truly I believe that if you go not now you will linger the remainder of your days a captive king in Popsipetel."

Great decisions often take no more than a moment in the making. Against the now paling sky I saw the Doctor's figure suddenly stiffen. Slowly he lifted the Sacred Crown from off his head and laid it on the sands.

And when he spoke his voice was choked with tears.

"They will find it here," he murmured, "when they come to search for me. And they will know that I have gone.... My children, my poor children!-I wonder will they ever understand why it was I left them.... I wonder will they ever understand-and forgive."

He took his old hat from Bumpo; then facing Long Arrow, gripped his outstretched hand in silence.

"You decide aright, oh Kindly One," said the Indian-"though none will miss and mourn you more than Long Arrow, the son of Golden Arrow-Farewell, and may good fortune ever lead you by the hand!"

It was the first and only time I ever saw the Doctor weep. Without a word to any of us, he turned and moved down the beach into the shallow water of the sea.

The snail humped up its back and made an opening between its shoulders and the edge of its shell. The Doctor clambered up and passed within. We followed him, after handing up the baggage. The opening shut tight with a whistling suction noise.

Then turning in the direction of the East, the great creature began moving smoothly forward, down the slope into the deeper waters.

Just as the swirling dark green surf was closing in above our heads, the big morning sun popped his rim up over the edge of the ocean. And through our transparent walls of pearl we saw the watery world about us suddenly light up with that most wondrously colorful of visions, a daybreak beneath the sea.

*    *    *    *    *

The rest of the story of our homeward voyage is soon told.

Our new quarters we found very satisfactory. Inside the spacious shell, the snail's wide back was extremely comfortable to sit and lounge on-better than a sofa, when you once got accustomed to the damp and clammy feeling of it. He asked us, shortly after we started, if we wouldn't mind taking off our boots, as the hobnails in them hurt his back as we ran excitedly from one side to another to see the different sights.

The motion was not unpleasant, very smooth and even; in fact, but for the landscape passing outside, you would not know, on the level going, that you were moving at all.

I had always thought for some reason or other that the bottom of the sea was flat. I found that it was just as irregular and changeful as the surface of the dry land. We climbed over great mountain-ranges, with peaks towering above peaks. We threaded our way through dense forests of tall sea-plants. We crossed wide empty stretches of sandy mud, like deserts-so vast that you went on for a whole day with nothing ahead of you but a dim horizon. Sometimes the scene was moss-covered, rolling country, green and restful to the eye like rich pastures; so that you almost looked to see sheep cropping on these underwater downs. And sometimes the snail would roll us forward inside him like peas, when he suddenly dipped downward to descend into some deep secluded valley with steeply sloping sides.

In these lower levels we often came upon the shadowy shapes of dead ships, wrecked and sunk Heaven only knows how many years ago; and passing them we would speak in hushed whispers like children seeing monuments in churches.

Here too, in the deeper, darker waters, monstrous fishes, feeding quietly in caves and hollows would suddenly spring up, alarmed at our approach, and flash away into the gloom with the speed of an arrow. While other bolder ones, all sorts of unearthly shapes and colors, would come right up and peer in at us through the shell.

"I suppose they think we are a sort of sanaquarium," said Bumpo-"I'd hate to be a fish."

It was a thrilling and ever-changing show. The Doctor wrote or sketched incessantly. Before long we had filled all the blank note-books we had left. Then we searched our pockets for any odd scraps of paper on which to jot down still more observations. We even went through the used books a second time, writing in between the lines, scribbling all over the covers, back and front.

Our greatest difficulty was getting enough light to see by. In the lower waters it was very dim. On the third day we passed a band of fire-eels, a sort of large, marine glow-worm; and the Doctor asked the snail to get them to come with us for a way. This they did, swimming alongside; and their light was very helpful, though not brilliant.

How our giant shellfish found his way across that vast and gloomy world was a great puzzle to us. John Dolittle asked him by what means he navigated-how he knew he was on the right road to Puddleby River. And what the snail said in reply got the Doctor so excited, that having no paper left, he tore out the lining of his precious hat and covered it with notes.

By night of course it was impossible to see anything; and during the hours of darkness the snail used to swim instead of crawl. When he did so he could travel at a terrific speed, just by waggling that long tail of his. This was the reason why we completed the trip in so short a time-five and a half days.

The air of our chamber, not having a change in the whole voyage, got very close and stuffy; and for the first two days we all had headaches. But after that we got used to it and didn't mind it in the least.

Early in the afternoon of the sixth day, we noticed we were climbing a long gentle slope. As we went upward it grew lighter. Finally we saw that the snail had crawled right out of the water altogether and had now come to a dead stop on a long strip of gray sand.

Behind us we saw the surface of the sea rippled by the wind. On our left was the mouth of a river with the tide running out. While in front, the low flat land stretched away into the mist-which prevented one from seeing very far in any direction. A pair of wild ducks with craning necks and whirring wings passed over us and disappeared like shadows, seaward.

As a landscape, it was a great change from the hot brilliant sunshine of Popsipetel.

With the same whistling suction sound, the snail made the opening for us to crawl out by. As we stepped down upon the marshy land we noticed that a fine, drizzling autumn rain was falling.

"Can this be Merrie England?" asked Bumpo, peering into the fog-"doesn't look like any place in particular. Maybe the snail hasn't brought us right after all."

"Yes," sighed Polynesia, shaking the rain off her feathers, "this is England all right-You can tell it by the beastly climate."

"Oh, but fellows," cried Jip, as he sniffed up the air in great gulps, "it has a smell-a good and glorious smell!-Excuse me a minute: I see a water-rat."

"Sh!-Listen!" said Chee-Chee through teeth that chattered with the cold. "There's Puddleby church-clock striking four. Why don't we divide up the baggage and get moving. We've got a long way to foot it home across the marshes."

"Let's hope," I put in, "that Dab-Dab has a nice fire burning in the kitchen."

"I'm sure she will," said the Doctor as he picked out his old handbag from among the bundles-"With this wind from the East she'll need it to keep the animals in the house warm. Come on. Let's hug the river-bank so we don't miss our way in the fog. You know, there's something rather attractive in the bad weather of England-when you've got a kitchen-fire to look forward to.... Four o'clock! Come along-we'll just be in nice time for tea."

<eob>

The Treasure Of The Incas: A Story Of Adventure In Peru

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter I

How It Came About


Two men were sitting in the smoking-room of a London club. The room was almost empty, and as they occupied arm-chairs in one corner of it, they were able to talk freely without fear of being overheard. One of them was a man of sixty, the other some five or six and twenty.

"I must do something," the younger man said, "for I have been kicking my heels about London since my ship was paid off two years ago. At first, of course, it didn't matter, for I have enough to live upon; but recently I have been fool enough to fall in love with a girl whose parents would never dream of allowing her to marry a half-pay lieutenant of the navy with no chance in the world of getting employed again, for I have no interest whatever."

"It is an awkward case certainly, Prendergast," the other said; "and upon my word, though I sympathize with you, I cannot blame Fortescue. He is not what you might call a genial man, but there is no doubt that he was a splendid lawyer and a wonderful worker. For ten years he earned more than any man at the bar. I know that he was twice offered the solicitor-generalship, but as he was making two or three times the official salary, he would not take it. I believe he would have gone on working till now had he not suddenly come in for a very fine estate, owing to the death, in the course of two or three years, of four men who stood between him and it. Besides, I fancy he got hints that in the general opinion of the bar he had had a wonderfully good innings, and it was about time that younger men had a share in it. What his savings were I do not know, but they must be very large. His three sons are all at the bar, and are rising men, so there was no occasion for him to go on piling up money for them. But, as I say, he has always had the reputation of being a hard man, and it is practically certain that he would never allow his daughter to marry a man whom he would regard as next door to a pauper. Now, what are you thinking of doing?"

"Well, sir, Miss Fortescue has agreed to wait for me for two years, and of course I am eager to do something, but the question is what? I can sail a ship, but even could I get the command of a merchantman, it would not improve my position in the eyes of the parents of the lady in question. Now, you have been knocking about all over the world, I do wish you would give me your advice. Where is there money to be got? I am equally ready to go to the North Pole or the Equator, to enter the service of an Indian prince, or to start in search of a treasure hidden by the old bucaneers."

"You talk Spanish, don't you?"

"Yes; all my service has been in the Mediterranean. We were two years off the coast of Spain, and in and out of its ports, and as time hung heavily on our hands, I got up the language partly to amuse myself and partly to be able to talk fluently with my partners at a ball."

The elder man did not speak for a minute or two.

"You have not thought of South America?" he said at last.

"No, Mr. Barnett; I don't know that I have ever thought of one place more than another."

The other was again silent.

"I don't think you could do better anywhere," he said slowly. "It is a land with great possibilities; at any rate it is a land where you could be understood, and of course it would be folly to go anywhere without a knowledge of the language. I was, as you know, five years out there, and came home when the war broke out between Chili and the Spaniards. I have been more in Peru than in Chili, and as Peru was still in the hands of the Spanish, it would have been impossible for me to go there again as long as the war lasted. Knocking about as I did, I heard a great deal from the natives (I mean the Indians). I gathered from them a number of their traditions, and I am convinced that they know of any number of gold mines that were formerly worked, but were blocked up when the Spaniards invaded the country, and have been kept secret ever since.

"The natives have never spoken on the subject at all to the Spaniards. If they had, they would have been flogged until they revealed all they knew -- that is to say, they would have been flogged to death, for no tortures will wring from an Indian anything he knows about gold. They look upon that metal as the source of all the misfortunes that have fallen upon their race. With an Englishman whom they knew and trusted, and who, as they also knew, had no wish whatever to discover gold mines, they were a little less reticent. I never asked them any questions on a subject in which I had not a shadow of interest, but I certainly had some curiosity, not of a pecuniary kind, because the matter had always been a riddle as to the hiding-place of the Incas' treasures. And from what I learned I should say it is absolutely certain that a great portion of these escaped the search of their Spanish tyrants.

"Whether the men who were employed in the work all died without revealing the secret, or whether it had been trusted to a chosen few, I know not; but the natives believe that there are still a few among them to whom the secret has been passed down from father to son. Anyhow, all had heard vague traditions. Some said that part of the treasure was carried hundreds of miles inland and given over to a tribe of fierce savages, in a country into which no European can enter. Another tradition is that a portion of it was carried off by sea in a great canoe, which was never heard of again and was believed to have been lost. I am not for a moment supposing, Prendergast, that if you went out there you would have the most remote chance of discovering what the Spaniards, ever since they landed there, have been in vain trying to find, and I certainly should not think of recommending a mad-brained adventure, but undoubtedly there are many rich gold mines yet to be found. There are openings for trade, too; and I can give you introductions to merchants both in Chili and Peru. It is not a thing I should recommend to everyone, far from it; but if you want to combine adventure with a chance, however small, of making money, I don't know that you can do better than go to South America. You are fitted for no calling here; your income, counting your half-pay, would suffice to keep you out there, and a couple of years of such a life would do you no harm."

"It is just what I should like," the young man said enthusiastically; "though I don't know how I should set to work if I did find a mine."

"You would have to bring home specimens, with particulars of the width of the lode. Of course you would crush pieces up and wash them yourself, or get your Indian to wash them; that would give you an approximate idea of the percentage of gold. If it were rich, I could introduce you to men who would advance money for working it, giving you a share of the profits. They would send out a mining expert with you. He would verify your report, and then you would take up the concession. I don't know whether there have been any changes in the regulations, but there is no difficulty in learning how to proceed from one or other of the men to whom I will give you introductions. The thing would not be worth thinking of were it not that the man who always went with me as guide and muleteer is an Indian, and has, I am convinced, a knowledge of some of these places. He was with me all the time I was out there. I saved his life when a puma sprang upon him, and he more than once hinted that he could make me a rich man, but I had no inclination that way, my income being sufficient for all my wants. Still, on the chance that he is alive -- and he was about thirty when he was with me fifteen years ago, so it is probable that he is still to the fore -- I will give you a letter to him telling him that you are a dear friend of mine, and that I trust to him to do any service he can for you just as he would have done for myself. Had it not been for that I should never have mentioned the matter to you. These old mines are the dream of every Peruvian. They have been searching for them ever since the conquest of the country, and as they have failed, it is absurd to think that an Englishman would have the slightest chance of lighting upon a mine, still less of finding any of the Incas' treasures. But with the Indian's aid it is just possible that you may find something, though I should advise you most strongly not to build in any way upon the chance. I consider that you cannot possibly win Miss Fortescue; that being so, two years of knocking about will not make your position worse, and by the time you come back, you may have ceased to struggle against fate. It will afford you a remote -- but distinctly remote -- opportunity of bettering your position, will give you something else to think about besides that young lady's charms, and you may even come to recognize that life is, after all, possible without her. You may shake your head, lad; but you know children cry for the moon sometimes, yet afterwards come to understand that it would not be a desirable plaything."

"Well, at any rate, Mr. Barnett, I am extremely obliged for your suggestion and for your offer of introductions. It is just the life that I should enjoy thoroughly. As you say, the chance that anything will come of it is extremely small, but at least there is a possibility, and I take it as a drowning man catches at a straw."

"By the way, you mustn't think only of gold; silver is, after all, the chief source of the riches of Peru, and there are numbers of extraordinarily rich mines. It is calculated that three hundred millions have been produced since the first occupation by the Spaniards. Quicksilver is also very abundant; copper and lead are found too, but there is not much to be done with them at present, owing to the cost of carriage. There is good shooting in the mountains on the eastern side of the Andes, and you will find plenty of sport there."

They talked over the matter for some time before they separated, and Harry Prendergast became quite excited over it. On his return to his rooms he was astonished to find the candles alight and a strong smell of tobacco pervading the place. A lad of about sixteen leapt from the easy-chair in which he had been sitting, with his feet on another.

"Hullo, Harry, I didn't expect you back so soon! The maid said you were dining out, and I suppose that generally means one o'clock before you are back."

"Well, what brings you here, Bert? I thought I had got you off my hands for a year at least."

"I thought so, myself," the lad said coolly; "but circumstances have been too strong for me. We were running down the Channel the night before last, when a craft that was beating up ran smack into us. I don't know that it was his fault more than ours; the night was dark, and it was very thick, and we did not see each other until she was within a length of us. Luck was against us; if she had been a few seconds quicker we should have caught her broadside, but as it was she rammed us, knocking a hole in our side as big as a house, and we had just time to jump on board her. Our old craft went down two minutes after the skipper, who was of course the last man, left her. The other fellow had stove his bow in. Luckily we were only about a couple of miles off Dungeness, and though she leaked like a sieve, we were able to run her into the bay, where she settled down in two and a half fathoms of water. As soon as it was light we landed and tramped to Dover. A hoy was starting for the river that evening, and most of us came up in her, arriving at the Pool about three hours ago. It is a bad job, Harry, and I am horribly put out about it. Of course nothing could be saved, and there is all the new kit you bought for me down at the bottom. I sha'n't bother you again; I have quite made up my mind that I shall ship before the mast this time, and a five-pound note will buy me a good enough outfit for that."

"We need not talk about that now, Bertie. You are certainly an unlucky beggar; this is the second time you have been wrecked."

"It is a frightful nuisance," the boy said. "It is the kit I am thinking of, otherwise I should not mind. I didn't care for the skipper. He seemed all right and decent enough before we started, but I soon heard from fellows who had sailed with him before that he was a tartar; and what was worse, they said he was in the habit of being drunk two nights out of three. However, that has nothing to do with it. I am really awfully sorry, Harry. You have been a thundering good elder brother. I hated to think that you had to shell out last time, and I have quite made up my mind that you sha'n't do it again."

"Well, it cannot be helped; it is no fault of yours; still, of course, it is a nuisance. Thank God that no harm has come to you, that is the principal thing. Now, sit down and go on with your pipe, you young monkey. I did not think you had taken to smoking."

"One has to," the lad said, "everyone else does it; and there is no doubt that, when you have got the middle watch on cold nights with foul winds, it is a comfort."

"Well, go on smoking," his brother said. "I will light up too. Now shut your mouth altogether. I want to think."

They were silent for fully ten minutes, then Harry said;

"I told you about that business of mine with Miss Fortescue."

Bertie grinned all over his face, which, as he sat, was not visible to his brother. Then with preternatural gravity he turned towards him.

"Yes, you told me about it; an uncomfortable business wasn't it? -- surly old father, lovely daughter, and so on."

"I will pull your ear for you, you young scamp," Harry said wrathfully, "if you make fun of it; and I have a good mind not to say what I was going to."

"Say it, Harry, don't mind my feelings," the lad said. "You can't say I did not stand it well when I was here last week, and gave you no end of sympathy. Go ahead, old fellow; I dare say I shall be taken bad some day, and then I shall be able to make allowances for you."

"I'll have nothing more to say to you, you young imp."

"Don't say that, Harry," the lad said in a tone of alarm. "You know how sympathizing I am, and I know what a comfort it is for you to unburden yourself; but I do think that it won't be necessary to go into personal descriptions, you know, or to tell me what you said to her or she said to you, because you told me all that ten days ago, also what her tyrannical old father said. But really seriously I am awfully sorry about it all, and if there is anything that I can possibly do for you I shall be only too pleased. I don't see that it would be any advantage for me to go and give the old gentleman my opinion of him; but if you think it would, and can coach me in some of his sore points, we might see how we could work upon them."

"I always thought you were a young ass, Bertie," Harry said sternly, "but I have not realized before how utterly assified you are."

"All right, Harry!" the lad said cheerfully; "hit me as hard as you like, under the circumstances I feel that I cannot kick."

Harry said nothing for another five minutes.

"This is a serious matter," he said at last, "and I don't want any tomfoolery."

"All right, Harry! I will be as serious as a judge."

"I am thinking of going away for two years."

The lad turned half round in his chair and had a good look at his brother.

"Where are you going to?" seeing by Harry's rather gloomy face that he was quite in earnest.

"I believe I am going to Peru."

"What are you going there for, Harry?" the lad said quietly.

"I told you," the other went on, "that Mr. Fortescue said that he had no personal objection to me, but that if I was in a position to give his daughter a home equal to that which I wanted her to leave, he would be content."

Bertie nodded.

"This seemed to me hopeless," Harry went on. "I told you that she was willing to wait for two years, but that she couldn't promise much longer than that, for her father had set his mind on her making a good match; he has certainly put a tremendous pressure upon her. When I was talking at the club this evening to Mr. Barnett -- you know that he is our oldest friend and is one of our trustees -- I told him about it, and said that though I was ready to do anything and go anywhere I could not see my way at all to making a big fortune straight away. He agreed with me. After talking it over he said he knew of but one way by which such a thing would be at all possible, but the betting would be twenty thousand to one against it. Of course I said that if there was even a possibility I would try it. Well, you know he was in Peru for some years. He says that the natives have all sorts of legends about rich mines that were hidden when the Spaniards came first, and that it is certain that, tremendous as was the amount of loot they got, a great part of the Incas' treasure was hidden away. Once or twice there had been great finds-in one case two million and a half dollars. It is believed that the secret is still known to certain Indians. When he went out there he had a muleteer, whose life he saved when he was attacked by some beast or other, and this man as much as hinted that he knew of a place where treasure might be concealed; but as Barnett was interested in beasts and plants and that sort of thing, and had a comfortable fortune, he never troubled himself about it one way or another. Well, he offered to give me a letter to this man, and he regarded it as just possible that the fellow, who seems to be a descendant of some of the people who were members of the Incas' court at the time the Spaniards came, may have some knowledge of the rich mines that were then closed down, and that he may be able to show them to me, from his feeling of gratitude to Barnett. It is but one chance in a million, and as I can see no other possibility of making a fortune in two years, I am going to try it."

"Of course you will," the lad said excitedly, "and I should think that you would take me with you."

"I certainly had not dreamt of doing so, Bertie. But if I have to keep on getting fresh outfits for you, the idea has come into my mind during the last half-hour that I could not do better."

"Harry, you are sure to be disappointed lots of times before you hit on a treasure, and then if you were all by yourself you would get down in the mouth. Now, I should be able to keep you going, pat you on the back when you felt sick, help you to fight Indians and wild beasts, and be useful in all sorts of ways."

"That is like your impudence, Bertie," the other laughed. "Seriously, I know I shall be a fool to take you, and if I really thought I had any chance to speak of I should not do so; but though I am going to try, I don't expect for a moment that I shall succeed. I feel that really it would be a comfort to have someone with me upon whom I could rely in such a life as I should have to lead. It certainly would be lonely work for one man. The only doubt in my mind is whether it will be fair to you -- you have got your profession."

"But I can go back to it if nothing good turns up, Harry. I can visit the firm and tell them that I am going to travel with you for a bit, and hope that on my return they will take me back again and let me finish my apprenticeship. I should think they would be rather glad, for they always build and never buy ships, and it will take them six months to replace the Stella. Besides, it will do me a lot of good. I shall pick up Spanish -- at least, I suppose that is the language they speak out there -- and shall learn no end of things. As you know, we trade with the west coast of America, so I should be a lot more useful to the firm when I come back than I am now."

"Well, I will think it over, and let you know in the morning. I must certainly consult Mr. Barnett, for he is your trustee as well as mine. If we go I shall work my way out. It will be a big expense, anyhow, and I don't mean, if possible, to draw upon my capital beyond three or four hundred pounds. I believe living is cheap out there, and if I buy three or four mules I shall then have to pay only the wages for the muleteers, and the expenses of living. Of course I shall arrange for my income and half-pay to be sent out to some firm at Lima. Now, you had better go off to bed, and don't buoy yourself up with the belief that you are going, for I have by no means decided upon taking you yet."

"You will decide to take me, Harry," the lad said confidently, and then added with a laugh: "the fact that you should have adopted a plan like this is quite sufficient to show that you want somebody to look after you."

Harry Prendergast did not get much sleep that night. He blamed himself for having mentioned the matter at all to Bertie, and yet the more he thought over it the more he felt that it would be very pleasant to have his brother with him. The lad was full of fun and mischief, but he knew that he had plenty of sound sense, and would be a capital companion, and the fact that he had been three years at sea, and was accustomed to turn his hand to anything, was all in his favour. If nothing came of it he would only have lost a couple of years, and, as the boy himself had said, the time would not have been altogether wasted. Bertie was down before him in the morning. He looked anxiously at his brother as he came in.

"Well, Harry?"

"Well, I have thought it over in every light. But in the first place, Bertie, if you go with me you will have to remember that I am your commanding officer. I am ten years older than you, and besides I am a lieutenant in the King's Navy, while you are only a midshipman in the merchant service. Now, I shall expect as ready obedience from you as if I were captain of my own ship and you one of my men; that is absolutely essential."

"Of course, Harry, it could not be otherwise."

"Very well, then; in the next place I shall abide by what Mr. Barnett says. He is your guardian as well as trustee, and has a perfect right to put a veto upon any wild expedition of this sort. Lastly, I should hope, although I don't say that this is absolutely necessary, that you may get your employer's promise to take you back again in order that you may complete your time."

"Thank you very much, Harry!" the lad said gratefully. "The first condition you may rely upon being performed, and I think the third will be all right, for I know that I have always been favourably reported upon. Old Prosser told me so himself when he said that I should have a rise in my pay this voyage. As to Mr. Barnett, of course I can't say, but I should think, as it was he who put you up to this, he must see that it would be good for you to have someone to take care of you."

"I think he is much more likely to say that I shall have quite enough to do to take care of myself, without having the bother of looking after you. However, I will go and see him this morning. You had better call upon your employers."

"Don't you think I had better go to Mr. Barnett with you, Harry?"

"Not as you are now anyhow, Bertie. Your appearance is positively disgraceful. You evidently had on your worst suit of clothes when you were wrecked, and I can see that they have not been improved by the experience. Why, there is a split right down one sleeve, and a big rent in your trousers!"

"I got them climbing on board, for I had no time to pick and choose, with the Stella sinking under my feet."

"Well, you may as well go as you are, but you had better borrow a needle and thread from the landlady and mend up the holes. You really cannot walk through the city in that state. I will see about getting you some more clothes when we get back, for I cannot have you coming here in these in broad daylight. Here are three guineas; get yourself a suit of pilot cloth at some outfitter's at the East End. It will be useful to you anyhow, whether you go with me or ship again here."

"There is a good deal in what you say, Harry," Mr. Barnett said when Prendergast asked his opinion as to his taking his brother with him. "Two years would not make any material difference in his career as a sailor; it simply means that he will be so much older when he passes as mate. There is no harm in that. Two or three and twenty is quite young enough for a young fellow to become an officer, and I don't think that many captains care about having lads who have just got their certificate. They have not the same sense of responsibility or the same power of managing. Then, too, Bertie will certainly have a good deal of knocking about if he spends a couple of years in South America, and the knowledge he will gain of Spanish will add to his value with any firm trading on that coast. As far as you are concerned, I think it would be a great advantage to have him with you. In a long expedition, such as you propose, it is a gain to have a companion with you. It makes the work more pleasant, and two men can laugh over hardships and disagreeables that one alone would grumble at; but apart from this, it is very important in case of illness.

"A lonely man laid up with fever, or accidental injury, fares badly indeed if he is at a distance from any town where he can obtain medical attendance, and surrounded only by ignorant natives. I was myself at one time down with fever for six weeks in a native hut, and during that time I would have given pretty nearly all that I was worth for the sight of a white face and the sound of an English voice. As to the fact that it is possible that the lad might catch fever, or be killed in an affray with natives, that must, of course, be faced; but as a sailor he runs the risk of shipwreck, or of being washed overboard, or killed by a falling spar. Everything considered, I think the idea of his going with you is a good one. I don't suppose that many guardians would be of the same opinion, but I have been so many years knocking about in one part of the world or another, that I don't look at things in the same light as men who have never been out of England."

"I am glad you see it in that way, sir. I own that it would be a great satisfaction to have him with me. He certainly would be a cheery companion, and I should say that he is as hard as nails, and can stand as much fatigue and hardship as myself. Besides, there is no doubt that in case of any trouble two men are better than one."

"I cannot advance any money out of the thousand pounds that will come to him when he is of age. By your father's will it was ordered that, in the event of his own death before that time, the interest was to accumulate. Your father foresaw that, like you, probably Bertie would take to the sea, and as the amount would be fully two thousand pounds by the time he comes of age, it would enable him to buy a share in any ship that he might, when he passed his last examination, command; but I will myself draw a cheque for a hundred pounds, which will help towards meeting expenses. I feel myself to some extent responsible for this expedition. I somewhat regret now having ever spoken to you on the subject, for I cannot conceal from myself that the chance of your making a discovery, where the Spaniards, with all their power of putting pressure on the natives for the past two or three hundred years, have failed, is so slight as to be scarcely worth consideration.

"I tell you frankly that I broached the subject chiefly because I thought it was much better for you to be doing something than kicking your heels about London, and mooning over this affair with Miss Fortescue. There is nothing worse for a young man than living in London with just enough to keep him comfortably without the necessity of working. Therefore I thought you would be far better travelling and hunting for treasure in Peru, than staying here. Even if you fail, as I feel is almost certain, in the object for which you go out, you will have plenty to occupy your thoughts, and not be dwelling continually upon an attachment which in all probability will not turn out satisfactorily. I do not suppose that you are likely to forget Miss Fortescue, but by the time you return you will have accustomed yourself to the thought that it is useless to cry for the moon, and that, after all, life may be very endurable even if she does not share it. Therefore I propounded this Peruvian adventure, feeling sure that, whatever came of it, it would be a benefit to you."

"No doubt it will, sir. I see myself the chance of success is small indeed, but there is none at all in any other way. It is just the sort of thing I should like, and I quite feel myself that it would be good for me to have plenty to think about; and now that you have consented to Bertie's going with me, I feel more eager than before to undertake the expedition. The place is in rather a disturbed state, isn't it?"

"If you are going to wait until Peru ceases to be in a disturbed state, Harry, you may wait another hundred years. The Spanish rule was bad, but Peru was then a pleasant place to live in compared with what it is now. It is a sort of cock-pit, where a succession of ambitious rascals struggle for the spoils, and the moment one gets the better of his rivals fresh intrigues are set on foot, and fresh rebellions break out. There are good Peruvians -- men who have estates and live upon them, and who are good masters. But as to the politicians, there is no principle whatever at stake. It is simply a question of who shall have the handling of the national revenue, and divide it and the innumerable posts among his adherents. But these struggles will not affect you largely. In one respect they will even be an advantage. Bent upon their own factious aims, the combatants have no time to concern themselves with the doings of an English traveller, whose object out there is ostensibly to botanize and shoot. Were one of them to obtain the undisputed control of affairs he might meddle in all sorts of ways; but, as it is, after you have once got pretty well beyond the area of their operations, you can regard their doings with indifference, knowing that the longer they go on fighting the fewer scoundrels there will be in the land.

"But even were they to think that it was mining, and not science or sport that took you out there, they would scarcely interfere with you. It is admitted by all the factions that Peru needs capital for her development, and at present that can best be got from this country. The discovery of a fresh mine means employment to a large number of people, and the increase of the revenues by a royalty or taxation. English explorers who have gone out have never had any reason to complain of interference on the part of the authorities. You will find the average better class of Peruvians a charming people, and extremely hospitable. The ladies are pretty enough to turn the head of anyone whose affections are not already engaged. The men are kindly and courteous in the extreme. However, you would have little to do with these.

"In the mountains you would largely depend upon your rifle for food, and on what you could get in the scattered native villages. The Indians have no love for the Peruvians. They find their condition no better off under them than it was under the Spaniards. Once they find out that you are English they will do all in their power for you. It is to Cochrane and the English officers with him that they owe the overthrow and expulsion of their Spanish tyrants, and they are vastly more grateful than either the Chilians or Peruvians have shown themselves to be."

On returning to their lodgings Harry met his brother, who had been into the city.

"Old Prosser was very civil," said Bertie. "He said that as their ships were chiefly in the South American trade it would be a great advantage for me to learn to speak Spanish well. They had not yet thought anything about whether they should order another ship to replace the Stella; at any rate, at present they had no vacancy, and would gladly give me permission to travel in South America, and would find me a berth to finish my apprenticeship when I returned. More than that, they said that as I had always been so favourably reported upon they would put me on as a supernumerary in the Para, which will sail in a fortnight for Callao. I should not draw pay, but I should be in their service, and the time would count, which would be a great pull, and I should get my passage for nothing."

"That is capital. Of course I will take a passage in her too."

"And what does Mr. Barnett say?"

"Rather to my surprise, Bertie, he did not disapprove of the plan at all. He thought it would be a good thing for me to have you with me in case of illness or anything of that sort. Then no doubt he thought to some extent it would keep you out of mischief."

"I don't believe he thought anything of the sort. Did he say so?"

"Well, no, he didn't; but I have no doubt he felt it in some way a sort of relief."

"That is all very fine. I know, when I have been down to his place in the country between voyages, I have always been as well behaved as if I had been a model mid."

"Well, I have heard some tales of your doings, Bertie, that didn't seem quite in accord with the character you give yourself."

"Oh, of course I had a few larks! You cannot expect a fellow who has been away from England for a year to walk about as soberly as if he were a Methodist parson!"

"No, I should not expect that, Bertie. But, on the other hand, I should hardly have expected that he would, for example, risk breaking his neck by climbing up to the top of the steeple and fastening a straw-hat on the head of the weathercock."

"It gave it a very ornamental appearance; and that weathercock was never before watched so regularly by the people of the village as it was from that time till the hat was blown away in a gale."

"That I can quite believe. Still, Mr. Barnett told me that the rector lodged a complaint about it."

"He might complain as much as he liked; there is no law in the land, as far as I know, that makes the fixing of a straw-hat upon a weathercock a penal offence. It did no end of good in the village, gave them something to talk about, and woke them up wonderfully."

"And there were other things too, I think," his brother went on.

"Oh, well, you need not go into them now! they are an old story. Besides, I fancy I have heard of various tricks played by Mr. Midshipman Harry Prendergast, and, as I heard them from your lips, I cannot doubt but that they were strictly veracious. Well, this is jolly now. When are we going to begin to get our outfit?"

"We will lose no time about that. But really there is not much to get -- a couple of good rifles and two brace of pistols, with a good store of ammunition, those clothes you have just bought, and two or three suits of duck for the voyage. I shan't get any special kit until we arrive there, and can take the advice of people at Lima whether we had better travel in European clothes or in those worn by the Peruvians. Of course saddles and bridles and all that sort of thing we can buy there, and we shall want a small tent to use when we get into out-of-the-way places. I shall take three hundred pounds in gold. I have no doubt we can exchange it into silver profitably; besides, it is much more handy for carrying about. I shall go down this afternoon and see Prosser and secure a berth."

"I think you will have to arrange that with the captain. Very few of our ships have accommodation for passengers, but the captains are allowed to take one or two if they like."

"All right! At any rate I must go to the office first. They can refer me to the skipper if they like; that would be better than my going to him direct."



Chapter II

The Start


Harry Prendergast went down to Leadenhall Street and saw the managing owner of the Para. As Bertie had anticipated, Mr. Prosser, after hearing Harry's statement that he wished to take a passage to Callao in the vessel advertised to start in a week's time, and that he was much obliged to them for giving Bertie a berth as supernumerary midshipman, said:

"We shall certainly have pleasure in putting your brother's name on the ship's books. He has already explained to me his desire to go out with you; we have had every reason to be satisfied with him since he entered our service, and he had better draw pay as usual, as his service during the voyage will then count towards his time. As for yourself, we do not book passengers, it is more bother than it is worth; but we have no objection to our masters taking one or two. The addition of a mouth or so practically makes very little difference in the amount of ships' stores consumed. The masters pay us a small sum a head and make their own terms with the passengers they take. In that way we are saved all complaints as to food and other matters. Of course a passenger would put on board for himself a stock of such wines, spirits, and little luxuries as he may choose.

"You will find Captain Peters down at the docks. The last cargo has been discharged, and they are giving an overhaul to the rigging and making a few repairs; he is not a man to leave his ship if he can help it while work is going on there."

Harry at once went down.

"Well, sir," the captain said, when he had told him that he wished to take a passage to Callao, and that the owners had referred him to him, "I had fully made up my mind that I would not take passengers again. On my last voyage they were always grumbling at the food, expecting to be treated as if they were in a first-class hotel."

"I am not likely to grumble, Captain; I have been knocking about the King's service since I was fourteen."

"Oh, you are a royal navy man, are you, sir?"

"I am; I am a lieutenant."

"That makes a difference; and I have no doubt we can arrange the matter to our satisfaction."

"I may tell you," Harry said, "that I have a younger brother coming out with me. He is an apprentice nearly out of his time, and was on board the Stella when she was sunk in the Channel. Your owners have kindly arranged that he shall go out with you as a supernumerary; that is one reason why I wish to go in your ship."

The Master thought for a minute or two. "Well, Mr. Prendergast," he said, "I like having one of you naval gentlemen on board; if anything goes wrong it is a comfort to have your advice. If we have bad weather round the Horn, could I rely upon you to give me a helping hand should I need it? I don't mean that you should keep watch or anything of that sort, but that you should, as it were, stand by me. I have a new first mate, and there is no saying how he may turn out. No doubt the firm would make every enquiry. Still, such enquiries don't mean much; a master doesn't like to damn a man by refusing to give him a good character. I dare say he is all right. Still, I should certainly feel very much more comfortable if I had a naval officer with me. Now, sir, I pay the firm twelve pounds for each passenger I take as his share of the cabin stores; you pay me that, and I will ask for nothing for your passage. I cannot say fairer than that."

"You cannot indeed, Captain, and I feel very much obliged to you for the offer -- very much obliged. It will suit me admirably, and in case of any emergency you may rely upon my aid; and if you have a spell of bad weather I shall be quite willing to take a watch, for I know that in the long heavy gales you meet with going round the Horn the officers get terribly overtaxed."

"And how about your brother?" the captain said; "as he is to be a supernumerary, I suppose that only means that the firm are willing that he shall put in his time for his rating. I have never had a supernumerary on board, but I suppose he is to be regarded as a passenger rather than one of the ship's complement."

"No, Captain, he is to be on the pay-sheet; and I think he had much better be put into a watch. He would find the time hang very heavy on his hands if he had nothing to do, and I know he is anxious to learn his profession thoroughly. As he is to be paid, there is no reason why he should not work."

"Very well; if you think so we will say nothing more about it. I thought perhaps you would like to have him aft with you."

"I am much obliged to you, but I think the other way will be best; and I am sure he would feel more comfortable with the other apprentices than as a passenger."

"Are you going out for long, may I ask you, Mr. Prendergast?"

"For a couple of years or so. I am going to wander about and do some shooting and exploring and that sort of thing, and I am taking him with me as companion. I speak Spanish fairly well myself, and shall teach him on the voyage, if you will allow me to do so. A knowledge of that language will be an advantage to him when he comes back into Prosser & Co.'s service."

"A great advantage," the captain agreed. "Most of us speak a little Spanish, but I have often thought that it would pay the company to send a man who could talk the lingo well in each ship. They could call him supercargo, and I am sure he would pay his wages three or four times over by being able to bargain and arrange with the Chilians and Peruvians. In ports like Callao, where there is a British consul, things are all right, but in the little ports we are fleeced right and left. Boatmen and shopkeepers charge us two or three times as much as they do their own countrymen, and I am sure that we could get better bargains in hides and other produce if we had someone who could knock down their prices."

"When do you sail, Captain?"

"This day week. It will be high tide about eight, and we shall start to warp out of dock a good half-hour earlier, so you can either come on board the night before or about seven in the morning."

"Very well, sir; we shall be here in good time. I shall bring my things on board with me; it is of no use sending them on before, as they will not be bulky and can be stored away in my cabin."

"This will be your state-room," the captain said, opening a door. "I have the one aft, and the first mate has the one opposite to you. The others are empty, so you can stow any baggage that you have in one of them; the second and third officers and the apprentices are in the deck-house cabins."

"In that case, Captain, I will send the wine and spirits on board the day before. Of course I shall get them out of bond; I might have difficulty in doing that so early in the morning. You will perhaps be good enough to order them to be stowed in one of the empty cabins."

"That will be the best plan," the captain said.

"When do the apprentices come on board?"

"The morning before we sail. There is always plenty to be done in getting the last stores on board."

"All right! my brother will be here. Good-morning, Captain, and thank you!"

The following morning at eleven Harry Prendergast was standing in front of the entrance to the British Museum. A young lady came up. "It is very imprudent of you, Harry," she said, after the first greeting, "to ask me to meet you."

"I could not help it, dear; it was absolutely necessary that I should see you."

"But it is of no use, Harry."

"I consider that it is of particular use, Hilda."

"But you know, Harry, when you had that very unpleasant talk with my father, I was called in, and said that I had promised to wait two years for you. When he found that I would not give way, he promised that he would not press me, on the understanding that we were not to meet again except in public, and I all but promised."

"Quite so, dear; but it appears to me that this is surely a public place."

"No, no, Harry; what he meant was that I was not to meet you except at parties."

"Well, I should have asked you to meet me to-day even if I had had to storm your father's house to see you. I am going away, dear, and he could scarcely say much if he came along and found us talking here. You see, it was not likely that I should stumble across a fortune in the streets of London. I have talked the matter over with Barnett -- you know our trustee, you have met him once or twice -- and we came to the conclusion that the only possible chance of my being able to satisfy your father as to my means, was for me to go to Peru and try to discover a gold mine there or hidden treasure. Such discoveries have been made, and may be made again; and he has supplied me with a letter to an Indian, who may possibly be able to help me."

"To Peru, Harry! Why, they are always fighting there."

"Yes, they do a good deal of squabbling, but the people in general have little to do with it; and certainly I am not going out to take any part in their revolutions. There is not a shadow of doubt that a number of gold mines worked by the old people were never discovered by the Spaniards, and it is also certain that a great portion of the treasures of the Incas is still lying hid. Barnett saved the life of a muleteer out there, and from what he said he believed that the man did know something about one of these lost mines, and might possibly let me into the secret. It is just an off chance, but it is the only chance I can see. You promised your father that you would never marry without his consent, and he would never give it unless I were a rich man. If nothing comes of this adventure I shall be no worse off than I am at present. If I am fortunate enough to discover a rich mine or a hidden treasure, I shall be in a position to satisfy his demand. I am going to take Bertie with me; he will be a cheerful companion, and even now he is a powerful young fellow. At any rate, if I get sick or anything of that sort, it would be an immense advantage to have him with me."

"I don't like the idea of your going, Harry," she said tearfully. "No, dear; and if I had the chance of seeing you sometimes, and of some day obtaining your father's consent to the marriage, all the gold mines in Peru would offer no temptation to me. As it is, I can see nothing else for it. In some respects it is better; if I were to stay here I should only be meeting you frequently at dances and dinners, never able to talk to you privately, and feeling always that you could never be mine. It would be a constant torture. Here is a possibility -- a very remote one, I admit, but still a possibility -- and even if it fails I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I have done all that a man could do to win you."

"I think it is best that you should go somewhere, Harry, but Peru seems to be a horrible place."

"Barnett speaks of it in high terms. You know he was four or five years out there. He describes the people as being delightful, and he has nothing to say against the climate."

"I will not try to dissuade you," she said bravely after a pause. "At present I am hopeless, but I shall have something to hope and pray for while you are away. We will say good-bye now, dear. I have come to meet you this once, but I will not do so again, another meeting would but give us fresh pain. I am very glad to know that your brother is going with you. I shall not have to imagine that you are ill in some out-of-the-way place without a friend near you; and in spite of the dangers you may have to run, I would rather think of you as bravely doing your best than eating your heart out here in London. I shall not tell my father that we have met here; you had better write to him and say that you are leaving London at once, and that you hope in two years to return and claim me in accordance with his promise. I am sure he will be glad to know that you have gone, and that we shall not be constantly meeting. He will be kinder to me than he has been of late, for as he will think it quite impossible that you can make a fortune in two years he will be inclined to dismiss you altogether from his mind."

For another half-hour they talked together, and then they parted with renewed protestations on her part that nothing should induce her to break her promise to wait for him for two years. He had given her the address of one of the merchants to whom Mr. Barnett had promised him a letter of introduction, so that she might from time to time write, for the voyage would take at least four months and as much more would be required for his first letter to come back. He walked moodily home after parting with her.

"Hullo, Harry! nothing wrong with you, I hope? why, you look as grave as an owl."

"I feel grave, Bertie. I have just said good-bye to Hilda; and though I kept up my spirits and made the best of this expedition of ours, I cannot but feel how improbable it is that we shall meet again -- that is to say, in our present relations; for if I fail I certainly shall not return home for some years; it would be only fair to her that I should not do so. I know that she would keep on as long as there was any hope, but I should not care to think that she was wasting her life. I was an ass to believe it could ever be otherwise, and I feel that the best thing for us both would have been for me to go away as soon as I found that I was getting fond of her."

"Well, of course I cannot understand it, Harry, and it seems to me that one girl is very like another; she may be a bit prettier than the average, but I suppose that comes to all the same thing in another twenty years. I can understand a man getting awfully fond of his ship, especially when she is a clipper. However, some day I may feel different; besides, how could you tell that her father would turn out such a crusty old beggar?"

"I suppose I did not think about it one way or the other, Bertie," Harry said quietly. "However, the mischief is done, and even if there was no chance whatever of making money I should go now for my own sake as well as hers. Well, it is of no use talking more about it; we will go out now and buy the rifles. I shan't get them new, one can pick up guns just as good at half the price, and as I know something about rifles I am not likely to be taken in. Of course I have got my pistols and only have a brace to buy for you. You will have time on the voyage to practise with them; if you did not do that you would be as likely to shoot me as a hostile Indian."

"Oh, that is bosh!" the boy said; "still, I certainly should like to be a good shot."

After getting the rifles and pistols, Harry went into the city and ordered six dozen of wine and three dozen of brandy to be sent on board out of bond; he also ordered a bag of twenty pounds of raw coffee, a chest of tea, and a couple of dozen bottles of pickles and sauces, to be sent down to the docks on the day before the Para sailed. Another suit of seafaring clothes and a stock of underclothing was ordered for Bertie. Harry spent the intervening time before the vessel sailed in looking up his friends and saying good-bye to them, and drove down to the docks at the appointed time, his brother having joined the ship on the previous day.

The Para was a barque-rigged ship of some eight hundred tons. At present she did not show to advantage, her deck being littered with stores of all kinds that had come on board late. The deck planks where they could be seen were almost black, the sails had been partly loosed from the gaskets, and to an eye accustomed to the neatness and order of a man-of-war her appearance was by no means favourable; but her sides shone with fresh paint, and, looking at her lines from the wharf, Harry thought she would be both fast and a good sea-boat. She was not heavily laden, and stood boldly up in the water. Nodding to Bertie, who was working hard among the men, he went up on to the poop, from which Captain Peters was shouting orders.

"Glad to see you, sir," the captain said; "she looks rather in a litter at present, doesn't she? We shall get her all ataunto before we get down to the Nore. These confounded people won't send their stores on board till the last moment. If I were an owner I should tell all shippers that no goods would be received within five or six hours of the ship's time for sailing; that would give us a fair chance, instead of starting all in a muddle, just at the time, too, when more than any other one wants to have the decks free for making short tacks down these narrow reaches. I believe half the wrecks on the sands at the mouth of the river are due to the confusion in which the ships start. How can a crew be lively in getting the yards over when they have to go about decks lumbered up like this, and half of them are only just recovering from their bout of drink the day before?"

Up to the last moment everyone on board was hard at work, and when the order was given to throw off the hawsers the deck was already comparatively clear. Half an hour later the vessel passed out through the dock gates, with two boats towing ahead so as to take her well out into the river; the rest of the crew were employed in letting the sails drop. As soon as she gathered way the men in the boats were called in, the boats themselves being towed behind in case they might again be required.

The passage from the Pool to the mouth of the river was in those days the most dangerous portion of the voyage. There were no tugs to seize the ships and carry them down to the open water, while the channels below the Nore were badly buoyed and lighted, and it was no uncommon thing for twenty vessels to get upon the sands in the course of a single tide.

The wind was light, and being northerly helped them well on their way, and it was only in one or two reaches that the Para was unable to lay her course. She overtook many craft that had been far ahead of her, and answered the helm quickly.

"She is both fast and handy, I see," Harry Prendergast, who had been watching her movements with interest, remarked.

"Yes; there are not many craft out of London can show her their heels when the wind is free. She does not look quite so well into the wind as I should wish; still, I think she is as good as most of them."

"I suppose you will get down to Gravesend before the tide turns?"

"Yes, we shall anchor there. The wind is not strong enough for us to stem the tide, which runs like a sluice there. Once past the Nore one can do better, but there is no fighting the tide here unless one has a steady breeze aft. I never feel really comfortable till we are fairly round the South Foreland; after that it is plain sailing enough. Though there are a few shoals in the Channel, one can give them a wide berth; fogs are the things we have to fear there."

"Yes. I have never been down the river, having always joined my ships either at Portsmouth or Plymouth, so I know very little about it; but I know from men who have been on board vessels commissioned at Chatham or Sheerness that they are thankful indeed when they once get round the Goodwins and head west."

"Well, Mr. Prendergast, I am against these new-fangled steamboats -- I suppose every true sailor is; but when the Marjory began to run between London and Gravesend eighteen years ago -- in '15 I think it was -- folks did say that it would not be long before sailing craft would be driven off the sea. I did not believe that then, and I don't believe it now; but I do say that I hope before long there will be a lot of small steamers on the Thames, to tow vessels down till they are off the North Foreland. It would be a blessing and a comfort to us master mariners. Once there we have the choice of going outside the Goodwins, or taking a short cut inside if the wind is aft. Why, sir, it would add years to our lives and shorten voyages by weeks. There we are, now, sometimes lying off the Nore, five hundred sail, waiting for the wind to shift out of the east, and when we do get under weigh we have always to keep the lead going. One never knows when one may bump upon the sands. Some masters will grope their way along in the dark, but for my part I always anchor. There are few enough buoys and beacons in daytime, but I consider that it is tempting Providence to try and go down in a dark night. The owners are sensible men and they know that it is not worth while running risks just to save a day or two when you have got a four months' voyage before you. Once past Dover I am ready to hold on with anyone, but between the Nore and the North Foreland I pick my way as carefully as a woman going across a muddy street."

"You are quite right, Captain; I thoroughly agree with you. More ships get ashore going down to the mouth of the Thames than in any other part of the world; and, as you say, if all sailing ships might be taken down by a steamer, it would be the making of the port of London."

"Your brother is a smart young chap, Mr. Prendergast. I was watching him yesterday, and he is working away now as if he liked work. He has the makings of a first-rate sailor. I hold that a man will never become a first-class seaman unless he likes work for its own sake. There are three sorts of hands. There is the fellow who shirks his work whenever he has a chance; there is the man who does his work, but who does it because he has to do it, and always looks glad when a job is over; and there is the lad who jumps to his work, chucks himself right into it, and puts his last ounce of strength on a rope. That is the fellow who will make a good officer, and who, if needs be, can set an example to the men when they have to go aloft to reef a sail in a stiff gale. So, as I understand, Mr. Prendergast, he is going to leave the sea for a bit. It seems a pity too."

"He will be none the worse for it, Captain. A year or so knocking about among the mountains of Peru will do more good to him than an equal time on board ship. It will sharpen him up, and give him habits of reliance and confidence. He will be all the better for it afterwards, even putting aside the advantage it will be to him to pick up Spanish."

"Yes, it may do him good," the captain agreed, "if it does not take away his liking for the sea."

"I don't think it will do that. If the first voyage or two don't sicken a lad, I think it is pretty certain he is cut out for the sea. Of course it is a very hard life at first, especially if the officers are a rough lot, but when a boy gets to know his duty things go more easily with him; he is accustomed to the surroundings, and takes to the food, which you know is not always of the best, with a good appetite. Bertie has had three years of it now, and when he has come home I have never heard a grumble from him; and he is not likely to meet with such luxuries while we are knocking about as to make him turn up his nose at salt junk."

The tide was already turning when they reached Gravesend. As soon as the anchor was down the steward came up to say that dinner was ready.

"I am not at all sorry," Harry said as he went below with the captain. "I ate a good breakfast before I started at half-past six, and I went below and had a biscuit and bottle of beer at eleven, but I feel as hungry as a hunter now. There is nothing like a sea appetite. I have been nearly two years on shore, and I never enjoyed a meal as I do at sea."

The crew had been busy ever since they left the dock, and the deck had now been scrubbed and made tidy, and presented a very different appearance from that which met Harry's eye as he came on board.

Johnson, the first mate, also dined with the skipper. He was a tall, powerfully-built man. He was singularly taciturn, and took no share in the conversation unless directly asked. He seemed, however, to be able to appreciate a joke, but never laughed audibly, contenting himself with drawing his lips apart and showing his teeth.

The wind was light and baffling, so that they did not round the South Foreland until the seventh day after leaving dock. After that it was favourable and steady, and they ran without any change until they approached the line; then there was a fortnight of calm. At last they got the wind again, and made a rapid run until within five hundred miles of Cape Horn. The captain was in high glee.

"We have done capitally so far, Mr. Prendergast. I don't think I ever made so rapid a run. If she goes on like this we shall reach Callao within three months of starting."

"I don't think the weather will continue like this," the mate said.

This was the first original observation he had made since he had sailed, and Harry and the captain looked at him in surprise.

"You think there is going to be a change, Mr. Johnson?" the captain said, after a short pause to recover from his astonishment.

The mate nodded.

"Glass falling, sky hazy."

"Is the glass falling? I am ashamed to say I have not looked at it for the past twenty-four hours. It has stuck so long at the same point that I have quite ceased to look at it two or three times a day as I usually do."

"It has not fallen much, but it is sinking."

The captain got up from the table, and went to look at the glass.

"You are right, it has fallen a good eighth; but that may mean a change of wind. Did you notice any change, Mr. Prendergast?"

"No, I can't say that I did. I looked up, as a sailor always does, when I was on deck this morning, but it was clear enough then, and I have not noticed it particularly since."

But when they went up on deck half an hour later both agreed that the mate was right. The change overhead was slight, but away to the west a dull reddish mist seemed to obscure the horizon.

"We will get the upper sails off at once, Mr. Johnson. These storms come so suddenly off the coast that it is as well to lose no time in shortening sail when one sees any indication of such a change."

The mate at once gave the necessary orders. The sailors started up with looks of surprise.

"Look sharp, men!" the mate said. "We shall have wind, and plenty of it. It will be here before long."

The men, who were by no means sorry for a spell of work after going so long without shifting sail or tack, worked hard, and the white sheets of canvas were soon snugly furled. By this time all the sailors who had been to sea for any time recognized the utility of their work. The low bank had risen and extended the whole width of the western horizon.

"What do you think, Mr. Prendergast? Have we got enough off her?"

"I don't know about your storms here, Captain; but if it were in the Levant I should get every stitch of canvas off her excepting closely-reefed topsails, a storm jib, and fore stay-sail. The first burst over, one can always shake out more canvas. However, you know these seas, and I do not."

"I think you are right. These pamperos, as we call them, are not to be trifled with."

"In that case there is no time to be lost, Captain, and with your permission I will lend a hand."

"All hands take in sail!" the captain shouted.

The mate led the way up the starboard shrouds, while Harry, throwing off his coat, mounted those to port, closely followed by Bertie. Five minutes' hard work, and the Para was stripped for the struggle.

"That is a good job done," the skipper said to Harry as he reached the deck.

"A very good job, sir. The wind may come, but we are prepared for it; there is nothing like being ready in time."

"She is in good trim for it," said the captain, "not above two-thirds laden, and as the wind is off the land, there is nothing to worry us except the Falklands. I shall go outside them. Of course that will lengthen the voyage, but with this westerly wind I should not care about being between them and the mainland. You think the same, Mr. Prendergast?"

"I do, sir; they are a scattered group, and it would not be pleasant to have them under lee."

It had grown sensibly darker, but the line of mist had not risen higher. Harry remarked upon this.

"I almost doubt whether it is coming after all," he said.

The captain shook his head.

"It does not spread over the sky," he said, "because it is largely dust blown off the land. After the first burst you will see that we shall have a bright blue sky and a roaring wind, just as one gets it sometimes in an easterly gale in the Channel. We shall have it in another five minutes, I fancy. I don't think it will be very strong, or we should have had it here before this."

It was not long before a dull, moaning sound was heard, the brown-red fog changed its appearance, swirls of vapour seemed to dash out in front of it, and the whole swelled and heaved as if it were being pushed forward by some tremendous pressure in its rear.

The ship's head was pointing nearly east, the canvas hung down motionless, and there was not a breath of wind.

"Hold on all!" the captain shouted. Half a minute later the billowly clouds swept across the vessel, and a sudden darkness overspread them. Then there was a glow of white light, a line of foam approached as fleet as a race-horse, and with a shriek the gale was upon them. The vessel shook from stem to stern as if she had struck against a rock, and her bow was pressed down lower and lower until she seemed as if she were going to dive head-foremost. But as she gathered way, her bow rose, and in a minute she was flying along at some eighteen knots an hour.

"She is all right now, Mr. Prendergast," the captain said. "It is well we stripped her so thoroughly, and that she is not heavily laden."

Four men had been placed at the wheel, and it needed all their strength to keep her from yawing. In half an hour the sea began to get up, and the captain laid her course south-east, which put the wind on her quarter.

"It is well we were not a degree or so farther south, Captain."

"Yes; it would have been as much as we could do to weather the Falklands; for with this small amount of sail we should have made a terrible amount of leeway. As it is, all is fair sailing."

The darkness gradually passed away, and in an hour after the gale had struck her the Para was sailing under a bright blue sky. Although but few points off the wind, she was lying down till her lee scuppers were under water. The spray was flying over her sparkling in the sun; the sailors were crouched under the weather bulwark, lashed to belaying-pins and stanchions to prevent themselves from shifting down to leewards. Six hours later it was evident that there was some slight diminution in the force of the wind.

"She is going about fourteen knots now," the captain said; "we can head her more to the south. We must be nearly abreast of the islands, and according to my reckoning forty or fifty miles to the east of them."

It was now dark, and the watch was sent below.

"To-morrow morning we shall be able to get some more sail on her," the master said, "and I hope by the next morning the squall will be over, for we shall then have made our southing, and the wind will be right in our teeth when we turn her head west. There is no saying which way it will come when the squall dies out. What do you think, Johnson?"

"We are pretty sure to get it hot from one quarter or another," the man said. "I should say most likely from the south."

"Except for the cold that would be better than west," Harry remarked.

"Yes, if it is not too strong; but it is likely to be strong. After such a gale as we have had, it seldom settles down for some time. As like as not there will be bad weather for the next month."

The next morning when Harry went on deck he saw that the reefs had been shaken out of the topsails and the spanker hoisted. There was still a fresh wind, but it had backed round more to the south, and there was so sharp a nip in it that he went below and put on a pea-jacket. Then he beckoned to Bertie, who was off duty, to join him on the poop.

"That has been a smart blow, Bertie."

"Yes, but I had it worse than that the last time I came round the Horn. I think we shall be shortening sail again before long. The clouds are banking up to the south-west. She is a good sea-boat, isn't she?"

"She has behaved uncommonly well. We shall want all our clothes before night, Bertie. It was May when we started, and it is nearly mid-winter down here."

"There is one thing, we shan't have so much risk of coming across drifting icebergs, most of them will be frozen up hard and fast down in the south. They don't matter much when the weather is clear, but if it is thick one has an awful time of it. On my first voyage it was like that, and I tell you I didn't think I was going to see England again. We had some desperately close shaves."

The wind speedily freshened, and by evening the ship was under close-reefed canvas again. The clouds were flying fast overhead and the air was thick. Before the evening watch was set the ship was brought round on the other tack, and was running to the east of south.

"We will lie on this course till morning, Mr. Prendergast," said the captain, "and then if the wind holds, I think we shall be able to make a long leg and weather the Horn."

For six days the storm raged with unabated violence. The cold was intense, the spray breaking over the bows froze as it fell, and the crew were engaged for hours at a time in breaking up the masses of ice thus formed. Harry had volunteered to take a watch in turn with the first and second mates. The captain was almost continuously on deck. Twice they encountered icebergs, and once in a driving snow-storm nearly ran foul of one. Fortunately it was daylight, and the whole crew being on deck, they were able to put the vessel about just in time. During this time the vessel had only gained a few miles' westing. All on board were utterly exhausted with the struggle against the bitter wind; their hands were sore and bleeding through pulling upon frozen ropes, their faces inflamed, and their eyelids so swollen and sore that they could scarcely see. Then the wind began to abate, and more sail being got on the Para, she was able to lie her course.



Chapter III

At Lima


Three days later the sky cleared, and the captain, getting an observation, found that they had rounded the southernmost point of the Cape. Another day and the Para's head was turned north, and a week later they were running smoothly along before a gentle breeze, with the coast of Chili twenty miles away. The heavy wraps had all been laid aside, and although the air was still frosty, the crew felt it warm after what they had endured. The upper spars and yards had all been sent up, and she was now carrying a crowd of canvas. The mate had thawed out under the more congenial surroundings. He had worked like a horse during the storm, setting an example, whether in going aloft or in the work of clearing off the ice from the bows, and even when his watch was relieved he seldom went below.

"Well, I hope, Mr. Johnson, we shall sail together until you get your next step," the captain said. "I could not wish for a better first officer."

"I want nothing better, sir. She is a fine ship, well manned and well commanded. I begin to feel at home in her now; at first I didn't. I hate changes; and though the last captain I sailed with was a surly fellow, we got on very well together. I would rather sail with a man like that than with a skipper who is always talking. I am a silent man myself, and am quite content to eat my meal and enjoy it, without having to stop every time I am putting my fork into my mouth to answer some question or other. I was once six months up in the north without ever speaking to a soul. I was whaling then, and a snow-storm came on when we were fast on to a fish. It was twenty-four hours before it cleared off, and when it did there was no ship to be seen. We were in an inlet at the time in Baffin's Bay. We thought that the ship would come back, and we landed and hauled up the boat. The ship didn't come back, and, as I learned long afterwards, was never heard of again. I suppose she got nipped between two icebergs.

"Winter was coming on fast, and the men all agreed that they would rather try and make their way south overland than stay there. I told them that they were fools, but I admit that the prospect of a winter there was enough to frighten any man. I did not like it myself, but I thought it was wiser to remain there than to move. Some of the men went along the shore, or out in the boat, and managed to kill several sea-cows. They made a sledge, piled the meat on it, and started.

"Meanwhile I had been busy building a sort of hut. I piled great stones against the foot of the cliffs, and turned the boat upside down to form a roof. The men helped me to do that job the last thing before they started. Then I blocked up the entrance, leaving only just room for me to crawl in and out. The snow began to fall steadily three days after the others had gone, and very soon covered my hut two feet deep. I melted the blubber of the whale in the boat's baler, for we had towed the fish ashore. The first potful or two I boiled over a few bits of drift-wood. After that it was easy enough, as I unravelled some of the boat's rope, dipped it in the hot blubber, and made a store of big candles. There was a lot of meat left on the sea-cows, so I cut that up, froze it, and stowed as much as I could in the hut. I was bothered about the rest, as I knew the bears were likely to come down; but I found a ledge on the face of the perpendicular rock, and by putting the boat's mast against it I was able to get up to it. Here I piled, I should say, a ton of meat and blubber. Then I set to work and collected some dried grass, and soon I had enough to serve as bed and covers. It took me a month to do all this, and by that time winter was down on me in earnest. I had spent my evenings in making myself, out of the skins of the three cows, breeches, high boots, and a coat with a hood over the head, and in order to make these soft I rubbed them with hot oil. They were rough things, but I hoped that I might get a bear later on. Fortunately the boat had two balers, for I required one in which to melt the snow over the lamp.

"Well, sir, I lived there during that winter. I did not find it altogether dull, for I had several bits of excitement. For a month or so bears and wolves came down and fought over the carcass of the whale. When that was eaten up they turned their attention to me, and over and over again they tried to break in. They had better have left me alone, for though they were strong enough to have pulled away the rocks that blocked the entrance, they could not stand fire. As I had any amount of rope, I used to soak it in rock-oil, set it on fire, and shove it out of the entrance. Twice small bears managed to wriggle up the passage, but I had sharpened the boat-hook and managed to kill them both. One skin made me a whole suit, and the other a first-rate blanket. Not that it was ever unpleasantly cold, for a couple of my big candles, and the thick coating of snow over it, kept the place as warm as I cared for. Occasionally, when the bears had cleared off, I went out, climbed the mast, and got fresh supplies down. They had made desperate efforts to get at the meat, but the face of the rock was luckily too smooth for them to get any hold. When spring came and the ice broke up, I planted the mast on the top of the cliff with the sail fastened as a flag, and a month after the sea was clear a whaler came in and took me off. That was how I pretty well lost the use of my tongue, and though I am better than I was, I don't use it much now except on duty."

"That certainly accounts for it," Harry said; "you must have had an awful time."

"I don't think I minded it very much, sir. Except when I was bothered by the bears I slept a good lot. I think at first I used to talk out loud a good deal. But I soon dropped that, though I used to whistle sometimes when I was cooking the food. I don't think I should have held on so long if I had only had the sea-cow flesh, but the bears made a nice change, and I only wished that one or two more had managed to crawl in."

"I wonder you were able to kill them with a boat-hook."

"I didn't, sir. You know every whaler carries an axe to cut the line if necessary, and I was able to split their skulls as they crawled in before they could get fairly on to their feet and use their paws. I was getting very weak with scurvy towards the end; but as soon as the snow melted plants began to shoot, and I was able to collect green stuff, so that I was nearly well by the time I was picked up."

The weather continued fine all the time they were coasting up the Chilian coast. They were a week at Valparaiso getting out the cargo they had brought for that town, and did some trading at smaller ports; but at last, just four months after leaving England, they dropped anchor off Callao. "Well, it has been a jolly voyage, Harry," his brother said as they were rowed ashore, after a hearty farewell from the captain and the first officer.

"I am glad you enjoyed it, Bertie. I was sorry all the time I hadn't taken a passage for you aft."

"I am better pleased to have been at work; it would have been awfully slow otherwise. The mates were both good fellows, and I got on well with the other apprentices. I tried at first not to turn out on night watch, as I was not obliged to do so, but I soon gave it up; it seemed disgusting to be lying there when the others had to turn out. It has been a jolly voyage, but I am glad that we are here at last, and are going to set to work in search of treasures."

"I had begun to think that we should not get on shore to-day," Harry said as they neared the landing-place. "What with three hours' waiting for the medical officer, and another three for that bumptious official whom they call the port officer, and without whose permission no one is allowed to land, I think everyone on board was so disgusted that we should have liked nothing better than to pitch the fellow overboard. It was rather amusing to watch all those boatmen crowding round shouting the praises of their own craft and running down the others. But a little of it goes a long way. It is the same pretty nearly at every port I have entered. Boatmen are harpies of the worst kind. It is lucky that we had so little baggage; a tip of a couple of dollars was enough to render the custom-house officer not only civil but servile."

As they mounted the steps they were assailed by a motley crowd, half of whom struggled to get near them to hold out their hands for alms, while the other half struggled and fought for the right of carrying their baggage. Accustomed to such scenes, Harry at once seized upon two of them, gave them the portmanteaux, and, keeping behind them, pushed them through the crowd, telling them to lead the way to the hotel that the captain had recommended as being the least filthy in the place. They crossed a square covered with goods of all kinds. There were long rows of great jars filled with native spirit, bales of cinchona bark, piles of wheat from Chili, white and rose-coloured blocks of salt, pyramids of unrefined sugar, and a block of great bars of silver; among these again were bales and boxes landed from foreign countries, logs of timber, and old anchors and chains. Numbers of people who appeared to have nothing to do sauntered about or sat on logs. In odd corners were native women engaged in making the picanties upon which the poor largely exist; these were composed of fresh and salt meat, potatoes, crabs, the juice of bitter oranges, lard, salt, and an abundance of pepper pods.

"That is the sort of thing we shall have to eat, Bertie."

"Well, I should not mind if I had not got to look on at the making; they smell uncommonly good."

The hotel was larger and even more dirty than the captain's description had led them to expect. However, the dinner that was served to them was better than they had looked for, and being very hungry after their long wait, they did full justice to it.

"It might have been a good deal worse, Bertie."

"I should think so; after four months of salt junk it is splendid!"

A cup of really good coffee, followed by a little glass of native spirits, added to their satisfaction. They had hesitated before whether to push on at once to Lima or wait there till next morning. Their meal decided them -- they would start at daybreak, so as to get to Lima before the sun became really hot. Harry asked the landlord to bargain for two riding mules and one for baggage to be ready at that hour, and they then strolled out to view the place, although Bertie assured his brother that there was nothing whatever to see in it.

"That may be, Bertie; but we are not going to begin by being lazy. There is always something to see in foreign lands by those who keep their eyes open."

After an hour's walk Harry was inclined to think that his brother was right. The houses were generally constructed of canes, plastered with mud, and painted yellow. As the result of earthquakes, scarce a house stood upright -- some leaned sideways, and looked as if they were going to topple over into the road; while others leaned back, as if, were you to push against them, they would collapse and crush the inmates.

Their night was not a pleasant one. The beds were simple, consisting only of hides stretched across wooden frames, but, as they very speedily found, there were numerous other inhabitants. They therefore slept but little, and were heartily glad when the first gleam of dawn appeared.

Slipping on their clothes, they ran down to the shore and had a bath. By the time they returned breakfast was ready -- coffee, fish, and eggs. The mules did not appear for another hour, by which time their patience was all but exhausted. The portmanteaux were speedily strapped on to the back of the baggage mule, and they mounted the two others. The muleteer had brought one for himself, and, fastening the baggage animal behind it, they started.

It was six miles to Lima, but as the city is five hundred and twelve feet above the sea, the ascent was steady and somewhat steep. The road was desperately bad, and the country uninteresting, being for the most part dried up. Occasionally they saw great mounds of adobe bricks, the remains of the ancient habitations. As they neared the town vegetation became general, small canals irrigating the country. Here were fruit and vegetable gardens, with oranges, plantains, vines, and flowers.

Passing through a gate in the walls they entered the town, which afforded a pleasant contrast to the squalid misery of Callao. The city, however, could not be called imposing; the houses were low and irregular, fantastically painted in squares or stripes, and almost all had great balconies shut in with trellis-work.

Few of the houses had any windows towards the street, the larger ones being constructed with a central courtyard, into which the rooms all opened. The streets were all built at right angles, the principal ones leading from the grand square, in which stood the cathedral and the palace of the Spanish viceroys, the other sides consisting of private houses, with shops and arcades below them. The hotel to which they had been recommended was a large building with a courtyard, with dining and other rooms opening from it, and above them the bedrooms. In comparison with the inn at Callao it was magnificent, but in point of cleanliness it left a great deal to be desired. After settling themselves in their room they went out. The change in temperature since they had left Callao had been very great.

"The first thing to do, Bertie, is to buy ourselves a couple of good ponchos. You see all the natives are wearing them."

"We certainly want something of the sort, Harry. I thought it was heat that we were going to suffer from, but it seems just the other way. To judge from the temperature we might be in Scotland, and this damp mist chills one to the bone."

"I am not much surprised, for of course I got the subject up as much as I could before starting; and Barnett told me that Lima was altogether an exceptional place, and that while it was bright and warm during the winter months, from May till November on the plains only a few miles away, even in the summer months there was almost always a clammy mist at Lima, and that inside the house as well as outside everything streamed with moisture. He said that this had never been satisfactorily accounted for. Some say that it is due to the coldness of the river here -- the Rimac -- which comes down from the snowy mountains. Others think that the cold wind that always blows down the valley of the river meets the winds from the sea here, and the moisture contained in them is thus precipitated. I believe that a few miles higher up we shall get out of this atmosphere altogether. Still, the ponchos will be very useful, for it will be really cold up in the mountains. They serve for cloaks in the daytime and blankets at night. The best are made of the wool of the guanacos, a sort of llama. Their wool is very fine, and before we start we will get two of coarser wool to use as blankets to sleep on, while we have the finer ones to cover us."

There was no difficulty in finding a shop with the goods they wanted, and the prices, even of the best, were very moderate. They next bought two soft felt hats with broad brims.

"That is ever so much more comfortable. We will wait until to-morrow before we begin what we may call business, Bertie. Of course I shall deliver the other letters of introduction that Mr. Barnett gave me; but the principal one -- that to his former muleteer -- is more important than all put together. If anything has happened to him, there is an end of any chance whatever of finding treasure. Of course he may have moved away, or be absent on a journey with his mules, in which case we shall have either to follow him or wait for his return."

"That would be a frightful nuisance."

"Yes; still, it is one of the things that we foresaw might happen."

"I vote we go at once, Harry, and see if he is here."

"I don't think we shall find him here; for Barnett said that he lived in the village of Miraflores, five miles away on the north, and that if he is not there, Senor Pasquez, to whom I have a letter, will be likely to tell me where he is to be found, for he is often employed by him. However, I am as anxious as you to see him. As it is only eleven o'clock yet, there is no reason why we should not go to Miraflores. They will get mules for us at the hotel, and tell us which road to take."

It was not necessary, however, to go into the hotel, for when they returned, two or three men with mules were waiting to be hired. They engaged two animals, and as the man of whom they hired them had a third, and he was ready to accompany them for a small fee, they agreed to take him with them.

Before they were a mile out of the town the mist cleared off and the sun shone brightly. The heat, however, was by no means too great to be pleasant. Miraflores was a charming village, or rather small town, nestling among gardens and orchards.

"I want to find a muleteer named Dias Otero," Harry said to their guide as they rode into the place.

"I know him well," he said. "Everyone about here knows Dias. His wife was a cousin of my mother's."

"Do you know whether he is at home now?"

"Yes, senor; I saw him in Lima three days ago. He had just come down from the mountains. He had been away two months, and certainly will not have started again so soon. Shall I lead you to his house at once?"

"Do so; it is to see him that I have come to this town. He worked for a long time with a friend of mine some years ago, and I have brought a message from him. I may be some time talking with him, so when I go in you can tie up your mules for a while."

"That is his house," the man said presently.

It lay in the outskirts of the town, and was neater than the generality of houses, and the garden was a mass of flowers. They dismounted, handed over the mules to their owner, and walked to the door. An Indian of some five-and-forty years came out as they did so.

"Are you Dias Otero?" Harry asked.

"The same, senor."

"I have just arrived from England, and bring a letter to you from Senor Barnett, with whom you travelled for two or three years some time ago."

The man's face lit up with pleasure. "Will you enter, senor. Friends of Senor Barnett may command my services in any way. It is a delight to hear from him. He writes to me sometimes, but in these troubles letters do not always come. I love the senor; there never was a kinder master. He once saved my life at the risk of his own. Is there any hope of his coming out again?"

"I do not think so, Dias. He is strong and well, but I do not think he is likely to start again on a journey of exploration. He is my greatest friend. My brother and I were left under his charge when we were young, and he has been almost a father to us. It is he who has sent us out to you. Here is his letter."

"Will you read it to me, senor. I cannot read; I am always obliged to get somebody to read my letters, and write answers for me."

The letter was of course in Spanish, and Harry read:

"Dear friend Dias,

"I am sending out to you a gentleman, Mr. Prendergast, an officer of the British Navy, in whom I am deeply interested. His brother accompanies him. I beg that you will treat them as you would me, and every service you can render him consider as rendered to myself. From a reason which he will no doubt explain to you in time, it is of the deepest importance to him that he should grow rich in the course of the next two years. He asked my advice, and I said to him, 'There is no one I know of who could possibly put you in the way of so doing better than my friend Dias Otero. I believe it is in his power to do so if he is willing.' I also believe that for my sake you will aid him. He will place himself wholly in your hands. He does not care what danger he runs, or what hardships he has to go through in order to attain his purpose. I know that I need not say more to you. He has two years before him; long before that I am sure you will be as interested in him as you were in me. He has sufficient means to pay all expenses of travel for the time he will be out there. I know that you are descended from nobles of high rank at the court of the Incas when the Spaniards arrived, and that secrets known to but few were passed down from father to son in your family. If you can use any of those secrets to the advantage of my friend, I pray you most earnestly to do so. I trust that this letter will find you and your good wife in health. Had I been ten years younger I would have come out with my friends to aid them in their adventure, but I know that in putting them into your hands I shall be doing them a vastly greater service than I could do were I able to come in person."

When Harry ceased, the Indian sat for some time without speaking, then he said:

"It is a matter that I must think over, senor. It is a very grave one, and had any other man than Senor Barnett asked this service of me no money could have tempted me to assent to it. It is not only that my life would be in danger, but that my name would be held up to execration by all my people were I to divulge the secret that even the tortures of the Spaniards could not wring from us. I must think it over before I answer. I suppose you are staying at the Hotel Morin; I will call and see you when I have thought the matter over. It is a grave question, and it may be three or four days before I can decide."

"I thank you, Dias; but there is no occasion for you to give a final decision now. Whether or no, we shall travel for a while, and I trust that you will go with us with your mules and be our guide, as you did to Mr. Barnett. It will be time enough when you know us better to give us a final answer; it is not to be expected that even for Senor Barnett's sake you would do this immense service for strangers, therefore I pray you to leave the matter open. Make arrangements for your mules and yourself for a three months' journey in the mountains, show us what there is to see of the gold and silver placers, and the quicksilver mines at Huanuco. At the end of that time you will know us and can say whether you are ready to aid us in our search."

The native bowed his head gravely.

"I will think it over," he said; "and now, senors, let us put that aside. My wife has been busy since you entered in preparing a simple meal, and I ask you to honour me by partaking of it."

"With pleasure, Dias."

It consisted of puchero, a stew consisting of a piece of beef, cabbage, sweet-potatoes, salt pork, sausage-meat, pigs' feet, yuccas, bananas, quinces, peas, rice, salt, and an abundance of Chili peppers. This had been cooked for six hours and was now warmed up. Two bottles of excellent native wine, a flask of spirits, and some water were also put on the table. The Indian declined to sit down with them, saying that he had taken a meal an hour before.

While they ate he chatted with them, asking questions of their voyage and telling them of the state of things in the country.

"It is always the same, senors, there is a revolution and two or three battles; then either the president or the one who wants to be president escapes from the country or is taken and shot, and in a day or two there is a fresh pronunciamiento. We thought that when the Spaniards had been driven out we should have had peace, but it is not so; we have had San Martin, and Bolivar, and Aguero, and Santa Cruz, and Sucre. Bolivar again finally defeated the Spaniards at Ayacucho. Rodil held possession of Callao castle, and defended it until January of this year. We in the villages have not suffered -- those who liked fighting went out with one or other of the generals; some have returned, others have been killed -- but Lima has suffered greatly. Sometimes the people have taken one side, sometimes the other, and though the general they supported was sometimes victorious for a short time, in the end they suffered. Most of the old Spanish families perished; numbers died in the castle of Callao, where many thousands of the best blood of Lima took refuge, and of these well-nigh half died of hunger and misery before Rodil surrendered."

"But does not this make travelling very unsafe?"

The Indian shrugged his shoulders.

"Peru is a large country, senor, and those who want to keep out of the way of the armies and lighting can do so; I myself have continued my occupation and have never fallen in with the armies. That is because the fighting is principally in the plains, or round Cuzco; for the men do not go into the mountains except as fugitives, as they could not find food there for an army. It is these fugitives who render the road somewhat unsafe; starving men must take what they can get. They do not interfere with the great silver convoys from Potosi or other mines -- a loaf of bread is worth more than a bar of silver in the mountains -- but they will plunder persons coming down with goods to the town or going up with their purchases. Once or twice I have had to give up the food I carried with me, but I have had little to grumble at, and I do not think you need trouble yourself about them; we will take care to avoid them as far as possible."

After chatting for an hour they left the cottage, and, mounting their mules, returned to Lima.

"I think he will help us, Harry," Bertie said as soon as they set out.

"I think so too, but we must not press him to begin with. Of course there is a question too as to how far he can help us. He may know vaguely where the rich mines once existed; but you must remember that they have been lost for three hundred years, and it may be impossible for even a man who has received the traditions as to their positions to hit upon the precise spot. The mountains, you see, are tremendous; there must be innumerable ravines and gorges among them. It is certain that nothing approaching an accurate map can ever have been made of the mountains, and I should say that in most cases the indications that may have been given are very vague. They would no doubt have been sufficient for those who lived soon after the money was hidden, and were natives of that part of the country and thoroughly acquainted with all the surroundings, but when the information came to be handed down from mouth to mouth during many generations, the local knowledge would be lost, and what were at first detailed instructions would become little better than vague legends. You know how three hundred years will alter the face of a country -- rocks roll down the hills, torrents wash away the soil, forests grow or are cleared away. I believe with you that the Indian will do his best, but I have grave doubts whether he will be able to locate any big thing."

"Well, you don't take a very cheerful view of things, Harry; you certainly seemed more hopeful when we first started."

"Yes. I don't say I am not hopeful still, but it is one thing to plan out an enterprise at a distance and quite another when you are face to face with its execution. As we have come down the coast, and seen that great range of mountains stretching along for hundreds of miles, and we know that there is another quite as big lying behind it, I have begun to realize the difficulties of the adventures that we are undertaking. However, we shall hear, when Dias comes over to see us, what he thinks of the matter. I fancy he will say that he is willing to go with us and help us as far as he can, but that although he will do his best he cannot promise that he will be able to point out, with anything like certainty, the position of any of the old mines."

Next day they called on Senor Pasquez, who received them very cordially.

"So you are going to follow the example of Senor Barnett and spend some time in exploring the country and doing some shooting. Have you found Dias?"

"Yes, senor, and I think he will go with us, though he has not given a positive answer."

"You will be fortunate if you get him; he is one of the best-known muleteers in the country, and if anyone comes here and wants a guide Dias is sure to be the first to be recommended. If he goes with you he can give you much useful advice; he knows exactly what you will have to take with you, the best districts to visit for your purpose, and the best way of getting there. For the rest, I shall be very happy to take charge of any money you may wish to leave behind, and to act as your banker and cash any orders you may draw upon me. I will also receive and place to your account any sums that may be sent you from England."

"That, sir, is a matter which Mr. Barnett advised me to place in your hands. After making what few purchases we require, and taking fifty pounds in silver, I shall have two hundred and fifty pounds to place in your hands. Mr. Barnett will manage my affairs in my absence, and will send to you fifty pounds quarterly."

"You will find difficulty in spending it all in two years," the merchant said with a smile. "If you are content to live on what can be bought in the country, it costs very little; and as for the mules, they can generally pick up enough at their halting-places to serve them, with a small allowance of grain. You can hire them cheaply, or you can buy them. The latter is cheaper in the end, but you cannot be sure of getting mules accustomed to mountains, and you would therefore run the risk of their losing their foothold, and not only being dashed to pieces but destroying their saddles and loads. However, if you secure the services of Dias Otero, you will get mules that know every path in the mountains. He is famous for his animals, and he himself is considered the most trusty muleteer here; men think themselves lucky in obtaining his services. I would send him with loads of uncounted gold and should be sure that there would not be a piece missing."

Next day Dias came to the hotel.

"I have thought it over, senor," he said. "I need not say that were it only ordinary service, instead of exploring the mountains, I should be glad indeed to do my best for a friend of Senor Barnett; but as to the real purpose of your journey I wish, before making any arrangement, that the matter should be thoroughly understood. I have no certain knowledge whatever as to any of the lost mines, still less of any hidden treasures; but I know all the traditions that have passed down concerning them. I doubt whether any Indians now possess a certain knowledge of these things. For generations, no doubt, the secrets were handed down from father to son, and it is possible that some few may still know of these places; but I doubt it. Think of the hundreds and thousands of our people who have been killed in battle, or died as slaves in the mines, and you will see that numbers of those to whom the secrets were entrusted must have taken their knowledge to the grave with them.

"In each generation the number of those who knew the particulars of these hiding-places must have diminished. Few now can know more than I do, yet I am sure of nothing. I know generally where the mines were situated and where some treasures were concealed, and what knowledge I have I will place at your service; but so great a care was used in the concealment of the entrances to the mines, so carefully were the hiding-places of the treasures chosen, and so cunningly concealed, that, without the surest indications and the most minute instructions, we might search for years, as men indeed have done ever since the Spanish came here, without finding them. I am glad that I can lay my hand upon my heart and say, that whatever may have been possessed by ancestors of mine, no actual details have ever come down to me; for, had it been so, I could not have revealed them to you. We know that all who were instructed in these were bound by the most terrible oaths not to reveal them. Numbers have died under the torture rather than break those oaths; and even now, were one of us to betray the secrets that had come down to him, he would be regarded as accursed. No one would break bread with him, every door would be closed against him, and if he died his body would rot where it fell. But my knowledge is merely general, gathered not only from the traditions known to all our people, but from confidences made by one member of our family to another. Full knowledge was undoubtedly given to some of them; but all these must have died without initiating others into the full particulars. Such knowledge as I have is at your disposal. I can take you to the localities, I can say to you, 'Near this place was a great mine,' but unless chance favours you you may search in vain."

"That is quite as much as I had hoped for, Dias, and I am grateful for your willingness to do what you can for us, just as you did for Senor Barnett."



Chapter IV

A Street Fray


"Now, senor," Dias said, "as we have settled the main point, let us talk over the arrangements. What is the weight of your baggage?"

"Not more than a mule could carry. Of course we shall sling our rifles over our shoulders. We have a good stock of ammunition for them and for our pistols. We shall each take two suits of clothes besides those we wear, and a case of spirits in the event of accident or illness. We shall each have three flannel shirts, stockings, and so on, but certainly everything belonging to us personally would not mount up to more than a hundred and fifty pounds. We should, of course, require a few cooking utensils, tin plates, mugs, and cups. What should we need besides these?"

"A tent and bedding, senor. We should only have, at the start, to carry such provisions as we could not buy. When we are beyond the range of villages in the forests we might often be weeks without being able to buy anything; still, we should probably be able to shoot game for food. We should find fruits, but flour we shall have to take with us from the last town we pass through before we strike into the mountains, and dried meat for an emergency; and it would be well to have a bag of grain, so that we could give a handful or so to each of the mules. I am glad you have brought some good spirits -- we shall need it in the swamps by the rivers. Your tea and coffee will save your having to buy them here, but you will want some sugar. We must take two picks and a shovel, a hammer for breaking up ore, a small furnace, twenty crucibles and bellows, and a few other things for aiding to melt the ore. You would want for the journey five baggage mules, and, of course, three riding mules. I could hardly manage them, even with aid from you, in very bad places, and I would rather not take any strange man with me on such business as we have in hand. But some assistance I must have, and I will take with me my nephew José. He has lost his father, and I have taken him as my assistant, and shall train him to be a guide such as I am. He is but fifteen, but he already knows something of his business, and such an expedition will teach him more than he would learn in ten years on the roads."

"That would certainly be far better than having a muleteer whom you could not trust, Dias. My brother and myself will be ready to lend you a hand whenever you want help of any kind. We have not had any experience with mules, but sailors can generally turn their hands to anything. Now, how about the eight mules?"

"I have five of my own, as good mules as are to be found in the province; we shall have to buy the three others for riding. Of course I have saddles and ropes."

"But you will want four for riding."

"No, senor; yours and the one I ride will be enough. José at times will take my place, and can when he likes perch on one of the most lightly laden animals."

"How much will the riding mules cost?"

"I can get fair ones for about fifty dollars apiece; trade is slack at present owing to the troubles, and there are many who would be glad to get rid of one or two of their train."

"And now, Dias, we come to the very important question, what are we to pay you for yourself, your nephew, and the five mules -- say by the month?"

"I have been thinking the matter over, senor -- I have talked it over with my wife" -- he paused for a moment, and then said: "She wishes to go with me, senor."

Harry opened his eyes in surprise. "But surely, Dias, you could not think of taking her on such an expedition, where, as you say yourself, you may meet with many grave dangers and difficulties?"

"A woman can support them as well as a man," Dias said quietly. "My wife has more than once accompanied me on journeys when I have been working on contract. We have been married for fifteen years, and she has no children to keep her at home. She is accustomed to my being away for weeks. This would be for months, perhaps for two years. I made no secret to her that we might meet with many dangers. She says they will be no greater for her than for me. At first she tried to dissuade me from going for so long a time; but when I told her that you were sent me by the gentleman who saved my life a year after I married her, and that he had recommended you to me as standing to him almost in the relation of a son, and I therefore felt bound to carry his wishes into effect, and so to pay the debt of gratitude that I owed him, she agreed at once that it was my duty to go and do all in my power for you, and she prayed me to take her with me. I said that I would put it before you, senor, and that I must abide by your decision."

"By all means bring her with you, Dias. If you and she are both willing to share the dangers we should meet with, surely we cannot object in any way."

"Thank you, senor; you will find her useful. You have already seen that she can cook well; and if we have José to look after the animals when we are searching among the hills, you will find it not unpleasant, when we return of an evening, to find a hot supper ready for us."

"That is quite true, and I am sure we shall find your wife a great acquisition to our party. The only difference will be, that instead of one large tent we must have two small ones -- it does not matter how small, so long as we can crawl into them and they are long enough for us to lie down. And now about payment?"

"I shall not overcharge you," Dias said with a smile. "If my wife had remained behind I must have asked for money to maintain her while we were away. It would not have been much, for she has her garden and her house, and there is a bag hid away with my savings, so that if she had been widowed she could still live in the house until she chose someone else to share it with her; she is but thirty-two, and is as comely as when I first married her. However, as she is going with us, there will be no need to trouble about her. If misfortune comes upon us and I am killed, it is likely she will be killed also. We shall have no expenses on the journey, as you will pay for food for ourselves and the animals. You will remember, senor, that I make this journey not as a business matter -- no money would buy from me any information that I may have as to hidden mines or treasures, -- I do it to repay a debt of gratitude to my preserver, Don Henry Barnett, and partly because I am sure that I shall like you and your brother as I did him. I shall aid you as far as lies in my power in the object for which you are undertaking this journey. Therefore until it is finished there shall be no talk about payment. You may have many expenses beyond what you calculate upon. If we meet with no success, and return to Lima empty-handed, I shall have lost nothing. I shall have had no expenses at home, my wife and I will have fed at your expense, and José will have learned so much that he would be as good a guide as any in the country. You could then give me the three mules you will buy, to take the place of any of mine that may have perished on the journey, and should you have them to spare, I will take a hundred dollars as a bueno mano. If we succeed, and you discover a rich mine or a hidden treasure, you shall then pay me what it pleases you. Is it a bargain?"

"The bargain you propose is ridiculously one-sided, Dias, and I don't see how I could possibly accept the offer you make to me."

"Those are my terms, senor," Dias said simply, "to take or to leave."

"Then I cannot but accept them, and I thank you most heartily;" and he held out his hand to Dias, and the Indian grasped it warmly.

"When do you propose we shall start?"

"Will this day week suit you, senor? There are the mules to buy, and the tents to be made -- they should be of vicuna skin with the wool still on, which, with the leather kept well oiled, will keep out water. We shall want them in the hills, but we shall sometimes find villages where we can sleep in shelter."

"Not for us, Dias. Mr. Barnett has told me that the houses are for the most part alive with fleas, and I should prefer to sleep in a tent, however small, rather than lie in a bed on the floor of any one of them. We don't want thick beds, you know -- a couple of thicknesses of well-quilted cotton, say an inch thick each, and two feet wide. You can get these made for us, no doubt."

The Indian nodded.

"That would be the best for travel; the beds the Peruvian caballeros use are very thick and bulky."

"You will want two for yourself and your wife, and two for José. By the by, we shall want a tent for him."

Dias smiled. "It will not be necessary, senor; muleteers are accustomed to sleep in the open air, and with two thick blankets, and a leathern coverlet in case of rain, he will be more than comfortable. I shall have five leather bags made to hold the beds and blankets. But the making of the beds and tents will take some time -- people do not hurry in Lima, -- and there will be the riding saddles and bridles to get, and the provisions. I do not think we can be ready before another week. It will be well, then, that you should, before starting away, visit the ruins of Pachacamac. All travellers go there, and it will seem only natural that you should do so, for there you will see the style of the buildings, and also the explorations that were everywhere made by the Spaniards in search of treasure."

"Very well, Dias; then this day week we shall be ready to start. However, I suppose I shall see you every day, and learn how you are getting on with your preparations."

Bertie had been sitting at the window looking down into the street while this conversation was going on. "Well, what is it all about?" he asked, turning round as the Indian left the room. "Is it satisfactory?"

"More than satisfactory," his brother answered. "In the first place his nephew, a lad of fifteen, who is training as a mule-driver, is going with us, which is much better than getting an outsider; in the next place his wife is going with us."

"Good gracious!" Bertie exclaimed, "what in the world shall we do with a woman?"

"Well, I think we shall do very well with her, Bertie; but well or ill she has to go. She will not let her husband go without her, which is natural enough, considering how long we shall be away, and that the journey will be a dangerous one. But really I think she will be an acquisition to the party. She is bright and pretty, as you no doubt noticed, and what is of more importance, she is a capital cook."

"She certainly gave us a good meal yesterday," Bertie said, "and though I could rough it on anything, it is decidedly pleasanter to have a well-cooked meal."

"Well, you see, that is all right."

"And how many mules are we to take?"

"Five for baggage, and three for riding. I have no doubt Dias's wife will ride behind him, and the boy, when he wants to ride, will perch himself on one of the baggage mules. Dias has five mules, and we shall only have to buy the three for riding."

"What is it all going to cost, Harry?" Bertie said when his brother had told him all the arrangements that had been made. "That is the most important point after all."

"Well, you will be astonished when I tell you, Bertie, that if we don't succeed in finding a treasure of any kind I shall only have to pay for the three riding mules, and the expenses of food and so on, and a hundred dollars."

"Twenty pounds!" Bertie said incredulously; "you are joking!"

"No, it is really so; the man said that he considered that in going with me he is only fulfilling the obligation he is under to Mr. Barnett. Of course I protested against the terms, and would have insisted upon paying the ordinary prices, whatever they might be, for his services and the use of his mules; but he simply said that those were the conditions on which he was willing to go with me, and that I could take them or leave them, so I had to accept. I can only hope that we may find some treasure, in which case only he consented to accept proper payment for his services."

"Well, it is awfully good of him," Bertie said; "though really it doesn't seem fair that we should be having the services of himself, his wife, his boy, and his mules for nothing. There is one thing, it will be an extra inducement to him to try and put us in the way of finding one of those mines."

"I don't think so, Bertie; he said that not for any sum of money whatever would he do what he is going to do, but simply from gratitude to Barnett. It is curious how the traditions, or superstitions, or whatever you like to call them, of the time of the Incas have continued to impress the Indians, and how they have preserved the secrets confided to their ancestors. No doubt fear that the Spaniards would force them to work in the mines till they died has had a great effect in inducing them to conceal the existence of these places from them. Now that the Spaniards have been cleared out there is no longer any ground for apprehension of that kind, but they may still feel that the Peruvians would get the giant's share in any mine or treasure that might be found, and that the Indians would, under one pretence or another, be defrauded out of any share of it. It is not wonderful that it should be so considering how these poor people have been treated by the whites, and it would really seem that the way in which Spain has gone to the dogs is a punishment for her cruelties in South America and the Islands. It may be said that from the very moment when the gold began to flow the descent of Spain commenced; in spite of the enormous wealth she acquired she fell gradually from her position as the greatest power in Europe.

"In 1525, after the battle of Pavia, Spain stood at the height of her power. Mexico was conquered by Cortez seven years before, Peru in 1531, and the wealth of those countries began to flow into Spain in enormous quantities, and yet her decline followed speedily. She was bearded by our bucaneers among the Islands and on the western coast; the Netherlands revolted, and after fierce fighting threw off her yoke; the battle of Ivry and the accession of Henry of Navarre all but destroyed her influence in France; the defeat of the Armada and the capture of Cadiz struck a fatal blow both to her power on the sea and to her commerce, and within a century of the conquest of Peru, Spain was already an enfeebled and decaying power. It would almost seem that the discoveries of Columbus, from which such great things were hoped, proved in the long run the greatest misfortune that ever befell Spain."

"It does look like it, Harry; however, we must hope that whatever effect the discovery of America had upon Portugal or Spain, it will make your fortune."

Harry laughed.

"I hope so, Bertie, but it is as well not to be too hopeful. Still, I have great faith in Dias, at any rate I feel confident that he will do all he can; but he acknowledges that he knows nothing for certain. I am sure, however, that he will be a faithful guide, and that though we may have a rough time, it will not be an unpleasant one. Now, you must begin to turn to account what Spanish you have learned during the voyage; I know you have worked regularly at it while you have not been on duty."

"I have learned a good lot," Bertie said; "and I dare say I could ask for anything, but I should not understand the answers. I can make out a lot of that Spanish Don Quixote you got for me, but when Dias was talking to you I did not catch a word of what he was saying. I suppose it will all come in time."

"But you must begin at once. I warn you that when I am fairly off I shall always talk to you in Spanish, for it would look very unsociable if we were always talking together in English. If you ride or walk by the side of the boy you will soon get on; and there will be Donna Maria for you to chat away with, and from what we saw of her I should say she is sociably inclined. In three months I have no doubt you will talk Spanish as well as I do."

"It will be a horrid nuisance," Bertie grumbled; "but I suppose it has got to be done."

Three days later Dias said he thought they might as well start the next day to Pachacamac.

"We shall only want the three riding mules and one for baggage. Of course we shall not take José or my wife. By the time we return everything will be ready for us."

"I shall be very glad to be off, Dias. We know no one here except Senor Pasquez; and although he has been very civil and has begged us to consider his house as our own, he is of course busy during the day, and one can't do above a certain amount of walking about the streets. So by all means let us start to-morrow morning. We may as well go this time in the clothes we wear, it will be time enough to put on the things we have bought when we start in earnest."

Starting at sunrise, they rode for some distance through a fertile valley, and then crossed a sandy plain until they reached the little valley of Lurin, in which stand the ruins of Pachacamac. This was the sacred city of the natives of the coast before their conquest by the Incas. During their forty-mile ride Dias had told them something of the place they were about to visit. Pachacamac, meaning "the creator of the world," was the chief divinity of these early people, and here was the great temple dedicated to him. The Incas after their conquest erected a vast Temple of the Sun, but they did not attempt to suppress the worship of Pachacamac, and the two flourished side by side until the arrival of the Spaniards. The wealth of the temple was great; the Spaniards carried away among their spoils one thousand six hundred and eighty-seven pounds of gold and one thousand six hundred ounces of silver; but with all their efforts they failed to discover the main treasure, said to have been no less than twenty-four thousand eight hundred pounds of gold, which had been carried away and buried before their arrival.

"If the Spaniards could not succeed in getting at the hiding-place, although, no doubt, they tortured everyone connected with the temple to make them divulge the secret, it is evident there is no chance for us," Harry said.

"Yes, senor, they made every effort; thousands of natives were employed in driving passages through the terraces on which the temple stood. I believe that they did find much treasure, but certainly not the great one they were searching for. There is no tradition among our people as to the hiding-place, for so many of the natives perished that all to whom the secret was known must have died without revealing it to anybody. Had it not been so, the Spaniards would sooner or later have learned it, for although hundreds have died under torture rather than reveal any of the hiding-places, surely one more faint-hearted than the rest would have disclosed them. Certain it is that at Cuzco and other places they succeeded in obtaining almost all the treasures buried there, though they failed in discovering the still greater treasures that had been carried away to be hidden in different spots. But Pachacamac was a small one in comparison with Cuzco, and it was believed that the treasures had not been carried far. Tradition has it that they were buried somewhere between this town and Lima. Doubtless all concerned in the matter fled before the Spaniards arrived, at any rate with all their cruelty the invaders never discovered its position. The report that it was buried near may have been set about to prevent their hunting for it elsewhere, and the gold may be lying now somewhere in the heart of the mountains."

Harry Prendergast and his brother looked in astonishment at the massive walls that rose around the eminence on which the temple had stood. The latter had disappeared, but its situation could be traced on the plateau buttressed by the walls. These were of immense thickness, and formed of huge adobe bricks almost as hard as stone; even the long efforts of the Spaniards had caused but little damage to them. The plateau rose some five hundred feet above the sea, which almost washed one face of it. Half-way up the hill four series of these massive walls, whose tops formed terraces, stood in giant steps some fifty feet high. Here and there spots of red paint could be seen, showing that the whole surface was originally painted. The ascent was made by winding passages through the walls. On the side of the upper area facing the sea could be seen the remains of a sort of walk or esplanade, with traces of edifices of various kinds. On a hill a mile and a half away were the remains of the Incas' temple and nunnery, the style differing materially from that of the older building; it was still more damaged than the temple on the hill by the searchers for treasure.

Pachacamac was the most sacred spot in South America, vast numbers of pilgrims came here from all points. The city itself had entirely disappeared, covered deeply in sand, but for a long distance round, it had, like the neighbourhood of Jerusalem and Mecca, been a vast cemetery, and a small amount of excavation showed the tombs of the faithful, occupied in most cases by mummies.

"We will ride across to the Incas' temple. There is not much to see there, but it is as well that you should look at the vaults in which the treasures were hid. There are similar places at Cuzco and several of the other ruins."

"It may certainly be useful to see them," Harry agreed, and they rode across the plain. Leaving their mules outside they entered the ruins. The Indian led them into some underground chambers. He had brought a torch with him, and this he now lit.

"You have to be careful or you might otherwise tumble into one of these holes and break a limb; and in that case, if you were here by yourselves, you would certainly never get out again."

They came upon several of these places. The openings were sometimes square and sometimes circular, and had doubtless been covered with square stones. They were dug out of the solid ground. For about six feet the sides of the pit were perpendicular; in some it swelled out like a great vase with a broad shoulder, in others it became a square chamber of some size.

"Some of these places were no doubt meant to store grain and other provisions," the Indian said, "some were undoubtedly treasuries."

"Awkward places to find," Harry said; "one might spend a lifetime in searching for them in only one of these temples."

"They were the last places we should think of searching," Dias said. "For years the Spaniards kept thousands of men at work. I do not say that there may not be some few places that have escaped the searchers, but what they could not with their host of workers find certainly could not be found by four or five men. It is not in the temples that the Incas' wealth has been hidden, but in caves, in deep mountain gorges, and possibly in ruins on the other side of the mountains where even the Spaniards never penetrated. There are such places. I know of one to which I will take you if our search fails elsewhere. It is near the sea, and yet there are not half a dozen living men who have ever seen it, so strangely is it hidden. Tradition says that it was not the work of the Incas, but of the people before them. I have never seen it close. It is guarded, they say, by demons, and no native would go within miles of it. The traditions are that the Incas, when they conquered the land, found the place and searched it, after starving out the native chief who had fled there with his followers and family. Some say that they found great treasure there, others that they discovered nothing; all agree that a pestilence carried off nearly all those who had captured it. Others went, and they too died, and the place was abandoned as accursed, and in time its very existence became forgotten; though some say that members of the tribe have always kept watch there, and that those who carelessly or curiously approached it have always met with their death in strange ways. Although I am a Christian, and have been taught to disbelieve the superstitions of my countrymen, I would not enter it on any condition."

"If we happen to be near it I shall certainly take a close look at it," Harry said with a laugh. "I don't fancy we should see anything that our rifles and pistols would find invulnerable."

It was getting dark by the time they had finished their inspection of the rooms, so, riding two or three miles away, they encamped in a grove up the valley. Next morning they returned to Lima. Dias had given out that the two white senors intended to visit all the ruined temples of the Incas, and as other travellers had done the same their intention excited neither surprise nor comment.

On the following evening after dark Harry and his brother were returning from the house of Senor Pasquez.

"It is a pleasant house," Harry said; "the girls are pretty and nice, they play and sing well, and are really charming. But what a contrast it was the other morning when we went in there and accidentally ran against them when we were going upstairs with their father, utterly untidy, and, in fact, regular sluts -- a maid of all work would look a picture of neatness beside them."

Bertie was about to answer, when there was an outburst of shouts from a wine-shop they were passing, and in a moment the door burst open and half a dozen men engaged in a fierce conflict rushed out. Knives were flashing, and it was evident that one man was being attacked by the rest. By the light that streamed out of the open door they saw that the man attacked was Dias. It flashed across Harry's mind that if this man was killed there was an end to all hope of success in their expedition.

"Dash in to his rescue, Bertie," he cried; "but whatever you do, mind their knives."

With a shout he sprang forward and struck to the ground a man who was dodging behind Dias with uplifted knife, while Bertie leapt on to the back of another, the shock throwing the man down face forward. Bertie was on his feet in a moment, and brought the stick he carried with all his force down on the man's head as he tried to rise. Then, springing forward again, he struck another man a heavy blow on the wrist. The knife dropped from the man's hand, and as he dashed with a fierce oath upon Bertie the stick descended again, this time on his head, and felled him to the ground. In the meantime one of the assailants had turned fiercely on Harry and aimed a blow at him with his knife; but with the ease of a practised boxer Harry stepped back, and before the man could again raise the knife he leaped in and struck him a tremendous blow on the point of his chin. The fifth man took to his heels immediately. The other four lay where they had fallen, evidently fearing they would be stabbed should they try to get on to their feet.

"Are you hurt, Dias?" Harry exclaimed.

"I have several cuts, senor, but none of them, I think, serious. You have saved my life."

"Never mind that now, Dias. What shall we do with these fellows -- hand them over to the watch?"

"No, senor, that would be the last thing to do; we might be detained here for months. I will take all their knives and let them go."

"Here are two of them," Bertie said, picking up those of the men he had struck.

Dias stood over the man Harry had first knocked down, and with a fierce whisper ordered him to give up his knife, which he did at once. The other was still stupid from the effect of the blow and his fall, and Dias had only to take his knife from his relaxed fingers.

"Now, senor, let us be going before anyone comes along."

"What was it all about, Dias?" Harry asked as he walked away.

"Many of the muleteers are jealous, senor, because I always get what they consider the best jobs. I had gone into the wine-shop for a glass of pulque before going round to see that the mules were all right. As I was drinking, these men whispered together, and then one came up to me and began to abuse me, and directly I answered him the whole of them drew their knives and rushed at me. I was ready too, and wounded two of them as I fought my way to the door. As I opened it one of them stabbed me in the shoulder, but it was a slanting blow. Once out they all attacked me at once, and in another minute you would have had to look for another muleteer. 'Tis strange, senors, that you should have saved my life as Mr. Barnett did. It was a great deed to risk your lives with no weapons but your sticks against five ruffians with their knives."

"I did not use my stick," Harry said. "I am more accustomed to use my fists than a stick, and can hit as hard with them, as you saw. But my brother's stick turned out the most useful. He can box too, but cannot give as heavy a blow as I can. Still, it was very lucky that I followed your advice, and bought a couple of heavy sticks to carry with us if we should go out after dark. Now you had better come to the hotel, and I will send for a surgeon to dress your wound."

"It is not necessary, senor; my wife is waiting for me in my room, she arrived this afternoon. Knife cuts are not uncommon affairs here, and she knows quite enough to be able to bandage them."

"At any rate we shall have to put off our start for a few days."

"Not at all, senor; a bandage tonight and a few strips of plaster in the morning will do the business. I shall be stiff for a few days, but that will not interfere with my riding, and José will be able to load and unload the mules, if you will give him a little assistance. Adios! and a thousand thanks."

"That was a piece of luck, Bertie," Harry said when they had reached their room in the hotel. "In the first place, because neither of us got a scratch, and in the second, because it will bind Dias more closely to us. Before, he was willing to assist us for Barnett's sake, now it will be for our own also, and we may be quite sure that he will do his best for us."

"It is my first scrimmage," Bertie said, "and I must say that I thought, as we ran in, that it was going to be a pretty serious one. We have certainly come very well out of it."

"It was short and sharp," Harry laughed. "I have always held that the man who could box well was more than a match for one with a knife who knew nothing of boxing. One straight hit from the shoulder is sure to knock him out of time."

Next morning Dias and his wife came up early. The former had one arm in a sling. As they entered, the woman ran forward, and, throwing her arms round Bertie, she kissed him on both cheeks. The lad was too much surprised at this unexpected salute to return it, as his brother did when she did the same to him. Then, drawing back, she poured out her thanks volubly, the tears running down her cheeks.

"Maria asked me if she might kiss you," Dias said gravely when she stopped. "I said that it was right that she should do so, for do we not both owe you my life?"

"You must not make too much of the affair, Dias; four blows were struck, and there was an end to it."

"A small matter to you, senor, but a great one to us. A Peruvian would not interfere if he saw four armed men attacking one. He would be more likely to turn down the next street, so that he might not be called as a witness. It is only your countrymen who would do such things."

"And you still think that you will be ready to start the day after to-morrow?"

"Quite sure, senor. My shoulder will be stiff and my arm in a sling for a week, but muleteers think nothing of such trifles, -- a kick from a mule would be a much more serious affair."

"You don't think those rascals are likely to waylay us on the road, and take their revenge?"

"Not they, senor. If you could do such things unarmed, what could you not do when you had rifles and pistols? The matter is settled. They have not been seriously hurt. If one of them had been killed I should be obliged to be careful the next time I came here; as it is, no more will be said about it. Except the two hurt in the wine-shop they will not even have a scar to remind them of it. In two years they will have other things to think about, if it is true that Colombia means to go to war with Chili."

"What is the quarrel about, Dias?"

"The Colombians helped us to get rid of the Spaniards, but ever since they have presumed a right to manage affairs here."

"Perhaps nothing will come of it."

"Well, it is quite certain that there is no very good feeling between Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, and Peru."

"I suppose they will be fighting all round some day?"

"Yes, and it will interfere with my business. Certainly we are better off than when the Spaniards were here; but the taxes are heavy, and things don't go as people expected they would when we got rid of the Spaniards. All the governments seem jealous of each other. I don't take any interest in these matters except so far as they interfere with trade. If every man would attend to his own affairs it would be better for us all."

"I suppose so, Dias; but one can hardly expect a country that has been so many years governed by a foreign power to get accustomed all at once to governing itself."

"Now, senor, I shall be glad if you will go with me and look at the stores that are already collected. I think you will find that everything is ready."



Chapter V

Among The Mountain


Two days later the mules were brought round to the door at sunrise, and Harry and his brother sallied out from the hotel, dressed for the first time in the Peruvian costume. They were both warmly clothed. On their heads were felt hats with broad brims, which could be pulled down and tied over the ears, both for warmth and to prevent their being blown away by the fierce winds that sweep down the gorges. A thick poncho of llama wool fell from their shoulders to their knees, and loosely tied round their necks were thick and brightly-coloured scarves. They wore high boots, and carried large knives stuck in a strap below the knee. The rifles were fastened at the bow of their saddles, and their wallets, with provisions for the day, were strapped behind. By the advice of Dias each had in his pocket a large pair of green goggles, to protect their eyes from the glare of sun and snow. They tied these on before coming downstairs, and both agreed that had they met unexpectedly in the street they would have passed each other without the slightest recognition.

"It is a pity, Harry," Bertie said seriously, "that you did not have your portrait taken to send home to a certain young lady. You see, she would then have been able to hang it up in her room and worship it privately, without anyone having the slightest idea that it was her absent lover."

"You young scamp," Harry said, "I will pull your ears for you."

"If you attempt anything of the sort, I shall tie the brim of my hat tightly over them. I really think it is very ungrateful of you not to take my advice in the spirit in which I gave it."

"If you intend to go on like this, Bert, I shall leave you behind."

"You can't do it."

"Oh, yes, I can! I might give you in charge for some crime or other; and in lack of evidence, the expenditure of a few dollars would, I have no doubt, be sufficient to induce the judge, magistrate, or whatever they call him, to give you six months' imprisonment."

"Then you are an unnatural brother, and I will make no more suggestions for your good."

So they had come downstairs laughing, though feeling a little shy at their appearance as they issued out of the courtyard. Speedily, however, they gained courage as they saw that passers-by paid no attention to them.

They had spent the previous afternoon in packing the bundles, in which every item was put away so that it could be got at readily, and in making sure that nothing had been omitted. The five baggage mules were fastened one behind another, and José stood at the head of the leading one. As they came out Dias swung his wife on to a cushion strapped behind his saddle, and mounted himself before her. Harry and his brother climbed into theirs. They had both refused to put on the heavy and cruel spurs worn by the Peruvians, but had, at the earnest request of the Indian, put them in their saddle-bags.

"You will want them," he said. "You need not use them cruelly, but you must give your mules an occasional prick to let them know that you have spurs."

On leaving the town the road ran up the valley of the Rimac, a small river, but of vital importance to the country through which it passes, as small canals branching from it irrigate the land.

"The Spaniards have done some good here at least," Harry said to Dias, who was riding beside him.

"Some of these canals were constructed in their time, but the rest existed long before they came here, and, indeed, long before the Incas came. The Incas' work lies chiefly beyond the mountains; on this side almost all the great ruins are of cities and fortresses built by the old people. Cuzco was the Incas' capital, and almost all the towns between the two ranges of the Andes were their work. It is true that they conquered the people down to the sea, but they do not seem to have cared to live here. The treasures of Pachacamac and the other places on the plains were those of the old people and the old religion. The inhabitants of the plains are for the most part descendants of those people. The Incas were strong and powerful, but they were not numerous. That was why the Spaniards conquered them so easily. The old people, who regarded them as their masters, did not care to fight for them, just as the Peruvians did not care to fight for the Spaniards."

"I expect it was a good deal like the Normans in England," Bertie put in. "They conquered the Saxons because they were better armed and better disciplined, but they were few in number in comparison with the number they governed, and in their quarrels with each other the bulk of the people stood aloof; and it was only when the Normans began their wars in France and Scotland, and were obliged to enlist Saxon archers and soldiers, that the two began to unite and to become one people."

"I have no doubt that was so, Bertie; but you are breaking our agreement that you should speak in Spanish only."

"Oh, bother! you know very well that I cannot talk in it yet, and you surely do not expect that I am going to ride along without opening my lips."

"I know you too well to expect that," Harry laughed, "and will allow an occasional outbreak. Still, do try to talk Spanish, however bad it may be. You have got cheek enough in other things, and cheek goes a long way in learning to talk a foreign language. You have been four months at your Spanish books, and should certainly begin to put simple sentences together."

"But that is just what one does not learn from books," the lad said. "At any rate, not from such books as I have been working at. I could do a high-flown sentence, and offer to kiss your hand and to declare that all I have is at your disposal. But if I wanted to say, 'When are we going to halt for dinner? I am feeling very peckish,' I should be stumped altogether."

"Well, you must get as near as you can, Bertie. I dare say you cannot turn slang into Spanish; but you can find other words to express your meaning, and when you cannot hit on a word you must use an English one. Your best plan is to move along on the other side of Dias, and chat to his wife."

"What have I got to say to her?"

"Anything you like. You can begin by asking her if she has ever gone a long journey with her husband before, how far we shall go to-day -- things of that sort."

"Well, I will try anyhow. I suppose I must. But you go on talking to Dias, else I shall think that you are both laughing at me."

Five miles from Lima they passed through the little village of Quiraz. Beyond this they came upon many cotton plantations, and in the ravines by the side of the valley or among the ruins of Indian towns were several large fortresses. They also passed the remains of an old Spanish town and several haciendas, where many cattle and horses were grazing. They were ascending steadily, and after passing Santa Clara, eleven miles from Lima, the valley narrowed and became little more than a ravine. On either side were rents made in the hills by earthquakes, and immense boulders and stones were scattered about at the bottom of the narrow gorge. Four hours' travelling brought them to Chosica, where the valley widened again near the foot of the hills.

Here they halted for the day. There was an inn here which Dias assured them was clean and comfortable, and they therefore took a couple of rooms for the night in preference to unpacking their tents.

"It is just as well not to begin that till we get farther away," Harry said. "We have met any number of laden mules coming down, and if we were to camp here we should cause general curiosity."

He accordingly ordered dinner for himself and his brother, Dias preferring to take his meal in a large room used by passing muleteers. The fare was as good as they had had at the hotel at Lima.

"I am not sorry that we halted here," Bertie said; "I feel as stiff as a poker."

"I think you got on very well, Bertie, with Mrs. Dias. I did not hear what you were saying, but you seemed to be doing stunningly."

"She did most of the talking. I asked her to speak slowly, as I did not manage to catch the sense of what she said. She seems full of fun, and a jolly little woman altogether. She generally understood what I meant, and though she could not help laughing sometimes, she did it so good-temperedly that one did not feel put out. Each time I spoke she corrected me, told me what I ought to have said, and made me say it after her. I think I shall get on fairly well at the end of a few weeks."

"I am sure you will, Bertie; the trouble is only at the beginning, and now that you have once broken the ice, you will progress like a house on fire."

There were still four hours of daylight after they had finished their meal, so they went out with Dias to explore one of the numerous burying-grounds round the village. It consisted of sunken chambers. In these were bones, with remains of the mats in which the bodies had been clothed. These wrappings resembled small sacks, and they remarked that the people must have been of very small size, or they could never have been packed away in them. With them had been buried many of the implements of their trade. One or two had apparently not been opened. Here were knitting utensils, toilet articles, implements for weaving, spools of thread, needles of bone and bronze. With the body of a girl had been placed a kind of work-box, containing the articles that she had used, and the mummy of a parrot, some beads, and fragments of an ornament of silver. Dias told them that all these tombs were made long before the coming of the Incas. He said that round the heads of the men and boys were wound the slings they had used in life, while a piece of cotton flock was wrapped round the heads of the women. Many of the graves communicated with each other by very narrow passages; the purpose of these was not clear, but probably they were made to enable the spirits of the dead to meet and hold communion with each other.

"I don't want to see any more of them," Bertie said after they had spent three hours in their investigations; "this sort of thing is enough to give one a fit of the blues."

Beyond Chosica civilization almost ceased. The road became little more than a mule track, and was in many places almost impassable by vehicles of any kind. Nothing could be wilder than the scenery they passed. At times rivers ran through perpendicular gorges, and the track wound up and down steep ravines. Sometimes they would all dismount, though Dias assured them it was not necessary; still, it made a change from the monotonous pace of little over two miles an hour at which the mules breasted the steep incline.

José rode on the first of the baggage mules, which was very lightly loaded; he generally sang the whole time. When on foot, Donna Maria stepped gaily along and Bertie had hard work to keep pace with her. He was making rapid progress with the language, though occasionally a peal of laughter from his companion told of some egregious error.

There were villages every few miles, but now when they halted they did so as a rule a mile before they got to one of these. Dinner was cooked over a fire of dead sticks, and after the meal Harry's tent was erected and the bed spread in it. The Indians went on to the village for the night, while Harry and his brother sat and smoked for a time by the fire and then turned in. At daybreak Dias rode back leading their riding mules and a baggage animal; the tent, beds, and the cooking utensils were packed up, and they rode in to the village and passed on at a trot until they overtook Maria and José, who had started with the other four mules when Dias rode away. At last they reached the head of the pass, and two days' journey took them to Oroya, standing on an elevated plateau some ten thousand feet above the sea, and five thousand below the highest point of the road.

The scenery had now completely changed. Villages were scattered thickly over the plain, cultivation was general. The hillsides were lined by artificial terraces, on which were perched chalets and small hamlets -- they had seen similar terraces on the way up. These were as the Spaniards found them, and must at one time have been inhabited by a thriving population. Even now gardens and orchards flourished upon them up to the highest points on the hills. Oroya was a large place, and, avoiding the busy part of the town, they hired rooms, as it was necessary to give the mules two days' rest. On the first evening after their arrival they gathered round a fire, for the nights were cold, and even in the daytime they did not find their numerous wraps too hot for them.

"Now, Dias," Harry said, "we must talk over our plans. You said that we would not decide upon anything till we got here."

"In the first place, senor, I think it would be well to go to the north to see the Cerro de Pasco silver mine, they say it is the richest in the world. It is well that you should see the formation of the rocks and the nature of the ore; we may in our journeyings come across similar rock."

"It is gold rather than silver that one wants to find, Dias. I do not say that a silver mine would not be worth a very large sum of money, but it would be necessary to open it and go to a large expense to prove it. Then one would have to go to England and get up a company to work it, which would be a long and difficult matter. Still, I am quite ready to go and see the place."

Dias nodded.

"What you say is true, senor. I could take you to a dozen places where there is silver. They may be good or may not, but even if they were as rich as Potosi the silver would have to be carried to Lima, so great a distance on mules' backs that it would swallow up the profits. And it would be almost impossible to convey the necessary machinery there, indeed to do so would involve the making of roads for a great distance."

"At the same time, Dias, should you know of any silver lodes that might turn out well, I would certainly take some samples, and send two or three mule-loads of the stuff home. They might be of no good for the purpose for which I have come out here, but in time I might do something with them; the law here is that anyone who finds a mine can obtain a concession for it."

"That is so, senor, but he must proceed to work it."

"I suppose it would be sufficient to put two or three men on for that purpose."

"But if you were away for a year difficulties might arise. It would be better for you only to determine the course of the lode, its thickness and value, to trace it as far as possible, and then hide all signs of the work, and not to make your claim until you return here."

"Very well, I will take your advice, Dias. And now about the real object of our journey."

"I have been thinking it over deeply," Dias said. "First as to mines; at present almost all the gold that is obtained is acquired by washing the sands of rivers. Here and there gold has been found in rocks, but not in sufficient quantities to make mining pay. The rivers whose sands are richest in gold are in the mountains that lie behind Lake Titicaca, which lies to the south of Cuzco and on the border of Bolivia. No one doubts that in the time of the Incas there existed gold mines, and very rich ones; for if it had not been so it is impossible to account for the enormous amount of gold obtained by the Spanish conquerors, and no one doubts that they got but a small portion of the gold in existence when they arrived. It is of no use whatever for us to search the old ruins of the Incas in Cuzco, or their other great towns; all that can be found there has already been carried away.

"Now you see, senor, Huanuco, Jauja, Cuzco, and Puno all lie near the eastern range of the Andes, and when the alarm caused by the arrogant conduct of the Spaniards began, it was natural that the treasures should be sent away into the heart of those mountains. The towns on the western sides of this plateau, Challhuanca, Tanibobamba, Huancavelica, would as naturally send theirs for safety into the gorges of the western Andes, but all traditions point to the fact that this was not done by the Incas. As soon as the Spaniards arrived and struck the first blow, the great chiefs would naturally call together a band of their followers on whose fidelity they could rely, load the treasures on llamas, of which they possessed great numbers, and hurry them off to the mountains.

"It is among the mountains, therefore, that our search must be made. All our traditions point to the fact that it was along the eastern range of the Cordilleras, and the country beyond, that by far the greater portion of the treasures were taken for concealment. At any rate, as we have but eighteen months for the search it is on that side that we must try, and ten times that length of time would be insufficient for us to do it thoroughly. As to the gold mines, it is certain that they lie in that portion of the range between Cuzco and Lake Titicaca. It was near Puno, a short distance from the lake, that the Spaniards, owing to the folly of an Indian, found great treasures in a cave. They would probably have found much more had not a stream suddenly burst out which flooded the whole valley and converted it into a lake. Which do you think we had better look for first, gold mines or hidden treasures?"

"Of course that must depend on you, Dias, and how much you know about these matters. I need not say that a hidden treasure would be of vastly more use to me than the richest gold mine in the world. To obtain the gold from a mine an abundance of labour is required, besides machinery for crushing quartz and separating the gold from it. In the bed of a river, if it is rich and abounding in nuggets, three or four men, with rough machinery, could wash out a large quantity of gold in a short time, and a place of that sort would be far better than a rich mine, which could not be worked without a large amount of capital."

"I have heard tales of such places on the other side of the mountains to the south. From time to time gold-seekers have returned with as much as they could carry, but not one in a hundred of those that go ever come back; some doubtless die from hunger and hardship, but more are killed by the Indians. Most of the tribes there are extremely savage, and are constantly at war with each other, and they slay every white man who ventures into their country."

"Then is it not probable, Dias, that the gold could have come from their country?"

"Not from the plains, but from the streams running down into them; and although the Incas never attempted to subdue the tribes beyond the mountains, they may have had bodies of troops to protect the workers from incursions by these savages."

"Are there many wild beasts there?"

"In some parts of the mountains pumas and jaguars abound."

"That is not altogether satisfactory, though I should not mind if we fell in with one occasionally. But how about game, Dias?"

"The chief game are the wild vicunas, which are very numerous in some parts; but they are very shy and difficult to hunt. Deer are plentiful, and there are foxes, bears, and hogs; but the great article of food is fish. On the plains the manatee, which is very like the seal, is caught; turtles are found in great numbers, and the people make oil from their eggs; and the buffo, a sort of porpoise, also abounds. The natives do not eat these, except when very pressed for food; they catch them for the sake of their oil. There are many kinds of fish: the sunaro, which I heard an English traveller say are like the fish the English call the pike; these grow to the length of seven or eight feet. And many smaller kinds of fish are caught by throwing the juice of the root of the barbasto into small streams. This makes the fish stupid, and they float on the surface so that they may easily be caught by hand. There are also many sorts of fruit."

"Well, then, we ought to do fairly well, Dias."

"Yes, senor; but many of these creatures are only found in the forests and in the rivers of the plains, and they are so much hunted by the savages there that they are very shy. But there are some creatures with which we certainly do not wish to meet, and unfortunately these are not uncommon. I mean the alligators and the great serpents. The natives fear the alligators much, for their weapons are of no avail against them, and they would never venture to attack a great snake."

"And besides these, what other disagreeables are there, Dias?" Bertie asked cheerfully.

"There is one other disagreeable," Dias replied, "and it is a serious one. There are in the mountains many desperate men. Some have slain an enemy who had friends influential enough to set the law in motion against them, or have escaped from prison; some have resisted the tax-collectors; many have been suspected of plotting against the government; and others are too lazy to work."

"And how do they live?" Harry asked.

"They live partly on game and partly on plunder. They steal from cultivators; they are paid a small sum by all muleteers passing through the mountains; they rob travellers who are worth robbing; and sometimes they carry off a proprietor of land, and get a ransom for him. Occasionally they will wash the sand, and get gold enough to send one of their number into a town to buy articles they require."

"And do they go in large bands?"

"No, senor; as a rule some ten or twelve keep together under the one they have chosen as their chief. Sometimes, if people make complaints and troops are sent against them, they will join to resist them; but this is not often. The authorities know well enough that they have no chance of catching these men among the mountains they are so well acquainted with, and content themselves with stationing a few troops in the villages."

"And is it through the robbers or the savages that so few of the gold explorers ever return?"

"It is chiefly, I think, from hardship," Dias said; "but undoubtedly many who venture down near the Indians' country are killed by them. Some who have done well, and are returning with the gold they have accumulated, fall victims to these robbers. You must not, of course, suppose that there are great numbers of them, senor. There may be some hundreds, but from Huancabamba -- the northern frontier of the western Cordilleras, where the Maranon crosses the eastern range -- down to Lake Titicaca on the one side, and Tacna on the other, is nigh a thousand miles, and the two ranges cover more square leagues than can be reckoned, and even a thousand men scattered over these would be but so many grains of sand on a stretch of the sea-shore."

"It certainly sounds like it, Dias; but perhaps those worthy people congregate chiefly in the neighbourhood of the passes."

"That is so, senor; but even through these a traveller might pass many times without being troubled by them."

"Have you fallen in with them often, Dias?"

"Yes; but, as you see, they have done me no harm. Sometimes, when I get to the end of my journey, the mules are not so heavily laden as when I started; but generally the people for whom I work say to me, 'Here are so many dollars, Dias; they are for toll.' There are places in the villages at the foot of the most-frequented passes where it is understood that a payment of so many dollars per mule will enable you to pass without molestation. In return for your money, you receive a ribbon, or a rosette, or a feather, and this you place in your hat as a passport. You may meet a few men with guns as you pass along, but when they see the sign they salute you civilly, ask for a drink of wine if you are carrying it, then wish you good-day. It is only in little-frequented passes that you have to take your chance. I may say that though these men may plunder, they never kill a muleteer. They know that if they did, all traffic on that road would cease, and the soldiers would find guides who knew every path and hiding-place in the mountains."

"Anyhow, I think it is well, Dias, that I took your advice, and handed over my gold to Senor Pasquez, for if we do fall into the hands of any of these gentry, we can lose practically nothing."

"No money, senor, but we might lose everything else, except perhaps the mules, which they could not use in the mountains. But if they were to take our blankets, and tents, and provisions, and your firearms, we should be in a bad way if we happened to be a couple of hundred miles in the heart of the mountains."

"Well, I don't think they will take them," Harry said grimly, "without paying pretty dearly for them. With your gun and our rifles, and that old fowling-piece which you got for José, which will throw a fairly heavy charge of buck-shot, I think we can make a very good fight against any band of eight men, or even one or two more."

"I think so," Dias said gravely. "It is seldom I miss my mark. Still, I hope we shall not be troubled with them, or with the Indians. You see, it is not so much an attack by day that we have to fear, as a surprise at night. Of course, when we are once on the hills, José and I will keep watch by turns. He is as sharp as a needle. I should have no fear of any of these robbers creeping up to us without his hearing them. But I can't say so much for him in the case of the Indians, who can move so noiselessly that even a vicuna would not hear them until they were within a spear's-throw."

"The spear is their weapon then, Dias?"

"Some tribes carry bows and arrows, others only spears, and sometimes they poison the points of both these weapons."

"That is unpleasant. Are there remedies for the poisons?"

"None that I know of, nor do I think the savages themselves know of any. The only chance is to pour ammonia at once into the hole that is made by an arrow, and to cut out all the flesh round a spear-wound, and then to pour in ammonia or sear it with a hot iron."

"That accounts for your buying that large bottle of ammonia at Lima. I wondered what you wanted it for. When we get into the country these unpleasant people inhabit, I will fill my spirit-flask with it, so that it will always be handy if required. Now we understand things generally, Dias. It only remains for you to decide where we had best leave the plain and take to the mountains."

Dias was silent for a minute. "I should say, senor, that first we had better journey down to Cuzco and then down to Sicuani, where the western Cordilleras, after making a bend, join the eastern branch, and there cross the Tinta volcano. On the other side are many gorges. In one of these I know there is some very rich gold sand. Explorers have sought for this spot in vain, but the secret has been well kept by the few who know it. It has been handed down in my father's family from father to son ever since the Spaniards came. He told it to me, and I swore to reveal it to none but my son. I have no son, and the secret therefore will die with me. Whether it has been passed down in any other family I cannot say. It may be, or it may not be; but as I owe you my life, and also the debt of gratitude to Senor Barnett, I feel that you are more to me than a son. Moreover, the secret was to be kept lest it should come to the knowledge of the Spaniards. The Spaniards have gone, and with them the reason for concealment, so I feel now that I am justified in taking you there."

"I am glad of that, Dias. Assuredly the gold can be of service to no man as long as it lies there, and it would be better to utilize it than allow it to waste. I need not say how grateful I shall feel if you can put me in the way of obtaining it."

"That I cannot absolutely promise," he said. "I have the indications, but they will be difficult to find. Three hundred years bring great changes -- rocks on which there are marks may be carried away by torrents, figures cut in the cliffs may be overgrown by mosses or creepers. However, if but a few remain, I hope to be able to find my way. If I fail we must try elsewhere; but this is the only one of which I have been told all the marks. I know generally several places where great treasure was hidden, but not the marks by which they could be discovered, and as we may be sure that every measure was taken to hide the entrances to the caves, the chances would be all against our lighting upon them. I may say, senor, that, great as was the treasure of the Incas, that of the Chimoos or Chincas, a powerful people who inhabited part of this country, was fully as large; and traditions say that most of the treasures hidden were not those of the Incas, but of the Chimoos, who buried them when their country was invaded by the Incas.

"This is certainly the case with most of the treasures hidden to the west of the mountains. It was so at Pachacamac; it was so at Truxillo, where the Spaniards found three million and a half dollars of gold; and it is known that this was but a small hoard, and that the great one, many times larger, has never been discovered. Probably the secret has long been lost; for if there are but few who know where the Incas buried their gold, it may well be believed that the exact locality of the Chimoo treasures, which were buried more than eight hundred years ago, is now unknown, and that nothing but vague traditions have been handed down."

"That one can quite understand," Harry agreed, "when we consider how many of the Chimoos must have fallen in the struggle with the Incas, and how more than half the population were swept away by the Spaniards, to say nothing of those who have died in the wars of the last thirty years. It seems strange, however, that the treasures in the temple of Pachacamac were left untouched by the Incas and allowed to accumulate afterwards."

"It was so generally regarded as the sacred city," Dias said, "that, powerful as they were, the Incas did not attempt to interfere with it, as to do so would certainly have stirred up a formidable insurrection of the natives throughout the whole of their territory; and instead, therefore, of taking possession of the temple and dedicating it to their own god, they allowed it to remain untouched and the worship of the old gods to be carried on there, contenting themselves with building a temple of their own to the Sun-god close at hand."

"Whether any treasure we find belonged to the Incas or to the Chimoos is of no consequence whatever. I certainly think that before entering upon what would seem to be almost a hopeless search for such stores, we should try this place that you know of. In that case it seems to me, Dias, that if we had gone down the coast to Islay, and up through Arequipa to Cuzco, our journey would have been considerably shorter."

"That is true, senor, but we should have found it difficult to take a passage for our mules; the steamers are but small craft, with poor accommodation even for passengers. And besides, until we had made all our arrangements for the journey from Lima, I could hardly say that I had made up my mind to bring you to this place. Only when you and your brother saved my life did I feel that I was bound to aid you, even to the point of divulging the secret. It is different now from what it was when it was first handed down. At that time the Spaniards were mercilessly slaying all known to be in the possession of any secret connected with gold, and every discovery of gold entailed the forced labour of thousands more of the natives. Well, senor, all that is changed; we are our own masters, and those who find mines are allowed to work them on payment of certain royalties. There is, therefore, no good in keeping a secret that has been useless for hundreds of years."

"Certainly, Dias, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you are injuring no one by the act, and are besides doing a very good action to my brother and myself.

"Well, Bertie," Harry said when Dias had left the room, "I think we may congratulate ourselves. For the first time I really think there is a chance of the expedition turning out a success."

"It certainly looks like it," Bertie agreed. "For your sake I hope it will be so. As for me, I am quite content; what with Indians and brigands, wild beasts, alligators, and snakes, the journey is likely to be an exciting one."



Chapter VI

A Tropical Forest


It took them over three weeks to reach Cuzco. They did not hurry, for they wished to keep the mules in good condition for the serious work before them. They were travelling across a plateau thickly dotted with villages and small towns, and everywhere richly cultivated. Near the summit of the mountains large flocks of alpacas were grazing, and lower down herds of cattle and sheep, while near the plain were patches of wheat, barley, and potatoes, which in turn were succeeded by fields of maize, apple and peach trees, and prickly-pears. At the foot were fields of sugar-cane, oranges, citron, pine-apples, cacao, and many other tropical fruits; while in the deeper ravines cotton was grown in abundance for the wants of the population. Here, in fact, were all varieties of climate, from the perpetual snow on the summits of the lofty mountains to a tropical heat in the valleys.

"If the Incas had been contented with this glorious plateau, which for centuries constituted their kingdom, and had passed a law against the gathering of gold and the mining for silver, they might still have been lords here," Harry said one day. "There would have been nothing to tempt the avarice of the Spaniards, for owing to the distance of the mines from the coast, the cost of carriage would have been immense, and the long sea journey would have rendered the exportation of the natural products of the country impossible. Some of the more sober-minded of the Dons might have settled down here and taken wives from among the daughters of the nobles, and, bringing with them the civilization of Spain, become valuable colonists. The Incas, before they extended their conquest over the whole of the west of South America, must have been a comparatively simple people, and would have had none of the habits of luxury and magnificence that tempted the Spaniards. The gold of South America was the ruin of the Incas, as it was afterwards the chief cause of the ruin of Spain."

"Well, Harry, then I should very strongly advise you to give up treasure-hunting and to remain poor, for the curse of the gold may not have worked itself out yet."

"I must risk that, Bertie. I have no desire for luxury or magnificence; it is for a laudable purpose that I seek the gold. However, if you have any scruples on the subject there is no occasion for you to have any share in what I may discover."

"No, I think I will agree with you and risk it; though certainly at present I don't see what advantage any amount of money would be to me."

The houses of the peasants were for the most part comfortable, although small, for since the expulsion of the Spaniards, the people had had no reason to make a pretence of poverty. During the Spanish rule no one dared, by the size of his house or by his mode of living, to show signs of wealth above his fellows, for to do so would be to expose himself to the cruel exactions of the tax-collectors and local officials; and even now they had hardly recognized the change that had taken place, and remained wedded to the habits that had become rooted in them by centuries of oppression.

The travellers had no difficulty whatever in purchasing food and forage on the way. They always slept in their tents now, and preferred Donna Maria's cooking to that which they could obtain in the small and generally dirty inns in the towns.

By the time they reached Cuzco, Bertie was able to converse in Spanish with some fluency. On the way he rode either beside Dias and his wife, or with José; in either case an animated conversation was kept up, sometimes on the stirring events of the war of independence and the subsequent struggles, sometimes about life in England, its ways and customs, concerning which neither Maria nor José had any knowledge whatever. Bertie also endeavoured to gain some information concerning the history of Peru prior to the rising against Spain; but neither the woman nor boy knew anything of the subject beyond the fact that the Incas were great people, and that the natives still mourned for them.

"You see that black apron most of the women wear over one hip, as a sign of mourning; it is still worn for the Incas. They must have been good people, and not cruel like the Spanish, or they would not be so much regretted," Maria said. "I don't wear the apron, because both Dias and I are of mixed blood, descendants on one side of natives, and on the other of Creoles, that is of Spaniards whose families were settled here, and who hated their countrymen just as much as we do. Well, there is Cuzco in sight. I have never seen it, and am glad that we shall stay there for a few days."

The old capital of the Incas lay at the end of a valley about two miles in length, and about a mile in width. To the north of the city rose an abrupt hill, crowned by the great citadel with its three lines of walls, the hill being divided from those forming the side of the valley by two deep ravines, in which flowed little streams that ran through the city. The appearance of the town was striking. There were numerous churches, its streets ran at right angles to each other, and the massive stone houses dated from the early Spanish days, though they were surmounted for the most part by modern brickwork additions. Where the great Temple of the Sun once stood, the church of Santo Domingo had been built, a portion of the splendid building of the old faith being incorporated in it.

"What is the use of staying here?" Bertie asked his brother impatiently, two days after they had arrived at Cuzco. "I dare say these old ruins and fortresses, and so on, are very interesting to people who understand all about the Incas; but as I know nothing about them, I don't see how you can expect me to get up any interest in an old wall because you tell me that it is one of the remains of a palace belonging to some old chap I never heard of. I shall be very glad when Dias says that the mules have had enough rest and that we can set out on our business."

"I am afraid you are a Goth, Bert," Harry said, looking at him with an expression of pity. "Here you are in one of the most interesting cities of the world, a place that thousands and thousands of people would travel any distance to investigate, and in forty-eight hours you are tired of it. You have no romance in your nature, no respect for the past; you are a Goth and a Philistine."

"I am afraid you are mixing up localities, Harry. I may be a Goth or a Philistine, but perhaps you are not aware that these peoples or tribes had no connection with each other. Your education in matters unconnected with the Royal Navy seems to have been even more deplorably neglected than my own."

"Shut up, youngster!"

"No, Lieutenant Prendergast, you are not on the quarter-deck of one of Her Majesty's ships at present. You are not even the leader of a small caravan on the march. We are in this locanda on terms of perfect equality, save and except in any small advantage that you may possess in the matter of years."

Harry laughed.

"Well, Bertie, I do not altogether disagree with what you say. If I had come here to get up the history of the Incas, and investigate the ruins of their palaces, I should be content to stay here for some weeks; but as it is, I am really just as anxious as you are to be on the move. I was speaking to Dias half an hour ago, and he says that in two more days we shall be able to start again. We have been discussing how much flour and other things it is absolutely necessary to take. Of course the better provided we are the more comfortable we shall be; but on the other hand, as Dias says, it is of great importance that the mules should carry as little weight as possible.

"In crossing the passes we shall have the benefit of the old roads of the Incas, but once we leave these the difficulties will be enormous. Dias said that it might be better to dispose of our mules altogether and get trained llamas in their place, as these can climb over rocks where no mule could obtain a foothold. But then it would be necessary to take with us one or two natives accustomed to their ways, and this would not suit us at all. However, I do think that it would be worth while to take two or three of these animals with us. They can carry a hundred pounds apiece; but as we may be going over extraordinarily rough country, fifty pounds would be sufficient. The advantage would be that we could establish a sort of central camp at the farthest spot to which the mules could go, and then make exploring expeditions with the llamas to carry provisions and tools. The llamas are not bad eating, so that if we found no other use for them they would assist our commissariat."

"How far can they go in a day, Harry?"

"Ten or twelve miles, and you may be sure that that is as much as we can do when we are among the mountains."

"Then I should think they would be very useful. I suppose there will be no difficulty in buying them?"

"None at all. A good many are brought in for sale to the market every day. Of course it would be necessary to get strong animals accustomed to burdens."

Before starting there was another long consultation between Harry and Dias as to which course it would be better to adopt. The most-frequented pass through the mountains was that to Paucartambo, forty miles north-east from Cuzco, at the mouth of the pass that leads down into the plains. Between this town and the Carabaya range, a hundred and fifty miles to the south, was to be found the rich gold deposit to which Dias had referred. So far, however, as the traditions he had received informed him, it was situated near the slopes of the Tinta volcano, and between that and Ayapata. The direct road to this spot was extremely difficult, and he was of opinion that the journey could be more easily performed by going to Paucartambo and then skirting the foot of the mountains.

"You will find no difficulty in obtaining food as you go along," he said; "wild turkeys, pheasants, and other birds are to be met with in that district. Moreover, there are many plantations which have been deserted owing to the depredations of the Chincas, a tribe who live on the tributaries of the Pueros, or as it used to be called, Rio Madre de Dios. Here you will find fields of maize still growing, sugar-cane, cacao, and rice. One after another the estates have been abandoned; at some of them the whole of the people on the farms were massacred, and in all the danger was so great that the proprietors found it impossible to work them. The one drawback to that road is that we may fall in with the Chincas, in which case they will certainly attack us. However, they are widely scattered through the forests, and we may not fall in with them. On the other hand, the track by the Tinta mountain from Sicuani is extremely difficult and dangerous, We might lose several of our animals in traversing it, and should have to depend entirely on what we carried for food."

"Then by all means let us go the other way, Dias. Were we to lose some of our mules it would be impossible to replace them, and it would be useless to find gold if we could not carry it away."

Two days later they started, four llamas having been added to the caravan. Dias explained that it would not be necessary to take any natives to attend to these animals, as, once started, they would follow the mules without difficulty, especially if they were fed with them before starting. Three days' travelling brought them to the little town, which lay very high up in the hills. The cold here was bitter, and the party needed all their wraps, and were glad to get in motion as soon as it was light. Passing over a range of mountains above Paucartambo, where a thin layer of snow crunched under their feet, they began the tremendous descent into the plain. In a short time the morning mist cleared away. The road led through a tropical forest. It took them over three hours to reach the river Chirimayu, a descent of eleven thousand feet in the course of eight miles.

Here they halted by the side of a splendid waterfall. The hills rose up perpendicularly on every side except where the little river made its way through the gorge; they were covered with brushwood, ferns, and creepers, thick with flowers of many colours, while lofty palms and forest trees grew wherever their roots could find a hold. Splendid butterflies of immense size flitted about; birds of many kinds and beautiful plumage flew hither and thither among the trees; humming-birds sucked the honey from the bright flowers; parrots chattered and screamed in the upper branches of the trees, and the foam and spray of the torrent sparkled in the sun. Harry and his brother stood struck with admiration at the loveliness of the scene, even Donna Maria and José ceased their chatter as they looked at a scene such as they had never before witnessed.

"It is worth coming all the way from England to see this, Bertie."

"It is, indeed. If it is all like this I sha'n't mind how long Dias takes to find the place he is in search of."

At a word from Dias they all set to work to take the burdens off the animals. A place was cleared for the tents. When these had been erected José collected dried sticks. A fire was soon lighted, and Maria began to prepare breakfast.

"Is it unhealthy here, Dias?"

"Not here, senors; we are still many hundred feet above the plain. In the forest there it is unhealthy for whites, the trees grow so thickly that it is difficult to penetrate them, swamps and morasses lie in many places, and the air is thick and heavy. We shall not go down there until we need. When we must descend we shall find an abundance of maize, and fruits of all sorts. The savages kill the people they find on the estates, but do not destroy the crops or devastate the fields. They are wise enough to know that these are useful to them, and though they are too lazy to work themselves they appreciate the good things that others have planted."

"It is rather early to make a halt, Dias."

"We have work to do, senor. In the first place we must find a spot where large trees stand on the bank of the torrent. Two or three of these must be felled so that they fall across it; then we shall have to chop off the branches, lay them flat side by side, and make a bridge over which to take animals. After breakfast we must set about this work, and it will be too late before we finish to think of going farther to-day."

"It is well that we bought four good axes and plenty of rope at Cuzco," Harry said.

"We shall want them very often, senor. Three large torrents come down between this and the Tinta volcano, besides many smaller ones. Some rise from the hills to the north of us. These fall into others, which eventually combine to make the Madre de Dios. So far as is known boats can descend the river to the Amazon without meeting with any obstacle, from a point only a few miles from the head of the Pueros, which we shall presently cross. The fact that there are no cataracts during the whole course from the hills to the junction of the rivers, shows how perfectly flat the great plain is."

"And did either the Incas or the Spaniards ever conquer the Chincas and cultivate these splendid plains?"

"The Incas drove them back some distance, senor, and forced them to pay a tribute, but they never conquered them. Doubtless they cultivated the land for some leagues from the foot of the mountains, as did the Spaniards, and it was considered the most fertile part of the Montana, as their possessions this side of the Cordilleras were called. The Spaniards tried to push farther, but met with such stout opposition by the savages that they were forced to desist."

All were ready when Maria announced breakfast. After the meal they sat smoking for half an hour, reluctant to commence the heavy work before them.

"We had better be moving, senor," Dias said as he rose to his feet, "or we shall not get the bridge made before dark."

A hundred yards from the camp they found three large trees growing close to each other near the edge of the stream. Bertie looked at them with an air of disgust.

"This will be worse for the hands than rowing for twelve hours in a heavy boat."

"I dare say it will," Harry agreed; "but it has got to be done, and the sooner we set about it the better."

"I shall take off my flannel shirt," Bertie said.

"You had better not, senor," Dias said, as he saw what the lad was about to do. "There are many insects here that will sting you, and the bites of some of them swell up and turn into sores. Now, senor, I will take this tree. The next is not quite so large, will you take that? I will help you when I am finished with my own. Your brother and José can work by turns at the other."

It was hard work, for the trees were over two feet across near the foot. Dias had felled his before the others had cut half-way through, and he then lent his aid to Harry, who was streaming with perspiration.

"You are not accustomed to it, senor. You will manage better when you have had two or three months' practice at the work."

"I did not bargain for this, Harry," Bertie said as he rested for the twentieth time from his work. "Jaguars and alligators, Indians and bandits, and hard climbing I was prepared for, but I certainly never expected that we should have to turn ourselves into wood-cutters."

"It is hard work, Bertie, but it is useless to grumble, and, as Dias says, we shall become accustomed to it in two or three months."

"Two or three months!" Bertie repeated with a groan; "my hands are regularly blistered already, and my arms and back ache dreadfully."

"Well, fire away! Why, José has done twice as much as you have, and he has hardly turned a hair. I don't suppose that he has had much more practice than you have had, and he is nothing like so strong."

"Oh, I dare say! if he has never cut, his ancestors have, and I suppose it is hereditary. Anyhow, I have been doing my best. Well, here goes!"

Harry laughed at his brother's theory for explaining why José had done more work than he had. He was himself by no means sorry that Dias had come to his assistance, and that his tree was nearly ready to fall. José climbed it with the end of a long rope, which he secured to an upper bough. Dias then took the other end of the rope, crossed the torrent by the tree he had felled, and when José had come down and Harry had given a few more cuts with the axe, he was able to guide the tree in its fall almost directly across the stream. Then he took Bertie's tree in hand. In ten minutes this was lying beside the others. It took three hours' more work to cut off the branches and to lay the trees side by side, which was done with the aid of one of the mules. The smaller logs were packed in between them to make a level road, and when this was done the workers went back to the little camp. The sun was already setting, and Donna Maria had the cooking-pots simmering over the fire.

"That has been a hard day's work," Harry said, when he and his brother threw themselves down on the grass near the fire.

"Hard is no name for it, Harry. I have never been sentenced to work on a tread-mill, but I would cheerfully chance it for a month rather than do another day's work like this. The palms of my hands feel as if they had been handling a red-hot iron, my arms and shoulders ache as if I had been on a rack. I seem to be in pain from the tips of my toes to the top of my head."

Harry laughed.

"It is only what every settler who builds himself a hut in the backwoods must feel, Bert. It is the work of every wood-cutter and charcoal-burner; it is a good deal like the work of every miner. You have been brought up too soft, my boy."

"Soft be hanged!" the lad said indignantly; "it is the first time I have heard that the life of an apprentice on board a ship was a soft one. I have no doubt you feel just as bad as I do."

"But you don't hear me grumbling, Bert; that is all the difference. I expect that, of the two, I am rather the worse, for my bones and muscles are more set than yours, and it is some years now since I pulled at either a rope or an oar."

Bertie was silent for a minute or two, and then said rather apologetically:

"Well, Harry, perhaps I need not have grumbled so much, but you see it is a pretty rough beginning when one is not accustomed to it. We ought to have had a short job to begin with, and got into it gradually, instead of having six hours on end; and I expect that the backwoods settler you were talking about does not work for very long when he first begins. If he did he would be a fool, for he certainly would not be fit for work for a week if he kept on till he had nearly broken his back and taken the whole skin off his hands by working all day the first time he tried it."

"There is something in that, Bertie; and as we are in no extraordinary hurry I do think we might have been satisfied with felling the trees to-day, and cutting off the branches and getting them into place to-morrow. Still, as Dias seemed to make nothing of it, I did not like to knock off at the very start."

"The meal is ready, senor," Maria said, "and I think we had better eat it at once, for the sky looks as if we were going to have rain."

"And thunder too," Dias said. "You had better begin; José and I will picket the mules and hobble the llamas. If they were to make off, we should have a lot of trouble in the morning."

The aspect of the sky had indeed changed. Masses of cloud hung on the tops of the hills, and scud was flying overhead.

Maria placed one of the cooking-pots and two tin plates, knives, and forks beside Harry and his brother, with two flat cakes of ground maize.

"Sit down and have your food at once," Harry said to her. "The rain will be down in bucketfuls before many minutes."

They were soon joined by Dias and José, the latter bringing up a large can of water from the stream. They had just finished when large drops of rain began to patter on the ground.

"Never mind the things," Harry said as he leapt to his feet. "Crawl under shelter at once; it is no use getting a wetting."

All at once made for the tents; and they were but just in time, for the rain began to fall in torrents, and a peal of thunder crashed out overhead as they got under the canvas.

"This is our first experience of this sort of thing," Harry said, as he and his brother lit their pipes half-sitting and half-reclining on their beds. "I rather wondered why Dias put the tents on this little bit of rising ground, which did not look so soft or tempting as the level; but I see now that he acted very wisely, for we should have been flooded in no time if we had been lower down. As it is, I am by no means sure that we shan't have the water in. Another time we will take the precaution to make trenches round the tents when we pitch them. However, we have got a waterproof sheet underneath the beds, so I expect it will be all right."

"I hope so. Anyhow, we had better see that the edges are turned up all round, so that the water cannot run over them. By Jove! it does come down. We can hardly hear each other speak."

Suddenly the entrance to the tent was thrust aside.

"Here is a candle, senors."

It was thrown in, and Dias ran back into his own tent, which was but a few yards away, before Harry could remonstrate at his coming out.

"The candle will be useful, anyhow," Bertie said. "It is almost pitch-dark now. What with the sun going down and the clouds overhead, it has turned from day into night in the past five minutes."

Striking a match he lit the candle, and stuck it in between his shoes, which he took off for the purpose.

"That is more cheerful, Harry."

"Hullo! what is that?"

A deep sound, which was certainly not thunder, rose from the woods. It was answered again and again from different directions.

"They must be either pumas or jaguars, which are always called here lions and tigers, and I have no doubt Dias will know by the roar which it is. I should not mind if it were daylight, for it is not pleasant to know that there are at least half a dozen of these beasts in the neighbourhood. We may as well drop the cartridges into our rifles and pistols. I believe neither of these beasts often attacks men, but they might certainly attack our mules."

The storm continued, and each clap of thunder was succeeded by roars, snarls, and hissing, and with strange cries and shrieks. During a momentary lull Harry shouted:

"Is there any fear of these beasts attacking us or the mules, Dias?"

"No, senor, they are too frightened by the thunder and lightning to think of doing so."

"What are all those cries we hear?"

"Those are monkeys, senor. They are frightened both by the storm and by the roaring of the lions and tigers."

"Which is the bigger, Harry, the puma or the jaguar?"

"I believe the jaguar is the bigger, but the puma is the more formidable and fiercer. The latter belongs to the same family as the lion, and the former to that of the leopards. The jaguar is more heavily built than the leopard, and stronger, with shorter legs, but it is spotted just as the leopard is. The puma is in build like the lion, but has no mane. Both prey on animals of all kinds. The natives say they catch turtles, turn them over on their backs as a man would do, and tear the shells apart. They will also eat fish; but they are both scourges to the Indians and white planters, as they will kill sheep, horses, and cattle. Of course, if they are attacked by men and wounded, they will fight desperately, as most wild creatures will; but if man does not molest them, they are quite content to leave him alone, unless he chances to pass under a tree among the branches of which they are lying in wait for prey. Both of them can climb trees."

"Well, I thought I should have slept like a log, Harry, after the work that I have done, but what with the thunder and the patter of the rain, and all those noises of beasts, I don't think I am likely to close my eyes."

"We shall get accustomed to the noises after a time, Bert; but at present I feel as if I were in the middle of a travelling menagerie which had been caught in a thunderstorm. It is curious that all animals should be frightened at lightning, for they cannot know that it is really dangerous."

"Yes, I know. We had two dogs on the last ship I was in. A clap of thunder would send them flying down the companion into the cabin, and they would crouch in some dark corner in a state of absolute terror. They would do just the same if cannon were fired in salute, or anything of that sort. I suppose they thought that was thunder."

In spite, however, of the noises, Harry and his brother both dropped off to sleep before long, being thoroughly worn out by the day's work. They were awakened by Dias opening the front of their little tent.

"The sun is up, senors, and it is a fine morning after the storm. Maria has got coffee ready, baked some cakes, and fried some slices of meat."

"All right, Dias! we will be out directly. We will first run up the bank a short distance, and have a dip."

"You won't be able to swim, senor. The bed of the torrent is full, and no swimmer could breast the water."

"All right! we will be careful."

Throwing on their ponchos, they went down to the stream and ran along the bank.

"The water is coming down like a race-horse, Bert, but just ahead it has overflowed its banks. We can have a bath there safely, though it is not deep enough for swimming."

After ten minutes' absence they returned to the camp, completed their dressing, and sat down to breakfast.

"What were all those frightful noises, Dias? Were they pumas or jaguars?"

"They were both, senor. You can easily tell the difference in the sounds they make. The jaguar's is between a roar and a snarl, while the puma's is a sort of a hissing roar."

As soon as breakfast was over, the tents were packed up and the mules and llamas laden. Dias had given them a feed all round an hour before. The course they should take had been already agreed upon; they must descend to the plain, for it would be next to impossible to cross the ravines on the mountain-side.

"Each stream coming down from the hills," Dias said, "must be followed nearly up to its source, but for the next seventy or eighty miles the search need not be so careful as it must be afterwards. The place cannot be far from Tinta, but somewhere this side of it. We need not hurry, for there are two months to spare."

"How do you mean, Dias?"

"On a day that answers to the 21st of March, Coyllur -- that is a star -- will rise at midnight in a cleft in a peak. It can be seen only in the valley in which the stream that contains the gold runs down. This is what my father taught me; therefore there must be mountains to the south-east, and this can only be where the Cordilleras run east, which is the case at Tinta."

"That is excellent as far as it goes, if we happen to be in the right valley at the time, Dias, but it would not help us in the slightest if we were in any other valley. And we should have to wait a year before trying in another place."

"Yes, senor, but there are marks on the rocks of a particular kind. There are marks on rocks in other valleys, so that these should not be distinguished by Spaniards searching for the place. I should know the marks when I saw them."

"Then in that case, Dias, the star would not be of much use to us."

"I know not how that might be, senor, but as these instructions have been handed down from the time when the Spaniards arrived, it must surely in some way be useful, but in what way I cannot say."

"At any rate, Dias, what with those marks you speak of, and the star, it will be hard if we cannot find it. I suppose you are sure that the place is rich if we do light upon it?"

"Of that there can be no doubt, senor. Tradition says that it was the richest spot in the mountains, and was only worked when the king had need of gold, either for equipping an army or on some special occasion. At such a time it would be worked for one month, and then closed until gold was again required. However, as we go that way we shall explore other valleys. Gold is found more or less in all of them. Possibly we may find some rich spot which we can fall back upon if we fail in our search."

"But I hardly see how we can fail, with the star and those marks on the rocks to aid us."

"The marks may have disappeared, senor, and in that case we may not be in the right spot when the star rises; or again, the Incas may have closed the approach in some way to make the matter sure. I cannot promise that we shall find the gold; but I shall do my best with the knowledge that has come down to me. If I fail, we must try in other directions. When the Spaniards came, forty thousand of the Incas' people left Cuzco and the neighbouring towns, and journeyed away down the mountains and out to the west. Since then no reliable news concerning them has been heard, but rumours have from time to time come from that direction to the effect that there is a great and wealthy city there. I say not that if we failed here we should attempt to find it. The dangers from the savages would be too great. There would be great forests to traverse, many rivers to be crossed. We might travel for years without ever finding their city. When we got there, we might be seized and put to death, and if we were spared we might not be able to make off with the treasure. I mention it to show that gold may be found in many other places besides this valley we are seeking."

"I quite agree with you, Dias, that unless we could get some indication of the position of this city, if it now exists, it would be madness to attempt to search for it. I want gold badly, but I do not propose that we should all throw away our lives in what would be almost a hopeless adventure. Even if I were ready to risk my own life on such a mad enterprise, I would not ask others to do the same."

Crossing the stream, they made their way down through the forest. It was toilsome work, as they often had to clear a way with axes through the undergrowth and tangle of creepers. But at noon they reached level ground. The heat was now intense, even under the trees, and the air close and oppressive. On the way down Harry shot a wild turkey. When they halted, this was cut up and broiled over a fire, and after it had been eaten all lay down and slept for two or three hours.

"Ought we not to set a guard?" Harry had asked.

"No, senor, I do not think it necessary. José will lie down by the side of the llamas, and even if the mules should not give us a warning of any man or beast approaching, the llamas will do so. They are the shyest and most timid of creatures, and would detect the slightest movement."

For the next three weeks they continued their way. During this time five or six ravines were investigated as far as they could be ascended. Samples were frequently taken from sand and gravel and washed, but though particles of gold were frequently found, they were not in sufficient quantity to promise good results from washing.

"If we had a band of natives with us," Dias said, "we should no doubt get enough to pay well -- that is to say, to cover all expenses and leave an ounce or two of profit to every eight or ten men engaged -- but as matters stand we should only be wasting time by remaining here."

They had no difficulty in obtaining sufficient food; turkeys and pheasants were occasionally shot; a tapir was once killed, and, as they had brought hooks and lines with them, fish were frequently caught in the streams. These were of small size, but very good eating. But, as Dias said, they could not hope to find larger species, except far out in the plains, where the rivers were deep and sluggish.

The work was hard, but they were now accustomed to it. They often had to go a considerable distance before they could find trees available for bridging the torrents, but, on the other hand, they sometimes came upon some of much smaller girth than those they had first tackled. The labour in getting these down was comparatively slight. Sometimes these stood a little way from the stream, but after they were felled two mules could easily drag them to the site of the bridge. When on the march, Harry and his brother carried their double-barrelled guns, each with one barrel charged with shot suitable for pheasants or other birds, the other with buck-shot. Dias carried a rifle. Very seldom did they mount their mules, the ground being so rough and broken, and the boughs of the trees so thick, that it was less trouble to walk at the heads of their animals than to ride.



Chapter VII

An Indian Attack


One day when they returned from exploring a valley, Harry and his brother, taking their rifles, strolled down an open glade, while Dias and José unpacked the animals. They had gone but a hundred yards when they heard a sound that was new to them. It sounded like the grunting of a number of pigs. Dias was attending to the mules. Harry and Bertie caught up their guns. Presently a small pig made its appearance from among some trees. Harry was on the point of raising his gun to his shoulder when Dias shouted, "Stop, do not shoot!"

"What is the matter, Dias?" he asked in surprise, as the latter ran up.

"That is a peccary."

"Well, it is a sort of pig, isn't it?"

"Yes, senor. But if you were to kill it, we might all be torn in pieces. They travel through the forests in great herds, and if one is injured or wounded, the rest will rush upon its assailants. You may shoot down dozens of them, but that only redoubles their fury. The only hope of escape is to climb a tree; but they will keep watch there, regardless of how many are shot, until hunger obliges them to retire. They are the bravest beasts of the forests, and will attack and kill even a lion or a tiger if it has seized one of their number. I beg you to stroll back quietly, and then sit down. I will go to the head of the mules. If the herd see that we pay no attention to them, they may go on without interfering with us. If we see them approaching us, and evidently intending to attack, we must take to the trees and try to keep them from attacking the mules; but there would be small chance of our succeeding in doing so."

He and José at once went up to the mules, and stood perfectly quiet at their head. Harry and Bertie moved closely up, laid their double-barrelled guns beside them, and then sat down. By this time forty or fifty of the peccaries had issued from the trees; some were rooting among the herbage, others stood perfectly quiet, staring at the group on the rise above them. Seeing no movement among them nor any sign of hostility, they joined the others in their search for food, and in a quarter of an hour the whole herd had moved off along the edge of the forest.

"Praise be to the saints!" Dias said, taking off his hat and crossing himself. "We have escaped a great danger. A hunter would rather meet a couple of lions or tigers than a herd of peccaries. These little animals are always ready to give battle, and once they begin, fight till they die. The more that are killed the more furious do the others become. Even in a tree there is no safety. Many a hunter has been besieged in a tree until, overpowered by thirst, he fell to the ground and was torn to pieces."

"What do they eat?" Harry asked.

"They will eat anything they kill, but their chief food is roots. They kill great numbers of snakes. Even the largest python is no match for a herd of peccaries if they catch him before he can take refuge in a tree."

"Well, then, it is very lucky that you stopped us before we fired."

"Fortunate indeed, senor. By taking to the trees we might have saved our lives, but we should certainly have lost our mules. Both pumas and tigers kill the little beasts when they come across stragglers. And it is well that they do, for otherwise the woods would be full of them, though fortunately they do not multiply as fast as our pigs, having only two or three in a litter. They are good eating, but it is seldom that a hunter can shoot one, for if he only wounds it, its shrieks will call together all its companions within a mile round."

"Then we must give up the idea of having pork while we are among the mountains."

"Now, are you going to keep me here all day, Dias?" Maria called suddenly. "It seems to me that you have forgotten me altogether."

Harry and Bertie could not help laughing.

Dias had, on returning to the mules, taken his wife and seated her on a branch six feet from the ground, in order that, should the peccaries attack them, he might be ready at once to snatch up his rifle and join in the fight without having first to think of the safety of his wife. He now lifted her down.

The action did even more than what Dias had said to convince Harry of the seriousness of the danger to which they had been exposed, for as a rule Donna Maria had scoffed at any offers of aid, even in the most difficult places, and with her light springy step had taxed the power of the others to keep up with her. These offers had not come from Dias, who showed his confidence in his wife's powers by paying no attention whatever, and a grim smile had often played on his lips when Harry or his brother had offered her a hand. That his first thought had been of her now showed that he considered the crisis a serious one.

"I thought Dias had gone mad," she said, as she regained her feet. "I could not think what was the matter when he began to shout and ran towards you. I saw nothing but a little pig. Then, when he came slowly back with you and suddenly seized me and jerked me up on to that bough, I felt quite sure of it, especially when he told me to hold my tongue and not say a word. Was it that little pig? I saw lots more of them afterwards."

"Yes; and if they had taken it into their heads to come this way you would have seen a good deal more of them than would be pleasant," Dias said. "With our rifles we could have faced four lions or tigers with a better hope of success than those little pigs you saw. They were peccaries, a sort of wild pig, and the most savage little beasts in the forest. They would have chased us all up into the trees and killed all the mules."

"Who would have thought it!" she said. "Why, when I was a girl I have often gone in among a herd of little pigs quite as big as those things, and never felt the least afraid of them. I must have been braver than I thought I was."

"You are a good deal sillier than you think you are, Maria," Dias said shortly. "There is as much difference between our pig and a peccary as there is between a quiet Indian cultivator on the Sierra and one of those savage Indians of the woods."

"I suppose I can light a fire now, Dias. There is no fear of those creatures coming back again, is there?"

"No, I should think not. Fortunately they are going in the opposite direction, otherwise I should have said that we had better stop here for a day or two in case they should attack us if we came upon them again."

The next day, as they were journeying through the forest, at the foot of the slopes José gave a sudden exclamation.

"What is it?" Dias asked.

"I saw a naked Indian standing in front of that tree; he has gone now."

"Are you sure, José?"

"Quite sure. He was standing perfectly still, looking at us, but when I called to you he must have slipped round the tree. I only took my eyes off him for a moment; when I looked again he was gone."

"Then we are in for trouble," Dias said gravely. "Of course it was one of the Chincas. No doubt he was alone, but you may be sure that he has made off to tell his companions he has seen us. He will know exactly how many we are, and how many animals we have. It may be twenty-four hours, it may be three or four days, before he makes his appearance again; but it is certain that, sooner or later, we shall hear of him. Hunters as they are, they can follow a track where I should see nothing; and so crafty are they, that they can traverse the country without leaving the slightest sign of their passage. The forest might be full of them, and yet the keenest white hunter would see no footprint or other mark that would indicate their presence."

"What had we better do, Dias?"

"We shall probably come to another stream before nightfall, senor. This we will follow up until we get to some ravine bare of trees. There we can fight them; in the forest we should have no chance. They would lie in ambush for us, climb into the trees and hide among the foliage, and the first we should know of their presence would be a shower of arrows; and as they are excellent marksmen, we should probably be all riddled at the first volley. There can be no sauntering now, we must push the animals forward at their best speed. I will lead the way. Do you, senor, bring up the rear and urge the mules forward. I shall try and pick the ground where the trees are thinnest, and the mules can then go at a trot. They cannot do so here, for they would always be knocking their loads off."

It was evening before they arrived at a stream. Here they made a short halt while they gave a double handful of grain to each of the animals, then they pushed on again until it was too dark to go farther.

"Will it be safe to light a fire, Dias?"

"Yes, that will make no difference. They are not likely to attack us at night. Savages seldom travel after dark, partly because they are afraid of demons, partly because they would be liable to be pounced upon by wild beasts. But I do not think there is any chance of their overtaking us until tomorrow. The man José saw may have had companions close at hand, but they will know that we are well armed, and will do nothing until they have gathered a large number and feel sure that they can overpower us. They will probably take up the track to-morrow at daylight; but we have made a long march, and can calculate that we shall find some defensible position before they overtake us. José and I will keep watch to-night."

"We will take turns with you, Dias."

"No, senor; my ears are accustomed to the sounds of the forests, yours are not. If you were watching I should still have no sleep."

The night passed without an alarm.

An hour before daylight Dias gave all the animals a good feed of corn, and as soon as it was light they again started. They were already some distance up the mountain, and after eight hours' travelling they arrived at a gorge that suited their purpose. For two hundred yards the rocks rose perpendicularly on each side of the stream, which was but some thirty feet wide. No rain had fallen for some days, and the water was shallow enough at the foot of the cliff for the mules to make their way among the fallen rocks, through which it rushed impetuously. At the upper end the cliffs widened out into a basin some fifty yards across.

"We cannot do better than halt here," Dias said. "In two or three hours we can form a strong breast-work on the rocks nearly out to the middle of the stream, where the current is too swift for anyone to make his way up against it."

"Are they likely to besiege us long, Dias?"

"That I cannot say; but I do not think they will give it up easily. Savages learn to be patient when roaming the forest in search of game. Their time is of no value to them; besides, they are sure to lose many if they attack, and will therefore try to get their revenge."

"They may have to give it up from want of food."

Dias shook his head.

"There are sure to be plenty of fish in the river, and they will poison some pool and get an abundance. With their bows and arrows they can bring down monkeys from the trees, and can snare small animals. However, senor, we can talk over these things to-morrow. We had best begin the breast-work at once while Maria is cooking dinner, which we need badly enough, for we have had nothing but the maize cakes we ate before starting."

Working hard till it was dark, they piled up rocks and stones till they formed a breast-work four feet high on both sides. Some twelve feet in the centre were open. They had chosen a spot where so many fallen rocks lay in the stream that it needed comparatively little labour to fill up the gaps between them.

"I thought wood-chopping bad enough," Bertie said as they threw themselves down on the ground after completing their labour, "but it is a joke to this. My back is fairly broken, my arms feel as if they were pulled out of the sockets, my hands are cut, I have nearly squeezed two nails off."

"It has been hard work," Harry agreed; "still, we have made ourselves fairly safe, and we will get the walls a couple of feet higher in the morning. We shall only want to add to them on the lower face in order to form a sort of parapet that will shelter us as we lie down to fire, so it won't be anything like such hard work. Then we will fill in the rocks behind with small stones and sand to lie down upon."

"They will never be able to fight their way up to it," Dias said.

"We need have no fear on that score. The question is, can they get down into this valley behind us; the rocks look very steep and in most places almost perpendicular."

"They are steep, senor; but trees grow on them in many places, and these savages are like monkeys. We shall have to examine them very carefully when we have finished the wall. If we find that it is possible for anyone to get down, we must go up the next gorge and see if we can find a better position."

"I suppose you think we are safe for to-night, Dias?'

"I don't think they will try to come up through the stream. They have keen eyes, but it would be so dark down there that even a cat could not see. They will guess that we have stopped here, and will certainly want to find out our position before they attack. One or two may come up as scouts, and in that case they may attack at daybreak. Of course two of us will keep watch; we can change every three hours. I will take the first watch with your brother, and you and José can take the next."

"José had better sleep," Maria put in; "he watched all last night. My eyes are as good as his, and I will watch with Don Harry."

Harry would have protested, but Dias said quietly:

"That will be well, Maria, but you will have to keep your tongue quiet. These savages have ears like those of wild animals, and if you were to raise your voice you might get an arrow in the brain."

"I can be silent when I like, Dias."

"It is possible," Dias said dryly; "but I don't remember in all these years we have been married that I have known you like to do so."

"I take that as a compliment," she said quietly, "for it shows at least that I am never sulky. Well, Don Harry, do you accept me as a fellow watcher?"

"Certainly I shall be very glad to have you with me; and I don't think that you need be forbidden to talk in a low tone, for the roar of the water among the rocks would prevent the sound of voices from being heard two or three yards away."

Accordingly, as soon as it became dark Dias went to the wall with Bertie. José, after a last look at the mules, wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down.

"I think I had better turn in to the tent," Harry said; "we have had two days' hard work, and the building of that wall has pretty nearly finished me, so if I don't get two or three hours' sleep to-night I am afraid I shall not be a very useful sentinel."

Five minutes later he was sound asleep, and when his brother roused him he could hardly believe that it was time for him to go on duty.

"Dias is waiting there. Will you come down?" the latter said. "You were sleeping like a top; I had to pull at your leg three times before you woke."

"I am coming," Harry said as he crawled out. "I feel more sleepy than when I lay down, and will just run down to the stream and sluice my head, that will wake me up in earnest, for the water is almost as cold as ice."

When he came back he was joined by Donna Maria, and, taking both his shot-gun and rifle, he went forward with her to the barricade.

"So you have neither seen nor heard anything, Dias?"

"Nothing whatever, senor."

"I have had a good sleep, Dias; we will watch for the next four hours. It is eleven o'clock now, so you will be able at three to take it on till daylight."

"I will send and call you again an hour before that," Dias said. "If they attack, as I expect they will as soon as the dawn breaks, we had better have our whole force ready to meet them."

So saying Dias went off.

"This is scarcely woman's work, Donna Maria."

"It is woman's work to help defend her life, senor, as long as she can. If I found that the savages were beating us I should stab myself. They would kill you, but they might carry me away with them, which would be a thousand times worse than death."

"I don't think there is any fear of their beating us," Harry said; "certainly not here. We ought properly to be one on each side, but really I shirk the thought of wading through the river waist-deep at that shallow place we found a hundred yards up; it would be bad enough to go through it, worse still to lie for four hours in wet clothes."

"Besides, we could not talk then, senor," Maria said with a little laugh, "and that would be very dull."

"Very dull. Even now we must only talk occasionally; we shall have to keep our eyes and ears open."

"I don't think either of them will be much good," she said; "I can see the white water but nothing else, and I am sure I could not hear a naked footstep on the rocks."

"It is a good thing the water is white, because we can make out the rocks that rise above the surface. When our eyes get quite accustomed to the dark we should certainly be able to see any figures stepping upon them or wading in the water."

"I could see that now, senor. I think it will be of advantage to talk, for I am sure if I were to lie with my eyes straining, and thinking of nothing else, they would soon begin to close."

Talking occasionally in low tones, but keeping up a vigilant watch, they were altogether hidden from the view of anyone coming up the stream, for they exposed only their eyes and the top of their heads above the rough parapet. No attempt had been made to fill up the spaces between the stones, so that, except for the rounded shape, it would be next to impossible to make them out between the rough rocks of the crest. Harry had laid his double-barrelled gun on the parapet in front of him. He had loaded both barrels with buck-shot, feeling that in the darkness he was far more likely to do execution with that weapon than with a rifle.

They had been some two hours on watch when Donna Maria touched his arm significantly. He gazed earnestly but could see nothing. A minute later, however, a rock about fifteen yards away seemed to change its shape. Before, it had been pointed, but just on one side of the top there was now a bulge.

"Do you see them?" Maria whispered. "I can make out one above the rocks; the other is standing against the wall."

There was no movement for two or three minutes, and Harry had no doubt that they were examining the two black lines of stones between which the water was rushing.

"There are two others on this side, senor," Maria whispered.

The pause was broken by the sharp tap of two arrows striking on the stones a few inches below their heads.

"Well, you have begun it," Harry muttered.

He had already sighted his gun at the head half-hidden by the rock. He now pulled the trigger, and then, turning, he fired the other barrel, aiming along the side of the canyon where the two men seen by his companion must be standing. The head disappeared, and loud cries broke from the other side. The stillness that had reigned in the valley was broken by a chorus of shrieks and roars, and the air overhead thrilled with the sound of innumerable wings. Harry on firing had laid down the fowling-piece and snatched up his rifle.

"Do you see any others?"

"Two have run away; the one against the rocks on the other side was wounded, for I saw him throw up his arms, and it was he who screamed. The man by him dropped where he stood; the one behind the rock is killed, I saw his body carried away in the white water."

Half a minute later Dias and Bertie came up.

"So they have come, senor?"

"Yes, there were four of them. Your wife saw them, though I could only make out one. They shot two arrows at us, and I answered them. The man I saw was killed, and Donna Maria said that one on the other side also fell, and another was wounded."

"That was a good beginning," Dias said. "After such a lesson they will attempt nothing more to-night, and I doubt whether they will come down in the morning. They can get sight of the barricades from that bend a hundred yards down, and I don't think they will dare come up when they see how ready we are for them."

"Well, we will work out our watch anyhow, Dias. Now that I see how sharp Donna Maria's eyes are I have not the least fear of being surprised."

"I will stop with you," Bertie said; "I shall have no chance of going off to sleep again after being wakened up like that."

"If you are going to stop, Bertie, you had better go back and fetch a blanket, it is chilly here; then if you like you can doze off again till your watch comes."

"There is no fear of that, Harry. I have been eight-and-forty hours on deck more than once. I will warrant myself not to go to sleep."

In spite of this, however, in less than ten minutes after his return Bertie's regular breathing showed that he was sound asleep. Harry and Maria continued their watch, but no longer with the same intentness as before. They were sure that Dias would not have lain down unless he felt perfectly certain that the Chincas would make no fresh move until the morning, and they chatted gaily until, at two o'clock, Dias came up.

"Everything is quiet here, Dias. My brother is fast asleep, but I will wake him now that you have come up."

"Do not do so, senor; he worked very hard building the walls today. If I see anything suspicious I will rouse him. We may have work tomorrow, and it is much better that he should sleep on."

"Thank you, Dias! the fatigue has told on him more than on us; his figure is not set yet, and he feels it more."

He walked back to the tents with Maria.

"If you wake just as daylight breaks please rouse me," he said.

"I shall wake, senor; I generally get up at daybreak. That is the best time for work down in the plain, and I generally contrive to get everything done before breakfast at seven."

Harry slept soundly until he was called.

"The sky is just beginning to get light, senor."

He turned out at once. José was already feeding the mules.

"You had better come along with me, José, and bring that gun of yours with you. If the savages do attack, it will be well to make a forcible impression on them."

Greatly pleased with the permission, José took up the old musket he carried and accompanied Harry.

"What have you got in that gun, José?"

"The charge of buck-shot that you gave me the other day, senor."

"All right! but don't fire unless they get close. The shot will not carry far like a bullet; but if fired when they are close it is better than any bullet, for you might hit half a dozen of them at once."

José had been allowed to practise at their halting-places, and though he could not be called a good shot, he could shoot well enough to do good execution at thirty or forty yards.

Bertie was still asleep.

"Everything quiet, Dias?"

"I have seen nothing moving since I came out."

"Now, Bertie," Harry said, stirring his brother up with his foot. "All hands on deck!"

Bertie sat up and opened his eyes. "What is up now?" he said. "Ay, what, is it you, Harry, and José too? I must have been asleep!"

"Been asleep! Why, you went off in the middle of my watch, and Dias has been on the look-out for over three hours."

"Oh, confound it! You don't mean to say that I have slept for over five hours? Why didn't you wake me, Dias?" he asked angrily.

"Two eyes were quite enough to keep watch," Dias said. "I should have waked you if I had seen anything of the savages. Besides, Don Harry said you might as well go on sleeping if nothing happened, and I thought so too."

"I feel beastly ashamed of myself," Bertie said. "I don't want to be treated like a child, Harry."

"No, Bertie, and I should not think of treating you so; but you had had very hard work, and were completely knocked up, which was not wonderful; and you may want all your strength to-day. Besides, you know, you would have been of no use had you been awake, for you could have seen nothing. Donna Maria's eyes were a good deal sharper than mine, and I am quite sure that, tired as you were, Dias would have seen them coming long before you would. We had better lie down again, for it will be light enough soon for them to make us out. How far do their arrows fly, Dias?"

"They can shoot very straight up to forty or fifty yards, but beyond that their arrows are of very little use."

"Well, then, we shall be able to stop them before they get to that ravine."

Presently, as it became light, a figure showed itself at the turn of the ravine.

"Don't fire at him," Harry said; "it is better that they should think that our guns won't reach them. Besides, if the beggars will leave us alone, I have no wish to harm them."

In a minute or two the figure disappeared behind the bend and two or three others came out. "They think that our guns won't carry so far, or we should have shot the first man."

For a quarter of an hour there were frequent changes, until at least fifty men had taken a look at them.

"Now there will be a council," Harry said as the last disappeared. "They see what they have got before them, and I have no doubt they don't like it."

"I don't think they will try it, senor," Dias said. "At any rate they will not do so until they have tried every other means of getting at us."

Half an hour passed, and then Harry said. "I will stop here with my brother, Dias, and you and José had better examine the hillsides and ascertain whether there is any place where they can come down. You know a great deal better than I where active naked-footed men could clamber down. They might be able to descend with ease at a place that would look quite impossible to me."

Without a word Dias shouldered his rifle and walked away, followed by José. He returned in two hours.

"There are several places where I am sure the savages could come down. Now, senors, breakfast is ready; I will leave José here, and we will go and talk matters over while we eat. The tents are only a hundred yards away, so that if José shouts, we can be back here long before the savages get up, for they could not come fast through that torrent."

"It seems to me," Harry said after they had finished the meal, "that if there are only one or two points by which they could climb down we could prevent their doing so by picking them off; but if there are more, and they really come on in earnest, we could not stop them."

"There are many more than that," Dias replied. "I made out certainly four points on the right-hand side and three on the left where I could make my way down; there are probably twice as many where they could descend."

"Then I should say that the first thing to do is to go up through the gorge above and see whether there is any place that could be better defended than this. If we find such a spot, of course we could move to it; if not, we shall have to settle whether to go up the gorge till we get to some place where the mules can climb out of it, or stay here and fight it out. By camping on the stream at a point where it could not be forded, and making a breast-work with the bales, stones, and so on, I think we could certainly beat off any attack by daylight, but I admit that we should have no chance if they should make a rush during the night."

"I will go at once," said Dias, "and examine the river higher up. If I can find no place where the mules can climb, I am sure to be able to find some spot where we could do so. But that would mean the failure of our expedition, for we certainly could not go up the mountains, purchase fresh animals, food, and tools, and get down to the place we are looking for until too late."

"That would be serious, Dias, but cannot be counted against our lives. If there is no other way of escape from these savages, we must certainly abandon the animals and make our way back as best we can. In that case we must give up all idea of finding this gold stream. The star would not be in the same place again for another year, and even then we might not find it; so we must make up our minds to do our best in some other direction. That point we must consider as settled. I should not feel justified in risking my brother's life, yours, your wife's, and your nephew's, by remaining here to fight we know not how many savages -- for there may be many more than the fifty we saw this morning, and they may in a day or two be joined by many others of their tribe."

"I should not like to lose all the animals and go back empty-handed," Dias said after a silence of two or three minutes, "unless it were a last resource."

"Nor should I, Dias; but you see, if we linger too long we may find it impossible to retire, we may be so hemmed in that there would be no chance of our getting through. For the day of course we are safe. The savages will have to decide among themselves whether to give the matter up, seeing that they are sure to lose many lives before they overpower us. Then, if they determine to attack us, they will have to settle how it is to be done. Numbers of them will go up to the top of the hills on both sides and try to find a point at which they can make their way down; others, perhaps -- which would be still more serious -- may go farther up into the hills to find a spot where they could come down and issue out by the upper gorge, and then our retreat would be altogether cut off. All this will take time, so we may feel sure that no attack will be made to-day."

"I will start up the river at once, senor. Certainly the first point to be settled is whether we can find a more defensible spot than this, the second whether there is any way by which the animals can be taken up."

"There must surely be many points higher up where this can be done."

"Yes, senor, if we could get to them. But you saw we had difficulty in making our way through this gorge; there may be others higher up where it would be impossible either for us or the animals to pass."

"I did not think of that. Yes, that must be so. Well, you had certainly better go at once. My brother will relieve José, and after the boy has breakfasted he can return to his post, and Bertie can join me. I think if I see the savages trying to find a path I will open fire upon them. I don't say I should be able to hit them, for the top of those hills must be eight or nine hundred yards' range, and it is not easy to hit an object very much above or very much below you; but it is important that they should know that our weapons carry as far as that; when they hear bullets strike close to them they will hesitate about coming lower down, and unless they do come within two or three hundred feet from the bottom they cannot be sure of getting down."

Dias nodded. "That is a very good idea. Another cause of delay will be that those at the top cannot see far down the rock on their own side, so they will have to start by guess-work. Each party must fix upon the easiest places on the opposite side, and then go back again and change sides. I don't suppose they know any more of this place than we do. They always keep down in the plains, and it is only because they met us down there that they have followed us so far. I believe they will follow on as long as they think there is a chance of destroying us, for they are so jealous of any white man coming into what they regard as their country that they would spare no pains to kill anyone who ventured there. Now I will go, senor. You will keep near this end of the valley, in case there should be an alarm that they are coming up the stream."

"Certainly; and my brother shall remain with José. With his rifle and the two double-barrelled guns and José's musket they could hold the ravine against anything but a rush of the whole tribe."

An hour later Harry saw a number of figures appear against the sky-line on both sides. As they were clustered together, and would afford a far better mark than a single Indian, he took a steady aim at the party on the southern hill and fired. He had aimed above rather than below them, as, had the ball struck much below, they might not hear it, whereas, if it went over their heads, they would certainly do so. A couple of seconds after firing he saw a sudden movement among the savages, and a moment later not one was to be seen. Donna Maria, who was standing close by him watching them, clapped her hands. "Your ball must have gone close to them," she said, "but I don't think you hit anyone."

"I did not try to do so," he said. "I wanted the ball to go just over their heads, so that they should know that even at that distance they were not safe. I have no doubt that astonishment as much as fear made them bolt. They'll be very careful how far they come down the side of the hill after that. Now for the fellows on the other side."

But these too had disappeared, having evidently noticed the effect produced upon the others. After a pause heads appeared here and there at the edge of the crests. Evidently the lesson had impressed them with the necessity for precaution, as they no longer kept together, and they had apparently crawled up to continue their investigations. Beyond keeping a watch to see that none had attempted to descend the slope Harry did not interfere with them. At times he strolled to the breast-work, but no movement had been seen in that direction. In two hours Dias returned.

"The gorge above is a quarter of a mile through, and very difficult to pass. It is half-blocked with great rocks in two or three places, and there would be immense difficulty in getting the mules over. Beyond that it widens again, but the extent is not more than half what it is here. The walls are almost perpendicular, and I do not think that it would be possible to climb them at any point. Farther up there is another ravine. It is very narrow -- not half so wide as this -- and the stream rushes with great velocity along it. Two hundred yards from the entrance the rocks close in completely, and there is a fall of water sixty or seventy feet high."

"Well, that settles the point, Dias. We cannot get the animals out except by the way they came in. As for ourselves, we might climb up at some point in this ravine, but not in the others."

"That is so, senor," Dias said. "The outlook is a bad one -- that is to say, we may now be unable to reach the gold river in time -- but so long as we stay here we may be safe. We have plenty of provisions, we can catch fish in the stream, and no doubt shall find birds in the bushes at the lower part of the slopes. I doubt whether the natives will dare come down those precipices at night. If they try to descend by day, we can very well defend ourselves."

"The only question is, How long will it take to tire them out?"

"That I cannot tell. We know so little of the Chincas that we have nothing to go upon. Some savages have patience enough to wait for any time to carry out their revenge or slay an enemy; others are fickle, and though they may be fierce in attack, soon tire of waiting, and are eager to return to their homes again. I cannot think that they will speedily leave. They have assembled, many of them perhaps from considerable distances; they have had two days' march up here, and have lost at least two of their comrades. I think they will certainly not leave until absolutely convinced that they cannot get at us, but whether they may come to that decision in two days or a month I cannot say."



Chapter VIII

Defeat Of The Natives


Bertie, who had joined Harry when he saw Dias approaching, had listened silently to their talk, then said:

"Don't you think that, by loading the mules and moving towards the mouth of the next gorge just as it is getting dark, we might induce the Chincas to think that we are going that way, and so to follow along the top of the hills. We might, as soon as night has fallen, come back again and go down the stream. Of course there may be some of them left to watch the mouth of the ravine, but we could drive them off easily enough, and get a long start before the fellows on the hills know what has happened."

None of the others spoke immediately; then Harry said:

"The idea is a good one as far as it goes. But you see at present we are in a very strong position. If we leave this and they overtake us in the woods, we shall not have the advantages that we have here."

"Yes, I see that, Harry; but almost anything is better than having to wait here and lose our chance of finding that gold."

"We can't help that, Bertie. You know how much that gold would be to me, but, as I said this morning, I will run no desperate risks to obtain it. When I started upon this expedition I knew that the chances of success were extremely slight, and that there might be a certain amount of danger to encounter from wild beasts and perhaps brigands; but I had never calculated upon such a risk as this, and certainly I am not prepared to accept the responsibility of leading others into it."

There was again silence, which was broken at last by Dias.

"The proposal of the young senor is a very bold one; but, as you say, Don Harry, after leaving our position we should be followed and surrounded. In the forest that would be very bad. I should say let us wait for at least a week; that will still give us time to reach the gold valley. By then the savages may have left, and some other plan may have occurred to us; at any rate, at the end of a week we shall see how things go. The Indians may have made an attack, and may lose heart after they are repulsed. They may find difficulty in procuring food, though I hardly think that is probable. Still, many things may occur in a week. If at the end of that time they are still here, we can decide whether to try some such plan as the young senor has thought of, or whether to wait until the Indians leave, and then return to Cuzco; for I feel certain that the place cannot be found except by the help of the star."

"Well, then," Bertie said, "could we not hit upon some plan to frighten them?"

"What sort of plan, Bertie?"

"Well, of course we could not make a balloon -- I mean a fire-balloon -- because we have no paper to make it with. If we could, and could let it up at night, with some red and blue fires to go off when it got up high, I should think it would scare them horribly."

"Yes; but it would be still better, Bertie, if we could make a balloon big enough to carry us and the mules and everything else out of this place, and drop us somewhere about the spot we want to get to."

"Oh, it is all very well to laugh, Harry! I said, I knew we could not make a fire-balloon; I only gave that as an example. If we had powder enough we might make some rockets, and I should think that would scare them pretty badly."

"Yes, but we haven't got powder, Bertie. We have plenty of cartridges for sporting purposes, or for fighting; but a rocket is a thing that wants a lot of powder, besides saltpetre and charcoal, and so on."

"Yes, yes, I know that," Bertie said testily. "My suggestion was that we might frighten them somehow, and I still don't see why we shouldn't be able to do it. Let us try to hit upon something else."

"There is a good deal in what the young senor says," Dias said gravely. "All the Indians are very superstitious, and think anything they don't understand is magic. It is worth thinking over: but before we do anything else we might find out how many of them there are at the other end of the ravine. Only a few may be left, or possibly the whole tribe may be gathered there at nightfall. To-night nothing will be settled, but to-morrow night I will go down the torrent with José. I will carry your double-barrelled guns with me, senor, if you will let me have them. When we get to the other end I will take up my station there. José is small and active. He could crawl forward and ascertain how many of them there are. If he should be discovered, which is not likely, he would run back to me. I should have four barrels ready to pour into them. That would stop them, for they would think we were all there and were going to attack them, and before they could recover from their alarm we should be back here again."

"That seems a good plan, Dias; but I do not see why Bertie and I should not go down with you."

"It would be better not, senor. In the first place, they may have men posted at their end of the ravine, and though two of us might crawl down without being seen, just as they crawled up here, they would be more likely to see four; in the next place, they might chance to crawl down the hillside above just as we were going down the ravine, and Maria and the animals would be at their mercy."

"They are hardly likely to choose the exact moment when we are to be away, but I quite agree with you that the risk must not be run."

"Well," Bertie said, returning to his former idea, "if Dias can go down there, I still think that somehow we might get up a scare."

Harry laughed.

"Well, you think it over, Bertie. If you can suggest anything, I promise you that Dias and I will do our best to carry it out."

"Very well," Bertie replied gravely, "I will think it over."

"Now," Harry said, "we had better sleep in watches at night; one must be at the breast-work, and one must listen for noises on the cliffs. It would be hardly possible for a number of men to crawl down without exciting suspicion or putting in motion some small stones."

"I do not think, senor," Dias said, "that it will be necessary to keep that watch, for, as we knew from the noise when you fired last night, there are numbers of birds and at least one beast -- I fancy it is a bear from the sound of its roar -- up there, and it would be strange if a number of men making their way down did not disturb some of them; indeed, if one bird gave the alarm, it would put them all in motion; besides, there are certainly monkeys, for I heard their cries and chattering when the birds flew up. Still, it is perhaps as well that one of us should watch. Shall we divide, as we did last night? only, of course, José takes his place with you."

"I quite agree with you, Dias. Bertie, you had better get three hours' sleep at once, and then after dinner we will sit by the fire here, smoke, and listen, and Dias will watch the gorge and keep one ear open in this direction too. It is a comfort to know that if we cannot get away by going up the stream, the Indians cannot get down to attack us from that direction."

Two nights and days passed. The Indians were still on the hills, and once or twice men came down some distance, but a shot from Harry's rifle sent them speedily back again. The third night Bertie was on watch; he saw nothing, but suddenly there came three sharp taps. He discharged one barrel of his gun at random down the ravine, and then held himself ready to fire the other as soon as he saw anyone approaching. It was an anxious minute for him before the other three ran up.

"What is it, Bertie; have you seen anything?"

"No, but three arrows tapped against the wall, so I fired one barrel to call you up, and have been looking out for someone to take a shot at with the other; but I have not seen anyone, though, as you may imagine, I looked out sharply."

"It is probable that after the lesson they got the other night they did not come so near, and that they merely shot their arrows to see if we were still on guard. However, we may as well stay here for a bit to see if anything comes of it."

Nothing happened, however, and they returned to the tents. Next morning Bertie said to his brother:

"Look here, Harry, I have been thinking over that plan of mine. I really think there is something to be done with it."

"Well, tell us your plan."

"In the first place, how much powder can you spare?"

"There is that great powder-horn José drags about with him to charge his musket with. It will contain about a couple of pounds, I should say."

"That ought to do, I think."

"Well, what is your plan, Bertie?"

"In the first place, do you think that burned wood would do for charcoal?"

"It depends on what purpose you want it for."

"I want it to prevent the powder from going off with a bang."

"Oh, well, I should think that burned wood ground to a powder would be just as good as charcoal. So you are still thinking of rockets? Your two pounds of powder won't make many of them -- not above two fair-sized ones, and the betting is they would not go up."

"No, I am not thinking of rockets, but of squibs and crackers. I know when I was at school I made a lot of these, and they worked very well. My idea is that if we could crawl up close to where the Indians are assembled, each carrying a dozen squibs and as many crackers, we could light a lot of the crackers first and chuck them among them, and then send the squibs whirling about over their heads, with a good bang at the end. It would set them off running, and they would never stop till they were back in their own forests."

"Well, I really do think that that is a fine idea -- a splendid idea! The only drawback is, that in order to carry it out we should want a lot of strong cartridge-paper, and we have no paper except our note-books."

"I have thought of that, Harry, though it bothered me for a good long time. You see, the cases are only to hold the powder and to burn regularly as the powder does. At first I thought we might find some wood like elder and get the pith out, just as we used to do for pop-guns, but that unfortunately would not burn. We might, however, make them of linen."

"But we have no linen."

"No, but our leather bed-bags are lined with that coarse sort of stuff they cover mattresses with."

"Tick, you mean?"

"Yes, tick. Now, it struck me that this would do for the crackers. We should have to cut it in strips three or four times the width of the cracker. Then we could get Maria to make us some stiff paste; starch would be better, but of course we have none. Then, taking a strip of the cloth, we would turn over one side of it an inch from the edge to make a sort of trough, pour in the gunpowder, carefully paste all the rest of it and fold it over and over, and then, when it begins to dry, double it up and tie it with string. We should then only have to add touch-paper, which, of course, we could make out of anything, and put into the end fold. We could break up a few of the cartridges, soak them in wetted powder, and then cut them up into small pieces and stick them into the ends of the crackers. I think that would do first-rate. I have made dozens of crackers, and feel sure that I could turn out a good lot of them now. The squibs will be easier; we should only have to paste one side of the strips and roll them up so as to form suitable cases. When these are dry we should put a thimbleful of powder into each, and then fill them up with powder and charcoal. In order to make sure of a loud bang we could undo a piece of rope and wind the strands round each case for an inch and a half from the bottom. Of course, when we had ground down the burned wood we would mix it with powder and try one or two of the squibs, so as to find the proportions of charcoal to be used."

"You have evidently thought it all out well, and I think it does you no end of credit. I authorize you to begin the experiment at once. The first thing, of course, will be to get some wood and char it. I should think that you would require at least two pounds of that to two pounds of powder; but you had better only do a little at first -- just enough to make an experiment. You know it will require ramming down well."

When Dias, who was on watch, returned he found Bertie at work burning pieces of wood and scraping off the charred surface. Harry explained the plan to him. As he had frequently seen fireworks at Lima, Dias quickly grasped the idea.

"It is splendid, senor; those things will frighten them far more than guns. They will think so many devils have got among them, and we will heighten the effect by discharging every piece that we can among them. In their confusion they will think it is the fireworks that are killing them. That would be necessary, for otherwise when they recovered from the panic and found that no one had been hurt, they might summon up courage to return."

At noon the next day Bertie with assistance had four squibs and two crackers ready for trial. The squibs contained respectively one, two, three, and four parts of charcoal to one of powder.

"Don't hold them in your hand while you are trying the experiment, Bertie. Lay them down on that stone one by one and touch them off with a burning brand from the fire, and take care that you have a good long one."

All, with the exception of José who was on watch, gathered round. The first squib exploded with a bang, the second did the same, but with less violence, the third went off in an explosive spurt, the fourth burned as a squib should do, though a little fiercely, and gave a good bang at the end.

"They go off rather too rapidly, Bertie," Harry said; "we should want them to whiz about in a lively way as long as possible. I should put in five parts of that burned wood next time."

"I will try at once," Bertie said. "I have got lots of cases made, and enough burned stuff to make eight or ten more."

The mixture was soon made and another case charged, Bertie ramming down the mixture with a stick which he had cut to fit exactly, and a heavy stone as a hammer. This was done after each half-spoonful of the mixture was poured in. Then he inserted a strip of his touch-paper.

"I will take this in my hand," he said, "there is no fear of its exploding. I want to throw it into the air and see how it burns there."

The touch-paper was lit, and when the mixture started burning Bertie waved the squib high above his head and threw it into the air. It flew along some fifteen yards and then exploded.

"I don't think you can better that, Bertie. But you might make the cases a bit stronger; it burned out a little too quickly. We shall probably not be able to get very close to them."

The cracker was equally satisfactory, except that they agreed that a somewhat larger charge of powder should be used to increase the noise of the explosion.

"Now, Bertie," Harry said, "we will put all hands on to the business. Donna Maria shall make a good stock of paste, and cut the tick into strips for both widths. You shall make the cases for the squibs. Dias and I will take charge of the manufacture of charcoal. That will be a long job, for as you have two pounds of gunpowder we shall want ten of this charred wood."

"Not quite as much as that, Harry, because we shall want the powder alone for the crackers and the bangs of the squibs, and also for making the touch-paper for all of them."

"Well, we will say ten pounds, anyhow. We have a big stock of cartridges, and can spare a few of them for so good a purpose."

They were soon at work. By night the cases were all made and drying, and were left near the fire so as to be ready for filling in the morning.

Dias then said: "José will go down to-night, senor. Of course I shall go with him. We must find out, in the first place, how near the mouth of the ravine the savages are gathered, whether they keep any watch, and what force they have. It will be well not to make ourselves known to them until at least the greater part are gathered there. If we were only to scare a small party, the others, when they came down, would know nothing of the panic, and might take up the pursuit."

"I wish we had some means of driving them off the top of the hill, Dias."

"I don't see how that can be done, senor. But probably in another day or two they will all go down of their own accord. They must by this time have satisfied themselves that there is no getting at us from above, and that it would be too dangerous to attempt a descent here under the fire of our guns. They will be very likely, instead, to go down to-morrow or next day to hold a general council, and in that case they may decide either to risk climbing down at night, or to make a grand assault on the breast-work. Or, if they cannot bring themselves to that, they may decide to leave half a dozen men to watch the entrance, while the rest scatter themselves over the forests. In that case the watchers would only have to go off and summon them when we started again. As they might well imagine that we should not find another position like this again, I expect that is what they will do. If there are a hundred of them, they will find it difficult to feed themselves long. Certainly the men on the hills will get little to eat up there."

"Well, Dias, be sure you warn José to be careful. They may be posting sentries at the mouth of the ravine, just as they are keeping them at this end."

"They may be, but I do not think it is likely; they will know that we could not abandon our animals, and that if we passed through they would have no difficulty in over-taking us, and would then have us at their mercy. The last thing they would want is to prevent us from leaving this position. They certainly would not fear an attack from us, knowing that there are but four of us and a woman. Therefore, I think it probable that they will keep at some little distance from the entrance, so as to tempt us to come out."

"I hope it is so, Dias. Still, José will have to be very careful."

"He will be careful, senor. He knows his own life will depend upon his crawling along as noiselessly as a snake. If he is seen, of course he will come at all speed back to me; and, unless he is hit by a chance arrow, he will not run much risk, for by the time they are ready to shoot he will be out of sight on such dark nights as these, and in the shade of the mountains and trees. I shall be ready to send four barrels of buck-shot among them when they come up. That is sure to stop them long enough to allow us to get under the cover of your rifles before they can overtake us.

"I don't think that you need be at all uneasy about him, senor. We will start in an hour's time, so that José can get near them before they go to sleep. They will probably have a fire burning, but if not the only guide to their position will be the sound of their talking. He will strip before he leaves me, so that if they catch sight of him, they will suppose that he is one of themselves."

Bertie now relieved José, who came back and had a long talk with Dias.

"We are ready now, senor."

"Here is my fowling-piece. It is already loaded with buck-shot. Bertie has taken down his rifle and gun, and will give you the latter as you pass. I suppose José will take no weapons?"

"Only a long knife, senor, that may be useful if he comes upon one of them suddenly."

At the barricade José stripped, retaining only a pair of sandals. These were as noiseless as his bare feet, and would be needed, as in the dark he might tread upon a thorny creeper, or strike against a projecting rock.

"Good-bye, José!" Harry said. "Now, be careful. It would be a great grief to us if anything happened to you."

"I will be careful, senor. The Indians won't catch me, never fear."

Harry and Bertie both shook hands with him, and then he and Dias stepped into the water, and, keeping close along by the wall of rock, started on their perilous expedition.

"I don't like it, Bert," Harry said as they lost sight of them. "It seems a cowardly thing to let that lad go into danger while we are doing nothing."

"That is just what I feel, Harry. I would have volunteered willingly, but he will do it a great deal better than either you or I could."

"There is no doubt about that," Harry agreed. "Of course when he is out with the mules he often travels at night, and certainly both he and Dias can see in the dark a good deal better than we can."

There was suddenly a slight movement behind them, and they turned sharply round. "It is I, senor. I am anxious about Dias, and I didn't like staying there by myself. I thought you would not mind if I came up and sat by you."

"Certainly not," Harry said. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I do not think there is any fear for Dias. He cannot be taken by surprise, for he will hear by their shouting if they discover José, and you may be quite sure that he will bring them to a stand with the four shots he will fire among them as they come near, and so will get a good start. They might run faster than he can in the forest, but will scarcely be better able to make their way up the torrent."

When Dias had been gone twenty minutes their conversation ceased, and they sat listening intently. In another ten minutes, which seemed an hour to them, Harry said, "The savages can keep no watch at their end of the torrent, and José must have got safely away."

Very slowly the time passed.

"They must have been gone an hour," Bertie said at last.

"Quite that, I should think, Bertie. At any rate, we may feel assured that all has gone well so far. For, though we might not hear the yells of the savages over the rustle and roar of the torrent, we should certainly hear gunshots."

Another half-hour passed, and then to their relief they heard Dias call out, "All is well!" some little distance down. In three or four minutes they could see the two figures approaching. "Give me your guns, Dias," Harry said, "and then I will help you up the rocks. They might go off if you were to make a slip. Now, while José is putting on his clothes, tell me what he has found out."

"I have not heard much, senor. As soon as he rejoined me we started off, and, coming up the torrent, we had not much chance of talking. He told me that there were many of them, and that they were camped at some little distance from the stream, just as I thought they would be."

"I will stay here, Harry," Bertie said. "You can hear the news and then come and tell me."

"Very well. I will be back before long."

Dias, his wife, and Harry walked down towards the tent, and Bertie chatted with José while the latter was dressing.

"You must feel horribly cold, José," he said.

"I am cold, now I think of it. I did not notice it while I was watching the savages. When I took to the water again I did feel it. Maria will make me a cup of hot coffee, and then I shall be all right again. It was good fun to look at them, and know that they had no idea that I was so close. If I could have understood their language, I should have learned something worth telling. I felt inclined to scare them by giving a tremendous yell, and I know I could have got away all right. They were sitting round a big fire and would not have been able to see in the dark. I should have done it, only I thought Dias would have blamed me for letting them know that one of us had come down the canon."

"He would have been angry, José, and so would my brother, for they would certainly have set a watch afterwards, which would have spoilt all our plans. Now run along, your teeth are chattering, and the sooner you get something warm and wrap yourself up in your blankets the better."

The fire had burnt low when the others returned, but an armful of sticks was thrown upon it at once. The kettle had been left in the embers at its edge by Maria when she started, so that after it had hung in the blaze for two or three minutes it began to boil, and coffee was soon ready. At this point José ran in, and after he had drunk a large mugful he told them what he had learned.

"When I left Dias at the mouth of the ravine," he said, "everything seemed quiet. I walked along the edge of the stream for fifty yards, keeping my ears open, you may be sure, and I saw a light glow close under the rocks some distance on the other side of the river. I followed the stream down till I came to a place where there was a quiet pool, and there I swam across, then very carefully I made my way to where I could see the light. It was quite three hundred yards from the river. As I got near I could hear talking; I crawled along like a cat, and took good care not to disturb a leaf, or to put a hand or a knee upon a dried stick, for I could not tell whether they had anyone on watch near the fire. I perceived no one, and at last came to a point where I could see the flame. It was in an opening running a hundred feet into the mountains, and perhaps forty feet across at the mouth.

"In this were sixty or seventy savages sitting or standing round a fire, which had evidently been made there so that anyone coming down to the mouth of the ravine should not see it. The fire was not a very large one, and a good many of the men were gathered outside the little hollow. Some of them were talking loudly, and it seemed to me that they were quarrelling over something. Sometimes they pointed up to the top of the hills, sometimes towards the mouth of our ravine. I would have got close if I had understood their language. Presently I saw some of them lying down, so that I could see that the quarrel, whatever it was about, was coming to an end, and that they were going to lie down for the night. As I could learn nothing further I crawled away and went down to the place where I had swum the river before, and then crept quietly up to Dias, who was on the look-out; for although I had seen no one as I had passed before, there might still have been some of them on the watch."

"You have done very well, José," Harry said. "We have learned two things. First, that they are not keeping watch at the mouth of the ravine, either because they feel sure that we will not try to escape, or because they wish us to leave and are giving us the opportunity of doing so. In the second place, you have learned what force they have got down there, their exact position, and the fact that they were evidently arguing how they had best attack us. Well, from what you say there is every chance that we shall be able to come upon them without being noticed till we are close enough to throw our fireworks among them. Really the only thing for us to learn is whether many of them are still at the top of the hill."

"I hardly think there can be many; only a few have shown themselves to-day. They must know very well that we would not venture to climb up during the day, and that it would be next to impossible for us to do so in the dark, even if we made up our minds to abandon the animals and all our stores."

"Well, I should say, Dias, there is no reason why we should put the matter off. It will not take us long to load all the squibs to-morrow. My opinion is that at dusk we had better saddle the mules and pack everything on them in readiness for a start; then at ten o'clock we can go down and attack the savages. The best moment for doing so will be when they are just lying down. When we have sent them flying we will come up the torrent again, and start with the mules as soon as it is daylight. It would be next to impossible to get them down in the dark, as they might very easily break their legs, or by rubbing against the wall shift their packs and tumble them into the water."

"It would be a pity to waste time, senor. I will get some torches made to-morrow. Some of the trees have resin, and by melting this I can make torches that would do very well. By their aid we could get the mules down without waiting for daylight. As they have already come up the torrent, they will have less fear in going down, for the stream will help them instead of keeping them back. I will go first with José and his mule; she is as steady as a rock, and where she goes the others will follow; and with five torches along the line they will be able to see well enough."

"Four torches, Dias. Your wife rode coming up, and she had better ride going down."

"She can hold a torch as she sits; it does not matter to us if we get wet to the waist, but it would be very uncomfortable for her. We shall have to put the largest burdens on to the mules. One of the riding mules could carry the two llamas, or if you think that that is too much, we can tie each across a separate mule. They were more trouble coming up than all the mules put together. We had pretty nearly to carry them through the deep places, though at other points they leapt from rock to rock cleverly enough."

"I am not going to be left behind if you are going to the fight, senor," Donna Maria said, "if you will give me one of your pistols."

"We could manage that, I should think," Harry said. "We can put you on one of the steadiest mules when we first go down, and with one at each side of you we can manage it very well. José must go on a hundred yards ahead to see whether any of the savages are on the watch at their end, and if so, you must wait till we have cleared them out. You see, we shall have no hesitation in shooting any of them if necessary, and though that would bring the rest of them down on us, yet when our squibs and crackers begin to fly among them, you may be sure they won't face us for an instant."

Dias grumbled that his wife had better stay where she was till they went back for the mules; but Harry said: "I do think, Dias, that she had better go with us. It would be cruel to leave her now that we are going into a fight -- leave her all alone to tremble for our lives, with a knowledge that if things should go wrong with us the savages will soon be up here."

"Well, senor, if you think so, there is no more to be said."

"I am not going to be made a trouble of," Maria said. "I shall go down on foot like the rest of you. I will take some other clothes with me, so that when you all come back for the mules I can change into them."

"Perhaps that would be the best plan," Harry agreed. "Now I will go back and take Bertie's place. It is my turn to be on watch, and he will be wanting to hear the news."

"Well, Harry, is it all right?" Bertie asked as he heard his brother coming up to him.

"It couldn't be better! There are sixty or seventy of them in a sort of little ravine three hundred yards away, on the left-hand side of the river. They don't seem to be keeping guard at all, and if they are not more careful to-morrow night we shall take them completely by surprise. We are going to saddle all the mules directly it gets too dark for any of the fellows on the hills to see us, then we must set to work and pull down enough of the barricade here to allow them to pass. We ourselves, when we go down, will cross at that shallow place above here, and go down the river at that side, otherwise we sha'n't be able to cross it except at some distance beyond the other end of the torrent. Of course the mules must go down this side, as we shall want to turn to the right when we get off. We shall make our attack about ten o'clock."

Bertie went off, and three hours later Dias relieved Harry. As soon as it was light the next morning Bertie and José set to work to fill the cases -- there were a hundred squibs and fifty large crackers.

Donna Maria after breakfast went out and returned with a number of flexible sticks of about half an inch in diameter; these she carried into her tent, where she shut herself up for the forenoon. When, at one o'clock, she came out with the result of her work, it resembled a chair without legs and with a back about a foot wide and three feet high.

"What in the world have you got there, Donna Maria?" Bertie asked.

"Don't you know?"

"No, I have never seen a thing like it before."

"This is the thing the porters use for carrying weights, and sometimes people, over the Cordilleras. You see that strap near the top goes round the man's forehead, and when there is a weight in the chair these other straps pass over his shoulders and under his arms, and then round whatever is on the seat."

"But what is going to be on the seat?"

"I am," she laughed. "Dias is so overbearing. It had all been arranged nicely, as you know; and then when he spoke to me afterwards he said, 'The first thing to-morrow morning, Maria, you will set to work to make a porter's chair, and I shall carry you down the stream. No words about it, but do as you are told.' Generally Dias lets me have my own way, senor, but when he talks like that, I know that it is useless to argue with him. And perhaps it is best after all, for, as he said to me afterwards, it is a nasty place for men to get along, but for a woman, with her petticoats dragging and trailing round her, it would be almost impossible for her to keep her footing."

"Well, I thought the same thing myself when we were talking about it yesterday," Bertie said. "Of course I did not say anything, but I am sure Dias is right. I found it very hard work to keep my footing, and I really don't believe that I could have done it if I had been dressed as a woman. And Dias can carry you like that?"

"Carry me, senor! he could carry three times that weight. He has cut himself a staff seven or eight feet long this morning to steady himself, but I don't think there was any need for it. Why, it is a common thing for people to be carried over the Cordilleras so, and Dias is stronger a great deal than many of the men who do it. As he said, if I had been going through on foot you would all have been bothering about me. And it is not as if two people could go abreast, and one help the other. There is often only room between the rocks for one to pass through, and it is just there where the rush of the water is strongest."



Chapter IX

The Signal Star


During the afternoon Dias, who had been keeping a careful look-out at the cliffs, said to Harry: "I think, senor, that the savages are leaving the hills. An hour ago I saw a man walking along where we generally see them; he was going straight along as if for some fixed purpose, and I thought at once that he might be bringing them some message from the people below us. I lost sight of him after a bit, but presently I could make out some men moving in the other direction. They were keeping back from the edge, but I several times caught sight of their heads against the sky-line when there happened to be some little irregularity in the ground. They were not running, but seemed to me to be going at a steady pace. Since then I have been watching carefully, and have seen no one on the other side. I think they have all been sent for, and will be assembled this afternoon at the mouth of the torrent."

"I am very glad to hear it, Dias; that is just what we wanted."

"In one way -- yes," Dias said. "It would be a great thing for us to catch them all together, for I have no fear that they will stand when these fireworks begin to go off among them."

"What is the drawback, then?"

"It is, senor, that they have either been collected because they have given up the hope of catching us at present, and are going to scatter and hunt till we venture out, which would be the worst thing possible; or they have made up their minds to make a rush upon us."

"Don't you think that we can beat them back?"

"Not if they are determined, senor. You see, we can't make them out till they are within twenty or thirty yards of us. At most you and your brother could fire four shots, then you would take up your rifles. We shall have then only four shots left. If they continue their rush where shall we be? There would be two of us on one wall and two on the other. There would be four shots to fire from one side and four from the other. Then the end would come. Two on each side would not be able to keep back the rush of two or three score. In two minutes it would be all over."

"Yes, Dias, I see that if they were determined to storm the place and take us alive they could do it; but we have the fireworks."

"I did not think of that. Yes; but having once worked themselves up and being mad with excitement, even that might not stop them, though I should think it would. Yes, I believe we might feel assured that we should beat them back, and if so, we should hear no more of them."

"If I knew that they would come," Harry said, "I would certainly say we had best stay and defend ourselves; but we can't be sure that that is their motive for assembling. They may, as you say, be going to move off, leaving perhaps half a dozen men to watch the entrance and report if we attempt to escape. That would be fatal, and our only chance would be to leave everything behind and endeavour to climb up one side or the other; and even that might not avail us, as there may be one or two men up there to see if we make off that way. I am more inclined to think that this is the course that they will take rather than risk a heavy loss of life. They must have a good idea of what it would cost them to take the place."

"What do you think we had better do, then, senor?"

"I think we had better attack them as soon as possible after nightfall. It is likely that they will do nothing before morning; as you say, they do not like moving at night, and if they attack it will not be until shortly before daybreak. There is sure to be a palaver when the men who have been on the hills come down. It will be too late then for them to go back before night, so that I think we are pretty sure to find them all in the ravine this evening. If, when we get there, we find the place empty, we must come to a decision as to what our best course will be. In that case I think we ought to climb the hills and make our way up the mountains as rapidly as possible. We could calculate on eight or ten hours' start, and by keeping as much as possible on the rocks, might hope to get so high among the mountains that they would not be able to follow our traces and overtake us before we reach a point where they would not dare follow us. In that case, of course we should have to give up all hope of finding the gold valley, and lose the mules with all our belongings, which would cripple us terribly."

"Very well, senor; I think that is the best plan."

"Then we will settle to start at nine o'clock, Dias."

They then discussed the arrangements for the attack. Each was to carry a glowing brand, and when he got there, was to sling his gun behind him and hold twelve squibs in one hand and the brand in the other. When they approached within throwing distance of the savages, they were to lay their guns down beside them, and then Harry was to put the ends of his squibs against his brand, and hurl the whole of them among the Indians. A few seconds later Bertie was to do the same, while Harry fired one barrel of buck-shot. Bertie was to fire as Dias threw a dozen crackers, and then José was to throw his squibs. Then all were to throw squibs and crackers as far as they could go; and the other two barrels of buck-shot and José's musket were to be poured in. By this time they calculated the savages would be in full flight, and the three rifles could then be used.

Harry was to hand his rifle to Dias before the firing began, and he and Bertie were to slip fresh cartridges into these guns and recap them before sending off the last batch of their fireworks, so as to have them in readiness either to empty their contents into the flying Indians, or to cover their retreat should the fireworks fail to effect the panic they hoped for. Their pistols were also to be reserved until the Indians fled. Donna Maria was to stay by the water, and start at once on her way back if Dias shouted to her to do so. Every step of the plan settled upon was repeated again and again, until there was no possibility of any mistake being made. Maria had not attended the council; her confidence in her two white friends was unbounded, and Bertie's invention of the fireworks had placed him on a level with his brother in her estimation. She therefore quietly went on with her preparations for dinner without concerning herself as to the details of the affair.

As soon as it was dark and the meal eaten, the tents were struck, the baggage all rolled up and packed on the animals, and the fireworks divided. When everything was in readiness they went together and made a breach in the breast-work wide enough for the mules to pass. At nine o'clock Maria was seated in the carrying-chair, and strapped on to her husband's back; then four brands were taken from the fire and the party started. When within fifty yards of the lower end of the ravine José went forward, and, returning in a few minutes, reported that no savages were on guard. A fire was burning outside the mouth of the ravine where he had seen them on the evening before, and from the reflection on the rock he believed that another fire was alight inside. His report caused a general feeling of relief, for their great fear had been that the natives might have made off before their arrival.

When they stepped out from the water Dias set Maria down. "You understand, Maria," he said: "the moment I call, you are to start up the river."

"I understand," she said. "I have my knife, and if you do not rejoin me I shall know how to use it."

"We shall rejoin you, Maria," Dias said confidently. "I believe that at the first volley of fireworks they will be off. They must be more than human if they are not scared, as they never can have heard of such things before."

Keeping close to the rock wall, they went along in single file until within forty or fifty yards of the fire; then, going down on their hands and knees, they crawled up a slight rise, from the top of which they could see a hundred or more natives gathered round a fire. One was addressing the others, who were seated listening attentively. Laying the guns down to be ready for instant action, and keeping themselves concealed in the herbage, Harry took his bundle of squibs from his pocket. They were but lightly tied together; slipping off the string he applied the ends to the brand. There was a sudden roar of fire, and waving them once round his head he hurled them into the midst of the assembly. There was a yell of astonishment as the missiles flew hither and thither, exploding with loud reports. The last had not exploded when Bertie's handful flew among them; then came the parcel from Dias, and at the same moment Harry poured a barrel of buck-shot among them, followed by a volley of crackers, while almost simultaneously Harry threw his squibs and Bertie fired a volley of buck-shot. For a moment the savages were paralysed, then many of them threw themselves on their faces in terror of these fiery demons, while others started in headlong flight.

"Send them off as quick as you can!" Harry shouted, as he discharged his second barrel into the flying natives. Bertie followed suit, and then both paused to reload while Dias and José hurled their remaining fireworks. By this time the last of the natives had leapt up and fled. José's musket and the three rifles cracked out, and then the little party rose to their feet and joined in a wild "Hip, hip, hurrah!"

"You can come up, Maria; they have all gone!" Dias cried out; and Maria joined them a minute later. More than a score of natives lay dead or badly wounded round their fire.

"What are we to do with the wounded?" Bertie asked.

"We can only leave them where they are," Harry said. "Some of the savages may have wandered away, or not have come down from the hills, and will return here unaware of what has happened, or one or two of the boldest may venture back again to look after their comrades. At any rate, we can do nothing for them."

"It would be better to shoot them, senor," Dias said.

"No, I could not bring myself to do that," Harry said. "Buck-shot, unless they strike in a body, are not likely to kill. I expect they are more frightened than hurt. After we have gone many of them will be able to crawl down to the river. Savages frequently recover from wounds that would kill white men; and even if no others come down, those who are but slightly wounded will help the more incapable. We have cleared the way for ourselves, which was all we wanted, and have taught them a lesson they are not likely to forget for many years to come. Let us go back at once and bring down the mules. I suppose you will sit down by the stream, and wait till we come back, Maria?"

"Yes," she said, "there is nothing to be afraid of now; but you can leave me one of your pistols in case one of these savages may be shamming dead."

"José will wait with her," Dias said. "Now, José, you strike up a song. You are generally at it, and as long as they hear you they will know that some of us are still here, and will not venture to move."

"You take my gun, José; it is loaded," Harry said. "If any of them should move and try to crawl away, don't fire at them; but if they look about and seem inclined to make mischief, shoot at once."

Coming down with the animals the three men carried torches in each hand. The mules reached the mouth of the torrent without accident, and the llamas were then lifted off the baggage mules which had carried them, and all were turned loose to graze on the rich grass near the edge of the river. José and Dias went to the fire in the ravine, and returned laden with burning brands, and a fire was soon blazing near the water. Two of them kept watch by turns at the spot from which they had fired, lest any of the wounded Indians should, on recovering, try to avenge their loss by sending arrows down amongst the party. During the night four of the fallen Indians, after first looking round cautiously, crawled away, and the watchers could hear them running fast through the bushes till they were beyond the light of the fire.

At dawn a start was made. The river was crossed at the pool where José had swum over. Dias, on examination, found that the water, even in the deepest part, was not more than breast-high. Accordingly he returned; Maria, kneeling on one of his shoulders and one of Harry's, was carried across without being wetted. Then they joined the animals, which were grazing a short distance away, and set off without delay. Although they kept a sharp look-out they saw no more of the Indians. They ascended several more streams unobserved. Rough carvings on the face of several of the rocks led them to carry their excursions farther than usual, but beyond a few ounces of gold, washed from the stream, they found nothing.

"They must have been put here for some purpose," said Dias.

"I have been thinking it over, Dias, and I should not be surprised if, as you thought, they were done to deceive searchers. You told me there were some marks by which you would be directed in the gold valley; it is quite likely that other marks might have been placed in the valleys so that the real ones would not be particularly noticed."

"That is possible, senor; they would certainly do everything they could to prevent anyone not in the secret from knowing. The mark I have to look for first is a serpent. It is carved on a rock at the end of a valley."

"In that case the indication of the star would not be necessary, Dias."

"That may be, senor; but the valley may be a large one, and the hiding-place very difficult to find, so that even when the valley was known, it would need the guidance of the star to take us to the right place."

"That might be so, Dias, if it were a hidden treasure that we were looking for; but as, according to your account, it is simply an extraordinarily rich deposit in the river, I hardly see why the guidance of the star should be necessary when once the valley was known."

"That I cannot tell you, senor; but I am sure that it must be difficult to find, for the Spaniards searched everywhere for gold, and although the records of most of their discoveries still exist, there is no mention of such a find, nor is there is any word of it among the Indian traditions."

A week before the appointed date they found themselves in the neighbourhood where they felt sure the cleft must lie. Mount Tinta was twenty miles in front of them, and from that point a range of mountains trended off almost at right angles to that which they were following. One lofty peak some thirty miles to the south-east rose above another.

"I believe that that is the peak," Dias said.

"I don't see any signs of a cleft in it, Dias."

"No, senor; it is a very narrow one."

The next day they halted at the mouth of another valley, and as they unloaded the mules, Harry exclaimed: "See, Dias, there is a cleft in that peak! From here it looks as if it were a mere thread, and as if some giant had struck a mighty sword-cut into it."

"That is right. Sure enough, senor, this must be the valley. Now, let us look about for the serpent."

The search did not take them long. An isolated rock rose a quarter of a mile from the mouth, and on this was a rude representation of a serpent. The next morning they explored the valley thoroughly to a point where, five miles higher, it ceased abruptly, the rocks closing in on either side, and the stream coming down in a perpendicular fall from a point some eighty feet above them. Going down the river, they washed the gravel again and again, but without obtaining even as much gold as they had found several times before.

"I cannot understand it," Harry said, as they sat down to their meal at dusk. "Your tradition says nothing about hidden treasure, and yet there does not seem to be gold in the stream."

"It may be higher up, senor. We must ascend the hills on each side of the valley, and come down upon the river higher up."

Harry was on watch that night, and at one o'clock he roused the others up. "See!" he exclaimed later on; "there is a bright star apparently about a foot above the peak. I should think that must be the star. No doubt that will rise in exact line behind the cleft on the 21st, that is four days from now; probably it can only be seen when we are exactly in the line with the cleft and the position of the gold. This cleft is undoubtedly very narrow -- no doubt the result of an earthquake. It certainly goes straight through, and very likely it is some hundred yards across, so that unless we are exactly in the line we sha'n't see it. As soon as it is dark on the 21st we will all go some distance up the valley, where it is only about four or five hundred yards across. We will station ourselves fifty yards apart across it, then one of us is sure to see the star through the cleft. We had each better take two sticks with us. Whoever sees the star will fix one in the ground and then go backwards for a hundred yards, keeping the star in sight, and plant the other; then the line between those two sticks ought to lead us to the spot."

Each night the star rose nearer to the cleft. "There is no doubt we shall see it in the proper position to-morrow night," Harry said on the 20th of the month. "That certainly is strong proof that the tradition handed down to you, Dias, is correct."

They employed the next day in again searching for some indication that might assist them, but in vain. Dias and José both asserted that the tiny rift in the rocky peak looked wider from the middle of the valley than at any other point, and even Harry and his brother admitted that it could scarcely be seen from the foot of the hills on either side, and therefore it was agreed that Dias, Harry, and José should take their places only some forty yards apart across the centre; Maria and Bertie going farther, near the sides of the hills. When midnight approached they took their stations. Suddenly Harry, who was standing by the side of the rivulet, exclaimed, "I see it!" It was more than a minute later before Dias saw it, while it was three or four minutes before José spoke, by which time Harry had crossed the streamlet and fixed his second rod some distance on the other side. Dias and José did the same. Bertie did not catch sight of it for some time after José, and Maria did not see it at all. Then they went back to their camping place.

"It is curious that I should have seen it before either of you, when you were standing so close to me," Harry said. "It was lower than I expected, and it is evident that the cleft must continue much farther down than we thought, and that it must be extremely narrow at the bottom. It is certainly a splendid guide, and there can be no mistaking it. Unless I had been standing on the exact line, I should not have noticed the star till later, and the crack is so much wider towards the top that it could probably be seen on a line half a mile across. It will be strange if we cannot find the place in the morning. Certainly we searched in the stream just where I was standing, and found nothing. But, of course, it is possible that in all this time it may have changed its course considerably."

Dias shook his head. "It can hardly be that, senor, because, in that case, anyone who had examined the valley could have found it. I begin to think that it must have been a mistake about its being merely a rich place in the river, and that it must be some vast treasure, perhaps hidden by the people before the Incas, and kept by them as a certain resource when needed. We shall have to search, I think, for some walled-up cave in the rocks. We have already looked for it, but not seriously; and besides, there are many boulders that have fallen, and formed a bank at the foot of the cliff."

"Well, we shall know in a few hours. I feel absolutely certain that the line between those two sticks will lead us to it."

None attempted to sleep, and as soon as it became light they took picks and shovels and started up the valley. Harry gave an exclamation of surprise as, standing behind the first stick, he looked towards the second. "The line goes to the middle of that waterfall," he said.

This was so; for the stream made two or three sharp bends between the spot where he had crossed it and the foot of the falls.

"'Tis strange!" Dias said; "we have examined that spot more than once. There are great stones and boulders at the foot of the fall, and a large deep pool. Can a treasure be buried in that? If so, it will be hard indeed to get it."

Harry did not reply; his face was white with excitement. He walked forward slowly till he reached the edge of the pool. It was some fifteen yards across, and the colour of the water showed that it was very deep.

"I will dive, Harry," Bertie said; "I have gone down more than once in five fathoms of water to pick up an egg that has been thrown overboard." He stripped and swam out to the middle of the pool and dived. He was down about a minute, and on coming up swam to the shore. "I could find no bottom, Harry," he panted. "I am sure I must have gone down seven fathoms."

"Thank you, Bertie," Harry said quietly; "we will make up our minds that if it is there, we sha'n't get it at present. The foot of the valley is so flat that it would need a cut at least a mile long to let the water off, and we should therefore require either an army of men or a regular diving apparatus, which there would be no getting this side of England. However, it may not be there. Let us search now behind the fall."

There were some four or five feet clear between the sheet of water and the rock. At times, as Harry pointed out, there would be an even wider space, for the weather had been dry for the past two months, and the quantity of water coming down was but small, while in the wet season a mighty flood would shoot far out from the rock. The width of the stream in the wet season was shown by the broad bed of what was now but a rivulet. Looking upwards as they stood, the wall actually overhung them, and they could see the edge where the water poured over unbroken.

"There may be a cave here," Harry went on, "and it may be covered by these rocks piled up for the purpose. On the other hand, they may have fallen. I think that is the most likely explanation, for as the top projects beyond the bottom it is possible that some time or other there was a big fall."

They searched every foot of the rock within reach, but there were no signs of any man's handiwork. The rock was solid, thickly covered with dripping moss and ferns which had flourished in the mist and spray that rose from the foot of the fall. This they had ruthlessly scraped off with their picks. Silently they went out again at the end, and stood hopelessly looking at the fall. It was some time before Harry said, "We must move some of those stones now. Let us go at once and cut down some young trees, for we can do nothing with our hands alone, but must use levers. For that purpose we shall want straight wood, and strong. We had better get half a dozen, in case some of them break; make them about ten feet long, and from four to six inches thick, and sharpened slightly at the lower end."

In an hour the levers were ready.

"We had better breakfast before we begin, Dias. Your wife went off to prepare it when we came out from the waterfall. I dare say it is ready by this time."

In half an hour they were back again. They chose the central spot behind the fall, and then set to work. Some of the rocks were dislodged without much difficulty, but to move others, it was necessary to first get out the smaller ones, on which they rested. So they toiled on, stopping for half an hour in the middle of the day for food, and then renewing their work. By evening they had made an opening four or five feet wide at the top, and six feet deep, close to the wall. It was now getting dark, and all were fagged and weary with their work, the light was fading, and they were glad to return to camp. Maria came out to meet them. She asked no questions, but said cheerfully, "I have a good olla ready, I am sure you must want it."

"I feel almost too tired to eat," Bertie said.

"You will feel better when you have had some coffee. I have fed the mules, José, and taken them down to water."

"I think," Bertie said, when they had finished their meal, "that we might splice the main brace."

"I do think we might," Harry laughed. "We have not opened a bottle since we started, and certainly we have worked like niggers since seven o'clock this morning. I will open the case; it is screwed down, and I have a screwdriver in the handle of my knife;" and he rose to his feet.

"What does Don Bertie want?" Dias said. "I will get it, senor. I do not understand what he said."

"It is a sea expression, Dias. After a hard day's work the captain orders that the main brace shall be spliced, which means that the crew shall have a glass of grog -- that is, a glass of spirits and water -- to cheer and warm them after their exertions. José, will you bring a blazing brand with you? I shall want it to see the screws."

In a few minutes he returned.

"This is brandy, Dias. I don't suppose you have ever tasted a glass of good brandy. Is your kettle boiling still, senora? We shall want hot water, sugar, and five of the tin mugs. Have you any of those limes we picked the other day?"

"Yes, senor."

"That is good. Just a slice each will be an improvement." Harry mixed four mugs, and a half one for Maria. "There, Dias!" he said. "You will allow that that is a considerable improvement on pulque."

He and his brother had already lighted their pipes. The other three had made cigarettes. Dias and José were loud in their commendations of the new beverage. Donna Maria had at first protested that she never touched pulque, and this must be the same sort of thing. However, after sipping daintily, she finished her portion with evident satisfaction. They did not sit up long, and as soon as they had finished their first smoke all retired to bed, leaving for once the llamas and mules to act as sentries. As soon as it was fairly daylight, they drank a cup of coffee and started again to work. Harry went first into the hole they had made, and, kneeling down, struck a match to enable him to see the rock more thoroughly. He gave a slight exclamation, then said: "Open your knife, Bertie, and come in here and strike another match. I want both my hands."

"I have a torch here, senor,"

"That is best; then light it, Bertie."

There was just room at the bottom for Bertie to stand by the side of his brother, who was lying down.

"Hold the torches as low as you can, Bertie."

Harry picked away with the point of his knife for a minute or two and then sat up.

"That is the top of a cave," he said. "Do you see, this crack along here is a straight one. That, I fancy, was the top of the entrance to the cave. That stone under it has a rough face, but on the top and sides it is straight. It is fitted in with cement, or something of that sort, and is soft for some distance in, and then becomes quite hard. I can just see that there are two stones underneath, also regularly cut."

He made room for Bertie to lie down, and held the torch for him. "I think you are right, Harry. Those three stones would never fit together so closely if they had not been cut by hand, though, looking at the face, no one could tell them from the rock above them."

Dias next examined the stones.

"There is no doubt that that is the entrance to a cave, senor," he said as he joined them; and the three went out beyond the fall, for the noise of the water was too great for them to converse without difficulty behind the veil of water. José stayed behind to examine.

"Well, Dias, we have found the place where the treasure is hidden, but I don't think that we are much nearer. Certainly we have not strength sufficient to clear away those fallen stones, and probably the cave is blocked by a wall several feet thick. We should want tools and blasting-powder to get through it. No doubt it is a natural cave, and it seems to me probable that they altered the course of the stream above, so that it should fall directly over the entrance. I think before we talk further about it we will go up there and take a look at it. If we find that the course has been changed that will settle the matter."

It took them an hour to climb the hill and make their way down to the gorge through which the river ran. They examined it carefully.

"It must always have come along here," Dias said. "There is no other possible channel; but there are marks of tools on the rocks on each side of the fall, and the water goes over so regularly that I think the rock must have been cut away at the bottom."

"It certainly looks like it, Dias. The rocks widen out too, so that however strong the rush of water may be it will always go over in a regular sheet. Let us follow it along a little way."

Fifty yards farther on, the gorge widened out suddenly, and they paused with an exclamation of astonishment. Before them was a wide valley, filled to the spot where they were standing with a placid sheet of water four or five hundred yards wide, and extending to another gorge fully a mile away. Bertie was the first to find his voice.

"Here's a go! Who would have thought of finding a lake up in the hills here?"

"I did not know there was one," Dias said. "I have never heard of it. But that is not strange, for no one who came up the valley would dream that there was anything beyond that fall."

Harry had sat down and thought for some minutes, looking over the lake without speaking.

"I am afraid, Dias," he said at last, "that your tradition was a true one after all, and that the gold lay in the bed of a stream in the valley we now see filled up."

"But it must always have been a lake, senor," Dias said after thinking for a minute, "and could not have been shallower, for there is no other escape than the waterfall; and however heavy the rains it could not have risen higher, except a few feet, as one can see by the face of the rock."

"It may have had some other way out," Harry said.

Dias looked carefully round the side of the valley. "There is no break in the hills that I can see, senor."

"No; but my firm conviction is that the top of that cave that we found behind the fall is really the top of a natural tunnel through which the stream originally flowed. There are two or three reasons for this. In the first place, it is certainly remarkable that there should be a cave immediately behind that fall. I thought at first that the stream above might have been diverted to hide it, but the ravine is so narrow that that could not be possible. In the next place, your tradition has proved absolutely true in the matter of the star, and in the hour of its appearance in the exact line to the mouth of that cave. How correctly the details have been handed down from generation to generation! If they are right on that point it is hardly likely that they can be inaccurate on other points, and that the tale of an extraordinarily rich treasure could have been converted into one of an exceptional deposit of gold in the bed of a river.

"I think that the passage was probably closed by the old people when they were first threatened by the invasion of the Incas. No doubt they would choose a season when the stream was almost dry. They had, as the remains of their vast buildings will show, an unlimited supply of labour. They would first partially block up the tunnel, perhaps for the first fifty yards in, leaving only a small passage for the water to run through. They might then close the farther end with sacks of sand, and having the other stones all cut, and any number of hands, build it up behind the sacks, and then go on with the work till it was solid; then no doubt they would heap stones and boulders against the face of the wall. By the time the Incas had conquered the country the valley would be a lake many feet deep. The Incas, having gained an abundant supply of treasure elsewhere, would take no steps towards opening the tunnel, which in any case would have been a terrible business, for the pressure of water would drive everything before it. Having plenty of slave labour at their disposal, they knew that it could be done at any time in case of great necessity, when the loss of the lives of those concerned in it would be nothing to them. When the valley became full the water began to pour out through this gap, which perhaps happened to be immediately over the mouth of the tunnel, or it may have been altered by a few yards to suit, for they were, as we know from some of their buildings, such good workmen that they could fit slabs of the hardest stone so perfectly together that it is hardly possible to see the joints. Therefore they would only have to widen the mouth of the gorge a little, and fit rocks in on either side so that they would seem to have been there for all time; and indeed the natural growth of ferns and mosses would soon hide the joints, even if they had been roughly done."

"And that all means, Harry -- ?" Bertie asked.

"That all means that we have no more chance of getting at the gold than if it were lying in the deepest soundings in the Pacific."

Bertie sat down with a gasp.

"There is no way of getting that water out," Harry went on quietly, "except by either cutting a channel here as deep as the bottom of the lake, or by blasting the stone in the tunnel. The one would require years of work, with two or three hundred experienced miners, and ten times as many labourers. The other would need twenty or thirty miners, and a hundred or two labourers. There is possibly another way; but as that would require an immense iron siphon going down to the bottom of the lake, along one side of this ravine, and down into the bottom of the pool, with a powerful engine to exhaust the air in the first place and set it going, it is as impracticable, as far as we are concerned, as the other two.

"In the same way I have no doubt that, with a thousand-horse-power engine, the lake could be pumped dry in time; but to transport the plant for such an engine and its boiler across the mountains would be an enormous undertaking; and even were it here, and put up and going, the difficulty of supplying it with fuel would be enormous. Certainly one could not get up a company with capital enough to carry out any one of the schemes merely on the strength of an Indian tradition; and with the uncertainty, even if they believed the tradition, whether the amount of gold recovered would be sufficient to repay the cost incurred.

"Well, we may as well go down to dinner."

He shouldered his pick and led the way back. Scarce a word was spoken on the way. Bertie tried to follow the example of his brother, and take the matter coolly. Dias walked with his head down and the air of a criminal going to execution. The disappointment to him was terrible. He had all along felt so confident that they should be successful, and that he should be enabled to enrich those he considered as the preservers of his life, that he was utterly broken down with the total failure of his hopes.



Chapter X

A Fresh Start


Not until he got to the camp did Harry look round. When he caught a glimpse of the guide's face he went up to him and held out his hand.

"You must not take it to heart, Dias; it has been unfortunate, but that cannot be helped. You have done everything you could in the matter, and brought us to the right spot, and no one could tell that when we got within half a mile of the gold river we should find the valley turned into a deep lake. We can only say, 'Better luck next time'. We would say in England, 'There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it'. I have never felt very sanguine myself about this; it has all along seemed too good to be true. Of course we are disappointed, but we may have better luck next time."

"But I don't know, senor, with certainty of any other place. No one was ever entrusted with more than one secret, so that if the Spanish tortures wrung it out of him two treasures would not be lost."

"We need not talk any more about this place, Dias. I see your wife has got some of the fish that we caught yesterday fizzling on the fire. Now I think of it, I am very hungry, for it is six hours since we had our coffee this morning. After we have had our meal we can discuss what our next move had better be."

While they were speaking, José had been rapidly telling Maria the misfortune which had befallen them, and the tears were running down the woman's cheeks.

"You must not feel so badly about it, Maria," Harry said cheerfully; "you see my brother and I are quite cheerful. At any rate, no one is to blame. It would have been an enormous piece of luck if we had succeeded, but we never looked on it as a certainty. Anything might have happened between the time the gold was shut up and now, though we certainly never expected to find what we did. We only thought it possible that we might have the luck to find the treasure. Now you had better look to those fish, or we shall lose our breakfast as we have lost our gold, and this time by our own fault. We are as hungry as hunters all of us; and in fact we are hunters, although we have not brought any game with us this time."

The woman wiped away her tears hastily, and, taking off the fish which she had put on when they were coming down the hill, she laid them on plates with some freshly-baked cakes. The fish were excellent, and Bertie, as they ate, made several jokes which set them all laughing, so that the meal passed off cheerfully.

"Now for the great consoler," Harry said, as he took out his pipe. "When we have all lighted up, the council shall begin. Never mind clearing away the plates now, Maria; just sit down with us, there is wisdom in many counsellors. Now, Dias, what do you think is the best course for us to adopt at present?"

"Unless you wish to stay here and make further search?"

"By no means, Dias," Harry said; "for the present, I have seen enough of this side of the mountains. We will get back to Cuzco and make a fresh start from there."

"In that case, senor, there is no doubt as to the best route. There is a pass over the mountains just on the other side of Mount Tinta; it leads to the town of Ayapata, which lies somewhere at the foot of that peak. I have never been there, but I know its situation. It is a very steep pass, but as it is used for mule traffic it cannot be very bad. Once we have passed over it on to the plateau we shall not be more than seventy or eighty miles from Cuzco."

"That is quite satisfactory. We will set off to-morrow."

"We had better catch some more fish, for we have had no time for hunting lately," Maria said. "The meat we ate yesterday was the last we had with us. If we cut the fish open and lay them flat on the rocks, which are so hot one can scarcely hold one's hand on them, they will be sufficiently dry by sunset to keep for two or three days, and before that you are sure to shoot something."

The river was full of fish, and in half an hour they had caught an abundance, having fifteen averaging eight pounds apiece. These were at once cut open, cleaned, and laid down to dry.

"The fishing on this river would let for a handsome sum in England," Harry laughed; "and I think the fish are quite as good as trout of the same size. The only objection is that they are so tame, and take the bait so greedily, that, good as the stream is, they would soon be exterminated."

That evening there was a slight stir among the animals which had just lain down. José leapt up and walked towards them.

"There is something the matter, Dias," he cried; "the llamas are standing up with their ears forward. They see or hear something."

"It may be pumas or jaguars," Dias said. "Take your gun, senor."

He picked up his rifle, and Harry and Bertie followed suit, and further armed themselves with their shot-guns.

"You had best come with us, Maria," her husband said. "There is no saying where the beasts may be. See! the mules are standing up now and pulling at their head-ropes. Let us go among them, senors, our presence will pacify them."

They all moved towards the mules, which were standing huddled together. Dias and José spoke to them and patted them.

"You stand at their heads, Maria," the former said, "and keep on talking to them. We must see if we can discover the beasts. There is one of them!" he exclaimed, but in a low tone. "Do you see the two bright points of light? That is the reflection of the fire in his eyes."

"Shall I fire?"

"No, senor, not yet. If we were only to wound him he would charge us; let us wait till he gets closer. Probably there are two of them, male and female, they generally go about in pairs."

Even as he spoke the seeming sparks disappeared.

"He has moved," Dias said; "he will probably walk round us two or three times before he makes up his mind to attack."

"If he would go near the fire we could get a fair shot at him, Dias."

"He won't do that, senor; he will most likely go backwards and forwards in a semicircle, getting perhaps a little closer each time."

Ten minutes passed and then Maria said:

"There are two of them. I can see their outlines distinctly."

"Do you think, if we were to fire a gun, they would move off, Dias?"

"They might for a time, senor, but the probability is that they would come back again. They have smelt the mules, and are probably hungry. It is better to let them attack us at once and have done with it."

A minute or two later there was a snarling growl.

"They are jaguars," Dias said.

Again and again the threatening sound was heard, and in spite of Maria's efforts the mules were almost mad with fright.

"We had better lie down beyond them," Dias said. "There is no doubt the beasts will come from that side. If we posted ourselves behind them the mules might break loose and knock us over just as we were taking aim."

They lay down side by side on the grass with their rifles at their shoulders.

"I can see them now, Dias," Harry whispered, "not more than fifty yards away. I think we could hardly miss them now."

"You could not if it were daylight, senor; but in the dark, when you can't see the end of your rifle, you can never be certain about shooting."

The beasts had now apparently made up their minds to attack. They crouched low, almost dragging their bellies on the ground, and one was somewhat in advance of the other.

"That is the male ahead," Dias whispered. "Do you and your brother take aim. I will take the female, and José will hold his fire of buck-shot till she is within a length of us."

"How shall I know when it is going to spring?"

"When it stops, senor. It is sure to stop before it springs."

"Aim between the eyes, Bertie, and fire when I do," Harry whispered to his brother, who was lying next to him.

When within twelve yards the jaguar halted.

"Now!" Harry said, and they discharged their rifles at the same moment, and, dropping them, grasped the shot-guns.

The jaguar fell over on one side, clawing the air, and then recovered himself. As he did so two charges of buck-shot struck him on the head, and he rolled over and remained motionless.

Dias had fired at the same moment, but he had not stopped the second jaguar. José, instead of waiting, hastily discharged his gun, and in another instant a dark body bounded over their heads on to the back of one of the mules, which it struck to the ground.

Harry and Bertie leapt to their feet, and discharged their second barrels into the jaguar's body. It turned suddenly round and attempted to spring, but its hindquarters were paralysed; and Bertie, pulling out his pistol, fired both barrels into its head. The brute at once fell over dead, and the lad gave a shout of triumph.

"Thank goodness that is over without accident!" Harry said. "They are formidable beasts, Dias."

"In the daytime, when one can see to aim, they can be killed easily enough, senor; at night their presence is to be dreaded."

"I am afraid we have lost a mule."

"I think not, senor. He was knocked down by the shock, but he had his saddle on, and the brute had no time to carry him off."

The mule rose to its feet as they spoke; José ran and brought a flaming brand from the fire. Blood was streaming from both the animal's shoulders.

"It stuck its claws in, senor, but has not made long gashes. I should say that these wounds were caused by the contraction of the claws when you finished her with your pistol. The animal will be all right in a day or two; and as our stores have diminished, we need not put any load on it for a time."

"I hope you were not frightened, Maria?" Bertie said

"I was a little frightened," she said, "when the mule came tumbling down close to me, and I could see the jaguar's eyes within a few yards of me, but I had my dagger ready."

"It would not have been much good," Dias said, "if the beast had attacked you."

"I think you showed no end of pluck," Bertie said. "If he had come close to me, and I had got nothing but that little dagger in my hand, I should have bolted like a shot."

"I am sure that you would not, senor," she said. "You are a great deal too brave for that."

Bertie laughed.

"It is all very well to be brave with a rifle in your hand and another gun ready, to say nothing of the pistols. By the way, I thought Harry had given you one of his?

"So he did, but I had forgotten all about it. If I had thought of it I should have used it."

"It is just as well that you did not," Harry said. "If you had done so, the brute would have made for you instead of turning round to attack us."

"Now, senor," Dias put in, "we had better drag the jaguars away; the mules will never get quiet with the bodies so close to them."

It needed all his strength and that of his companions to drag each of the bodies fifty yards away.

"Now, José," Dias said when they returned, "you had better give the animals a feed of maize all round. They will settle down after that. I shall keep watch to-night, senor. It is not likely that any more of these beasts are in the neighbourhood; but it is as well to be careful, and I don't think any of us would sleep if someone were not on the look-out."

"I will relieve you at two o'clock," Harry said.

"No, senor, I have not been on the watch for the past two nights. I would rather sit up by the fire to-night."

Two days later they arrived at the foot of the pass. Just as they gained it they met two muleteers coming down it. Dias entered into conversation with them, while the others erected tents, preparing to camp.

"What is the news, Dias?" Harry asked as he returned.

"The men say, senor, that the pass is very unsafe. Many robberies have taken place in it, and several men, who endeavoured to defend themselves against the brigands, have been killed. They were questioned by four armed men as they came down, and the goods they were carrying down to Ayapata were taken from them. They say that traffic has almost ceased on the road."

"That is bad, Dias."

"Very bad, senor. We need not be afraid of brigands if they meet us as we travel along the foot of the hills, but it would be another thing in the passes. There are many places where the mules would have to go in single file, and if we were caught in such a spot by men on the heights, we might be shot down without any chance of defending ourselves successfully."

"That is awkward, Dias. It is a scandal that these brigands are not rooted out."

"People are thinking too much of fighting each other or their neighbours to care anything about the complaints of a few muleteers, senor."

"Is there no other way of crossing the mountains than by this pass?"

"There is a pass, senor, between Ayapata and Crucero, but it is a very bad one."

"And where should we be then, Dias?"

"Well, senor, it would take us along the other side of the mountains to Macari. From that place there is an easy path to La Raya; there we are on the plateau again, and have only to travel by the road through Sicuani to Cuzco."

"In fact, it would double the length of our journey to Cuzco?"

"Yes, senor; but if you liked, from Crucero you might go down to Lake Titicaca. There are certainly good mines in the mountains there."

"Yes, but is there any chance of our finding them?"

"I can't say that, senor, but I fear that the chance would be very small."

"Then it is of no use trying, Dias. We saw at the last place what pains the old people took to hide places where gold could be found, and if there had been rich mines among these mountains you speak of, no doubt they would have hidden them just as carefully. The question is, shall we go up this pass as we intended, and take our chance, or shall we go by this roundabout way?"

By this time José had lit a fire, and they had seated themselves by it.

"One hates turning back, but we are not pressed for time. As far as I can see, my only chance is the feeble one of finding treasure in the place you spoke of up the coast above Callao. It is now four months since we left Lima. Travelling straight to that place would take us how long?"

"Well, senor, if we go round by Ayapata to Crucero, and then to Macari, it would be nearly a thousand miles."

"Quite a thousand, I should think. That is three months' steady work. By the time we get there it will be about a year from the time we left England. I have seen quite enough of the mountains to know that our chance of finding anything among them is so small that it is not worth thinking of. It seems to me, therefore, Dias, that we might just as well, instead of going south over these difficult passes, return by the foot of the mountains as we have come, going through Paucartambo, crossing the rivers that flow north and fall somewhere or other into the Amazon, and keeping along it till we come to Cerro de Pasco. There we should be nearly in a line with this place you know of, and can keep due west -- that is to say, as nearly due west as the mountains will allow. It would be three or four hundred miles shorter than by taking the pass at Ayapata. We should have a good deal of sport by the way, and should certainly have no trouble with the brigands till we got to Cerro. Of course it is possible that we might fall in with savages again, but at any rate they are not so formidable as brigands in the passes. What do you say to that?"

"It is certainly shorter, senor; and, as you say, we should have no trouble with the brigands, and we should also escape the troubles that have been going on for some years, and are likely, as far as anyone can see, to go on for ever. We were very fortunate in not meeting any of the armies that are always marching about."



Chapter XI

Brigands


Three months were spent in the journey to the foot of the pass leading up to Cerro. They had good shooting, and found no difficulty in providing themselves with food. Fish were plentiful in the streams, and in some of the long-deserted plantations they found bananas, grapes, and other fruits in abundance, together with sugar-canes, tomatoes, maize growing wild, and potatoes which were reverting to the wild type. They met neither with alligators nor large serpents, for they kept on the lower slopes of the foot-hills, as much as possible avoiding the low forest lands, where they might come in contact with the savages. For the same reason, they had no opportunity of taking any of the great fish found in the sluggish rivers, but had an abundance of smaller fish in the bright mountain streams. They killed two tapirs and several pumas and jaguars. Their two llamas, having one night wandered away from the mules, were killed by these beasts. But as the stores were a good deal lighter than when they started, this was no great misfortune. Occasionally they followed streams up into the hills, and did a little washing for gold when they halted for a day or two there.

"We have had a good time of it," Harry said as they sat round the fire, "and I am almost sorry that it is over, and that this is our last day of wandering where we like, shooting and fishing, and above all, camping in pleasant places. We have been very fortunate in not meeting any of the savages since the fight we had with them four or five months ago. It is a splendid country for sport, and except that we should like it a bit cooler, and could have done without some of the thunder-storms, it is a grand life. For a time now we are going back to a sort of civilization, filthy inns, swarms of fleas, and fifteenth-rate cooking."

"It is not so much the fault of the cooking," Maria said, "as of the meat. Here we get fish fresh out of the stream, and birds shot an hour or two before they are eaten. We pick our fruit from the trees, instead of buying it after it has been carried miles and miles to the market. We have a capital stock of coffee, tea, and sugar. Among the old plantations we pick cocoa and pound it fresh, and boil it. As we brought plenty of pepper and spices, it would be hard indeed if one could not turn out a good meal. And then, senors, you always come to eat it with a good appetite, which is all in favour of the cook."

"Yes, I grant that you have had all those advantages, Maria, but it is not everybody who makes the best of them. I can safely say that since we started we have never sat down to a bad breakfast or dinner. Now, for a bit, we are going to lead a different sort of life. We shall be on beaten tracks. We shall meet lots of people. It is strange to think that, except for those peasant muleteers we met at the foot of the pass by the Tinta volcano, we have not seen a soul except the savages -- who have souls, I suppose -- since we left Paucartambo more than six months ago; and yet somehow we do not seem to have missed them. I wonder what we shall find when we get up to Cerro, and who will be president then."

"I wonder what they are doing in Europe!" Bertie said. "We have heard no later news than what we had when we went on board a ship sixteen months ago. There may have been great wars all over Europe."

"I don't think there is much chance of that, Bertie. India was the only place where there was any fighting going on, and it seemed as if, since Napoleon was crushed, Europe would become permanently pacific. Still, I do hope that when we are at Lima we shall get hold of a pile of English newspapers. The consul is sure to have them."

"I don't suppose we shall want to stay there many days, Harry, for we shall be eager to start the search for the enchanted castle Dias has told us of. We saw quite enough of Lima during the ten days that we were there."

"Is the pass a bad one up to Cerro, Dias?"

"There are some very bad points, senor. It never was a good one, but as nothing has been done to the roads for at least a hundred years, it must have got into a very bad state. I have been down it twice with travellers, the second time ten years ago, and it was bad enough then. It is likely to be worse now."

"Well, as the road is used so little, Dias," Harry said, "there is no fear of brigands."

"I hope not, senor; but there may be some, though they would not be there in the hope of plundering travellers. But desperate men are always to be found in the mountains -- men who have committed murders and fled from justice. They are able to live on what they can shoot, and of course they can get fish in the streams, and when they are tired of that can come down here, where they will find plenty of turkeys, and pheasants, and other game, besides the maize, and fruits, and other things in the old plantations. Sometimes they will take a little plunder from the small villages. Anyhow, they do not fare altogether badly. Therefore one can never feel certain that one is safe from them, even when travelling over tracks where travellers seldom pass. Still, we may very well hope that we shall not have the bad luck to fall in with them."

"I hope so, Dias. We did not come out here to fight. So far we have been very fortunate, and have not had to fire a shot, except at those wretched savages."

The next day's journey took them far up into the hills, and they camped that night at the upper end of a deep ravine. It had been a hard day's work, for at several points the mules had to be unloaded and taken up singly, and the loads then carried up. Fortunately, the packs were now very light, and were carried or hauled up without much difficulty.

In the morning they again started. They were just issuing from the ravine when a party of ten armed men made their appearance from amongst some rocks, and shouted to them to halt. Dias rode in front.

"You speak to them, Dias. Keep them for a minute in talk if you can, and then take shelter behind that boulder."

Then Harry ran back to José, who was walking with a leading mule twenty paces behind.

"Turn them back again, José. Halt a little way down, and then come up; there are some brigands ahead. Bertie, bring up your rifle and the two shot-guns. Tell Maria to remain with the mules."

Then he ran back again just as a shot rang out, and, dodging among the fallen rocks, he took shelter behind one abreast with Dias. "Was it you who fired?" he asked.

"No, one of the brigands. The ball went through the brim of my sombrero. I think they are talking to each other, they know there is no hurry."

"Hail them again, Dias, but don't show yourself above the rock."

"What do you want? Why did you fire at me?"

"We want everything you have got," a voice came back -- "your mules and their burdens, and your arms. If you will give them up without resistance, we will let you up the pass without hindering you."

"Tell them that you must talk it over with the others, Dias."

"Well, we will give you five minutes," the man called back. "If you do not accept our terms, we will cut your throats."

Dias stood up, and walked quietly down the rugged pass. At the point where the mules stopped, the rock rose almost perpendicularly on each side.

"Maria," he said, "do you and José take off the saddles and bags and fill up the spaces between these rocks on each side. Get the animals in behind them. You stop with them, Maria. I have got five minutes, and will help you."

"You had better go up at once, senor," he went on to Bertie, "and help your brother, so that they may not get sight of you. However, I am afraid they know how many we are. It was foolish to light that fire yesterday evening, I expect they were somewhere near and caught sight of us, and no doubt one of them crept quietly down to find out what our force was. Seeing there were but four of us, they thought they could take us all easily here in the morning without firing a shot. But as your brother and I happened to be going on first, they thought they would parley. They would be sure that if they attacked us, we should kill two or three of them at least before we had finished with them. And as they reckoned that we should gladly accept their terms, they would get all they wanted without trouble, and could shoot us afterwards if they felt inclined."

Bertie had by this time got the guns unstrapped, and had filled his pockets with cartridges. He now went forward, and as he kept among the rocks he was able to get within four or five yards of his brother without being seen, as the mouth of the pass was almost blocked with great boulders.

"I cannot get any nearer without running the risk of being seen. I have loaded the double-barrelled guns."

"Stay where you are then, Bertie. I don't think they will make a rush, and if they do, you can use them as well as your rifle. Of course I have my pistols and you have yours. I don't believe they will venture to attack in daylight, our trouble will be after dark."

"Now, then, the five minutes are up!" the brigand shouted.

"I am coming!" Dias shouted back.

As he approached, Harry said: "Stand by the side of a rock, Dias, so as to be able to shelter as soon as you have given them the answer; they are likely enough to fire a volley."

"We will give you nothing," Dias shouted. "Anything you want you had better come and take."

Three men raised their heads above the rocks and fired. Almost at the same instant Harry's rifle and Bertie's cracked out, the heads disappeared, and a fierce yell of rage showed that one, if not both of the shots had found their mark.

"You had better clear off," Harry shouted. "There are four of us, and we have eight barrels between us, to say nothing of two brace of pistols."

A volley of curses was hurled back in reply.

"Now, Dias, what do you think is our best move?"

"I don't know, senor. I fancy there are only eight of them now. You and your brother could hardly miss marks like their heads at thirty paces." "If I were quite sure that there are no more of them I should say that, as soon as it becomes dark, we had better creep forward and fight them. It would be better to do that than wait for them to attack us. But there may be, and very likely are, more of these bands among the hills. Besides, Dias, we don't want to lose one of our number, and we could hardly hope to get through unscathed, for if we were to try to push on they would have us at a tremendous advantage. They would hide among the rocks and shoot us down before we had time to level a gun at them. Now that we have killed one, if not two of their number, they will certainly try to get their revenge, and will harass us all the way up the pass."

"It is not only that, senor; it is the booty they expect to take."

"They could not expect much booty," Harry said, "for our baggage animals only carry small loads."

"Gold does not take up a large bulk, senor; and I have not the least doubt that they believe we have been gold-hunting, and have probably a big amount of gold dust among the baggage."

"I did not think of that, Dias. If they believe we have gold we will take it as granted that they will do their best to get it. Well, do you think it would be a good thing to make a rush?"

"No, senor, it would be throwing away our lives. They will guess that we shall probably attempt such a thing, and I have no doubt that they will move away, if they haven't done so already, and hide themselves among other rocks. Then if we dashed forward to the place where they had been, they would pour a volley into us and finish us at once; for if they were lying twenty yards away they ought certainly to hit every one of us, as they have eight shots to fire. At present I have no doubt they are talking, and I think we can safely get back to where we piled up the saddles and bales. We can defend ourselves better there than here. We can then talk matters over quietly."

"That will be the best plan, Dias, certainly."

Keeping under cover as well as they could they retired to the barricade, thirty yards lower. José, aided by Maria, had completed the defence. They had not, however, attempted to block the passage between two great rocks. It was but three feet wide; the rocks lay about six feet from the cliffs on either side, and these spaces were partly filled by smaller fragments. Wherever there were open spaces the blankets had been thrust in from behind. Dias had done the greater part of the work before he went up to answer the demands of the bandits, but the others had laboured very hard to finish it.

"Well done!" Harry said as they passed through the entrance.

"I told them not to close the path," Dias said. "We can do that now we are all together. Most of the rocks are too heavy for José and Maria to lift. Shall we build it up now, senor? I am sure they cannot force their way through while we four are holding the barricade."

"Certainly not, Dias, and I have no fear of their attempting it. But I think it would be as well for us to close it, otherwise we could not cross from one side to the other without exposing ourselves."

It took them two hours' hard work -- the harder because the stones had to be thrown into the passage from the sides, as the brigands might be crouching among the rocks higher up waiting for an opportunity to get a shot. At the end of the two hours the gap was filled up to the height of six feet.

"Now we can talk matters over quietly, Dias," Harry said. "We may take it that, whether they attack by day or by night, we can beat them off. There is a little rill of water that trickles down along the centre, so we need not fear being driven out by thirst, and we have food enough to last us a fortnight. That is settled; but they may stay there for any time, and without exposing ourselves to sudden death we cannot find out whether they are still hanging about or not. Of course one very important question is, are they going to be joined by others?"

"I think they certainly will be, senor. As many of these fellows are hiding among the hills as would make a good-sized regiment, and they have only to send off two or three of their number with the news that a party of gold-diggers with five laden mules are shut up in this ravine to gather any number of them. They would come as quickly as vultures to a dead horse. It must be a long time since they had any really valuable plunder, and the fact that we have five baggage mules besides the three riding ones would show that we had probably been a very long time away, and might therefore possess a lot of gold."

"Are there any other passes near?"

"The nearest, senor, is on the other branch of the Palcazu -- the river we followed till we entered the passes -- and is about thirty miles to the north. The pass starts from a spot about fifteen miles above the junction, and goes up to Huaca, a place that is little more than ten miles south of Huanuco. From Huaca we could either follow the road to Cerro, or strike across the Western Cordilleras to Aguamiro."

"Then I think, Dias, that our best plan will be to go down again into the valley we left yesterday morning, and then strike across for the mouth of this pass you speak of. You know the direction?"

"I know the general direction, although I have never been along there."

"Well, Dias, you must be the guide. I should say the sooner we start the better. My idea is this: If you with your wife and José will start at once, so as to be down the pass before it gets dark, my brother and I will remain here. You will leave our riding mules at the point where the track is good enough for us to gallop on."

"We should not like to leave you, senor," Maria said.

"I have not the least fear of their attacking us, and with our rifles and double-barrelled guns and pistols we could beat them off if they did. I can't see any better way of getting out of this scrape, and am quite willing to adopt this plan."

"I don't see any other way, senor," Dias said. "The plan is a good one; but I wish I could stay here with you."

"But that would be impossible, Dias, for there would be no chance of our finding the mouth of this pass by ourselves."

"Why could we not all go together?" Maria asked.

"Because if there were no one here the brigands might discover that we had gone, within an hour or so of our starting. They might fire a shot or two, and, finding that we did not answer, crawl gradually down till they got here, for it must seem possible to them that we should return down the pass; and as there is no getting the baggage mules to go fast, we might very well be overtaken -- I don't mean by those eight men, but by a considerable number."

"But how are you to find your way, senor?" Dias said.

"We shall follow the valley down till we come to the spot where you have struck off. You can fasten a white handkerchief to a stick and put it in some bare place where we are sure to see it. I want you to halt when you get to the river somewhere opposite the mouth of the pass. We will ride nearly due north, and when we strike the river will follow it down till we reach you."

"We can't halt opposite the mouth of the pass, for the river there is already some size, and we could not cross it. I shall keep along near the foot of the hills -- the water there is shallow enough to ford. Then I will follow it down until, as you say, near the entrance to the pass, and there stop on the bank till you come."

"That will do very well. In that case it won't matter much where we strike the stream, as our mules can swim across easily enough -- they have had plenty of practice during the past six months. However, we will turn off north where we can see your signal."

"When will you leave, senor?"

"To-morrow morning. I have no fear of their attacking during the night, for they can hardly bring other bands down here before morning. As soon as it gets dark we will light two torches and put them down at the foot of the barricade, so that we shall be in the shadow. These will show them that we are still here, and they won't care to venture down into the circle of light. We have let them know what a formidable amount of firearms we have, and have given them a lesson that we can shoot straight."

"They certainly would not come, senor, as long as your torches are burning, but three hours are as much as you can reckon upon their burning."

"Well, we have a dozen left now, Dias, and when they burn out we must light two more and throw them over and trust to their burning as they lie among the stones. Of course we should not think of going down to stick them upright, for the scoundrels will probably be watching us as closely as we are watching them. However, I shall manage to keep the lights going till daybreak, and shall start a good hour before that. We shall have to go down cautiously, and I should like to be well away with the mules before they discover that we have left. Now, the sooner you are off the better. Breakfast has been ready for the past hour. You had better eat it and get under weigh as soon as you can. After you have gone one of us will keep watch while the other eats. I have no doubt there will be plenty left for our supper."

"Yes, senor, and enough cakes to carry you on till you join us."

Half an hour later the party started, Dias having muffled the mules' hoofs, so that the clatter, as they passed over the rocks, might not be heard above.

"Now, Bertie, you go down to breakfast. When you have done come up and relieve me. You have no occasion to hurry, for it is absolutely certain that they won't dare to attack till they get reinforcements."

When Bertie returned he said, "Here is a lot of food, Harry, they have hardly eaten anything. There is plenty for us to-day and to-morrow."

"That is just like them, Bertie; but I daresay they will camp in five or six hours. It feels quite lonely without them."

"That it does. It is really the first time we have been alone since we left Lima, except, of course, when we were out shooting together."

"Be sure you don't show your head above the barricade, Bertie. You must do as I have been doing, sit down here and look out through this peep-hole between these rocks Shove your rifle through it, so that, if you see a head looking out from between the rocks up there, you can fire at once."

In half an hour Harry came back and sat down by his brother, and, lighting their pipes, they chatted over the events of their journey and the prospect before them.

"I am afraid, Harry, the journey will be a failure, except that we have had a very jolly time."

"Well, so far it has not turned out much; but, somehow or other, I have great faith in this haunted castle. Of course the demons Dias is so afraid of are probably Indians, who are placed there to frighten intruders away, and they would not keep watch unless they had something to guard. I cannot understand how it has escaped the notice of the Spaniards all these years. I had not much faith in their stories until we found how true they were in all particulars as to what they call the golden river. There is one satisfaction, however: if the place is really a castle, it can hardly have disappeared under the lake. Of course if it is in ruins we may have a lot of difficulty in getting at the vaults, or wherever else treasure may have been buried; but unless it is a very big place, which is hardly probable, the work would be nothing compared with the draining of the lake."

"We have got nearly a year in hand, Harry, and can do a lot of work in that time, especially if we use powder."

"Yes; but, you see, we ought to allow at least five months for getting home. Still, no doubt if I felt justified in writing to ask for another three or four months, saying I had great hopes of finding something very good in a short time, she would stand out against her father a little longer. I shall write directly we get to Lima to say that, although I have so far failed, I do not give up hope, and am just starting on another enterprise that promises well." Bertie held up his finger. "I think I heard somebody move. It sounded like a stone being turned over." For two or three minutes he lay motionless, with his finger on the trigger. Then he fired.

"What was it, Bertie?"

"It was a man's leg. I suddenly saw it below that rift behind the rock. I expect he had no idea that his foot showed there. I am pretty sure I hit it, for I had time to take a steady aim, and the foot disappeared the instant I fired. If he did not know it was exposed, there was no reason why he should have moved at all if he hadn't been hit."

"It was better to hit his foot than his head, Bertie. It is equally good as a lesson, if not better, for though we don't mean to let them kill us, I don't want to take life unless it is absolutely necessary. Well, after that proof of the sharpness of our watch they are not likely to make any fresh move."

The day passed slowly. They took it by turns to keep watch, and just before dusk Harry said, "I think, Bertie, that we might pull out the leaves and bush that Dias shoved into one of these gaps when he took the blankets and things out. I could push the torch through and fix it there, that would save having to cross the barricade. It is quite possible that one of those fellows may be keeping as sharp a look-out as we are doing, and it is as well not to set one's self up as a mark. If I put it through now it won't show much, while if I wait till darkness falls it will be an easy object to fire at. You keep a sharp lookout while I am doing this, and if you see either a head or a gun try to hit it."

Harry accomplished the operation without drawing a shot, and as soon as he had fixed the torch he again stopped the hole up behind it.

"It is evident that they are not watching us very closely," he said. "If they have not sent for help, they have gone off. With two of their men killed and two disabled, the fight must have been taken out of them. We will watch by turns to-night. It is six o'clock now; will you sit up till eleven, or shall I?"

"I don't care a bit. Which would you rather take?"

"I don't care; -- however, I may as well take the first watch. We will start at five, so rouse me at four. If they come at all, which is possible, but not probable, it will be between four and five."

At ten o'clock Harry could see a glow of light at some distance from the mouth of the ravine, and in the stillness could occasionally catch the sound of voices. When he woke Bertie at twelve the lad looked at his watch and said, "You are an hour late in calling me, Harry."

"Yes, I had no inclination for sleep. The fellows have been reinforced. Of course I don't know to what extent, but I should say pretty strongly. They have lit a big fire some distance from the ravine. They would not have dared to light one if they had not felt themselves strong enough to fight us. No doubt they have half a dozen men on watch where we first saw them, and these would give notice if we were coming. I think we may as well fire a couple of shots, it will show them that we are here and on guard. They will suppose we thought we heard someone coming down to reconnoitre our position."

They both fired over the top of the barricade.

"I see you have renewed the torch, Harry," Bertie said as they reloaded.

"Yes, I have done so twice. I was very careful, however, as I feared they might be watching. I did not wait for the lighted one to burn out, but passed the other one out, putting the end of my poncho round my hand and arm, so that they could hardly be noticed even by anyone within ten yards, and certainly could not be seen from up there. As I pushed it through I lighted it at the stump of the old torch and then withdrew my hand like a shot. I did the same thing again an hour ago with equal success, so it is evident that they are not keeping a very sharp look-out above, and have no fear of our making a sortie, hampered as we are by our animals."

The torch was changed again at four o'clock, and a little later Bertie heard a slight noise.

"I think they are coming, Harry," he said quietly.

Harry was at once on his feet. "Use your rifle first, Bertie, and sling it over your shoulder before you give them the two barrels of buck-shot, so that you can start to run at once if we don't stop them."

"Yes, I am certain they are coming," he said, after listening for two or three minutes. "We have got two or three torches left, and I will give them the benefit of them."

He went back to the embers of the fire, lighted the torches, and, returning to the barrier, threw them twenty or thirty yards up the ravine. There was a hoarse shout of anger, and then a dozen shots were fired. Bertie's rifle cracked out in return, and Harry's followed almost immediately. A dark group of some twenty or thirty men were rushing forward, and had just reached the line where the torches were burning, when four barrels of buck-shot were poured into them. Three or four fell, the rest fled at once, and the cries and oaths showed that many of them were wounded.

"They won't venture again for the present," Harry said. "You may be sure they will hold a council of war, so load again and then we will be off."

Two minutes later they were making their way carefully down the rocky passage, Harry carrying the bundle they had made up of the unconsumed provisions. As they had to exercise great care in climbing over the rocks, the day was just breaking when they came upon two mules that had been left behind for them. They rode cautiously until they were quite out of the ravine, and then started down the valley at a gallop. In an hour Bertie exclaimed, "There is the flag!" They rode to it and then turned off to the north, slackening their pace to a trot. The animals were in good condition, as they had of late been making short marches, and at eleven o'clock they came upon the river. Here they waited for an hour, gave a couple of cakes to each animal, and ate the rest themselves. The river was some fifty yards across, but the mules only needed to swim about half this distance. The brothers kept beside them, placing one elbow on the saddles and holding their rifles and ammunition well above the water. They were soon across, and, mounting, followed the river down, letting the animals go their own pace, and sometimes walking beside them, as they wished to keep them fresh for the next day's work. At five in the afternoon they saw smoke ahead of them, and, riding faster now, soon joined their companions, who hailed their arrival with shouts of joy.

"We have been terribly anxious about you, senors," Dias said, "and regretted deeply that we deserted you."

"It was not desertion, Dias; you were obeying orders, and were on duty guarding the baggage. There was really no cause for uneasiness; we were certain that we could beat them off if they ventured to attack us."

"And did they do so?"

"They made a feeble attack this morning at four o'clock, but we were ready for them. They might have carried the barricade had we only had our rifles, but buck-shot was too much for them. Of course we brought down two with our rifles; but there must have been over a score of them, and the four barrels of buck-shot did heavy execution. Some of them fell, and I fancy most of the others got a dose of shot, as they were all in a close body. I will tell you all about it after we have had supper."

"I have got it ready," Maria said. "We have been expecting you for the past hour, and I was sure you would have good appetites when you arrived."

After the story had been told Dias said: "That was a capital plan of keeping the torches burning all night, and especially of throwing two of them up the ravine when you heard the fellows coming. Of course they calculated on getting within fifteen yards or so before you saw them. Well, there is no fear of our hearing any more of them. I expect you must have been gone hours before they found out that you had left."

"I should not be surprised if, after they had recovered from their defeat, half of them made a big circuit over the hills -- no doubt they know every foot of them -- and, coming down at the bottom of the ravine, built a strong barricade, making up their minds to guard both ends until we were obliged to surrender from want of food. Having suffered so heavily, they would do everything in their power to prevent any of us from getting out alive."

"In that case they must have been prepared to wait for some time, Dias, for they knew we had eight animals to eat."

"They would not have lasted long, senor, for we have only a few handfuls of grain left, and there is not enough forage in the ravine to last them a couple of days."

"I expect they would have tried to get us to surrender, by offering to let us pass if we would give them half of the gold they thought we had with us. There is no chance of our being followed, I suppose, Dias?"

"Not the slightest. When at last they discover that we have gone, they will come down the pass and find where the mules were left standing. They will then see that only two of us had remained at the barricade, and will guess at once that the rest left hours before. They will therefore conclude that, being on foot, they have no chance of overtaking us, even if they could find the track."

"No, I expect by this time they are dancing with rage, and as likely as not quarrelling furiously among themselves. How far do you think we have ridden to-day?"

"Nearer sixty miles than fifty, senor."

"Yes, I suppose we have. And if we had come straight here?"

"It would have been nearly fifteen miles shorter. But if they pursued they would not come that way, because they would not be able to get across. I think they would have to go round and ford the river some miles higher than you did. They could never swim across with their guns and ammunition to carry."

"I should not count on that, Dias. They might come straight here, as they would guess that we had made for this pass, and they might make bundles of reeds to carry their guns and ammunition across, and swim over."

"That would be possible," Dias admitted reluctantly, "and if they knew that the five mules were all loaded with gold they might be tempted to follow; but that they could only guess. I have no doubt, too, that many of them had been walking for hours across the mountains before the attack, and as you fired into the thick of them, a fair share must have been too much wounded to start on a forty-miles' tramp.

"No, senor. I do not think there is any chance whatever of their pursuing us. Besides, I chose a spot where the ground was hard and rocky to plant that flag. And they would have a good deal of difficulty in ascertaining in what direction we went from there."

"We pulled up the flag-staff and threw it away among the bushes a mile and a half farther, and of course brought the handkerchief with us."

"I don't think we need give another thought to them, senor. At the same time, it would be as well to keep one on watch all night. José and I will be on guard by turns. Neither of you slept a wink last night, so you must not keep watch this time."

"I sha'n't be sorry for a good sleep, for the meal we have eaten has made me drowsy. However, if you hear the least noise, wake us at once."

"That I will do, senor. It is a great deal more likely to be made by a wild beast than by a brigand."

The brothers were sound asleep in a few minutes, and did not wake till Dias called them, and said that Maria had coffee ready.

"What sort of a pass is it to-day, Dias?"

"Not a very bad one, senor. The one we tried yesterday hadn't been used for very many years, there is regular traffic up and down this; not valuable traffic, for Pozuco is a small place. They send up fruit and dried fish, and the oil they get from the fish; and bring back cloth, and such things as are required in the village."

"So there is nothing to tempt brigands to infest the pass and rob travellers!"

"No, senor. When I last went through it I heard no talk of them at all. They are more likely to infest the hills beyond Cerro, for near that place really valuable captures can be made."

"That accounts for their being able to gather so many men to attack us."

The journey up the pass occupied two days. They met three or four small parties of men with donkeys or mules, but all these when questioned said that the pass was perfectly open, and that it was a very rare thing indeed for anyone to be robbed on the way. Late in the evening of the second day they arrived at Huaca, and were advised to go to the priest's house, as the accommodation at the inn was so bad. The man who directed them there was the head man of the place, and they gladly accepted his offer to guide them to the priest's house.

"It would be the best way, senor," Dias said. "I know a man here who would willingly put us up, and who has a yard where the mules could pass the night."

"Very well, Dias. Be sure you buy a good stock of grain. They have scarce had any for the last three days."

The priest -- a cheery, hearty man -- received Harry and Bertie cordially when they were introduced as English travellers, especially when he found that they could both speak Spanish fluently.

"It is a pleasure to receive British travellers," he said. "Cochrane and Miller have done more for us than any of our own countrymen. It is not often that travellers come this way. I have heard of two or three going to Cuzco, but they never come farther north than Cerro. I shall be delighted if you will stay two or three days here, senors. We get so little news of the world that it would be a great pleasure to us to hear what is going on outside this unfortunate country."

"We can give you but little news, for it is more than a year since we left England, and we have heard nothing of what is doing in Europe, as we have been travelling and shooting at the foot of the mountains between the bottom of this pass and Tinta volcano."

"And gold seeking?" the priest asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"We have occasionally washed the sands in the streams, but have not found enough to repay our work. The amount we have gathered is only about twenty ounces."

"Well, gentlemen, I shall be delighted to have you as my guests as long as you are willing to stay."

"We are greatly obliged to you," Harry said, "and will gladly be your guests. To-morrow the animals need a rest, and we shall enjoy one too. Next morning we must be going on, as we have been away longer than we ought, and want to get down to Lima quickly."

They had great difficulty in getting away from Huaca, where the good priest made them extremely comfortable, and was very loath to let them go. However, at dawn on the second day they started for Cerro, and arrived there forty-eight hours later after a rough journey through the Mils.

"We never know in Peru, when we go to bed, who will be president when we wake," Dias said that evening. "There have been a dozen of them in the past five years. Lamar, Gamarra, La Fuente, Orbegozo, Bermudes, and Salaverry succeeded one another; then Santa Cruz became master. Nieto had the upper hand for a bit, and at that time there was no travelling on the roads, they were so infested by robbers; one band was master of Lima for some time. Then the Chilians occupied Lima; Santa Cruz was defeated, and Gamarra came in again. None of these men was ever supreme over the whole country. Generals mutinied with the troops under them, other leaders sprang up, and altogether there has been trouble and civil war ever since the Spaniards left. That is why the country is so full of robbers. When an army was defeated, those who escaped took to the hills and lived by plunder until some other chief revolted, then they would go down and join him; and so it has gone on."

"Who composed those armies? because the fields seem to have been well cultivated, and the peasants are quiet enough."

"Yes, senor, for the most part they take no part in these affairs. The men who compose the armies were in the first place the remains of those who fought against the Spaniards. When the Spaniards left the country these men had nothing to do, and were ready to enlist under anyone who raised a flag and promised them pay. Of bourse there are many men in the towns who are too lazy to work, and who help to keep up the supply of armed men. The good God only knows when these things will come to an end. A few of those who have come into power really loved their country, and hoped to establish order and do away with all the abuses caused by the men who were appointed to offices by one or another of those tyrants; but most of them were ambitious soldiers, who led mutineers against the chief of the moment. If Heaven would but destroy or strike with blindness the soldiers -- and above all, every official in Peru -- the country might hope for peace and good government. The best man who has ever fought out here since Lord Cochrane left the place was General Miller, your countryman, who was splendidly brave. He was always true to his word, never allowed his soldiers to plunder, and never ill-treated those captured in battle. Ah! they should have made him president, but it would never have done. As the Chilians were jealous of Lord Cochrane, the Peruvians were jealous of Miller, first because he was a foreigner, secondly because his uprightness and fidelity were a reproach to their ambition and treachery, their greed, and their cruelty. Besides, he understood them too well, and if all Peru had asked him to be president, he knew well enough that conspiracies against him would begin the next morning. Ah, he was a great man!

"Well, senor, I think that before we start it will be well that I at least should go on to Ayapata and find out what is doing. That would only delay us two days, and we might be better able to judge as to which route to take. They may be fighting in the north, and we do not want to get mixed up in any way in their quarrels."

"I think that would be a very good plan, Dias. You start in the morning, and we will stay quietly here till you come back with the news. If many brigands are in the pass they might get to hear of us from someone going over from this side, and take it into their heads to come down. I would certainly rather not have to fight with you away."

Accordingly next morning Dias went on ahead. On the following evening he rejoined them.

"There is fresh trouble in the south, senor. Colonel Vivancohidas has declared himself Regenerator of Peru, and is now marching against Gamarra, and General Castilla is advancing against him. The fighting will be somewhere near Arequipa. Whichever wins will presently cross the mountains and make for Cuzco."

"Then that settles it, Dias. Certainly I have heard nothing in Gamarra's favour, but a great deal against him, since I landed, and I care nothing about either side; but I hope the new man will win, because I think that any change from Gamarra will be an improvement."



Chapter XII

Prisoners


When they arrived at Cerro de Pasco they found that the division of Gamarra's army stationed in the district had mutinied and had declared for Vivancohidas, and were killing all those known as adherents of Gamarra. All traffic was at a stand-still. Numbers of the soldiers who did not choose to join in the mutiny had taken to the hills, and were pillaging convoys and peaceful travellers alike.

"I think, senor," Dias said, "that instead of crossing the Cordilleras to the west, as we had intended, it will be better for us to go south, skirt the lake of Junin, and make for Oroya. That is the route generally taken, for the passes west are terribly difficult. I have traversed this route many times, and when going with merchandise I always go through Oroya, though in returning from Cerro I take the shorter route."

"Very well, Dias, you are the best judge of that. It is a great nuisance that this rising should have taken place just as we want to traverse the country, but it can't be helped. I will go to the head-quarters of Quinda -- he is established at the mayor's house here -- and get a pass from him.

"It would be well, perhaps, if you were to go with me, Dias, to confirm my statement that we have been shooting and hunting. I hope he will give us a pass, so that we shall not be interfered with by his men gathered at different points on the road to Oroya. I hear that a considerable portion of his force have already marched forward."

The Peruvian colonel questioned Harry closely as to his motives for travelling there.

"I suppose," he said, "you have been searching for gold. We are sorely in need of funds, and I shall feel myself obliged to borrow any gold that you may have collected for the use of my army, giving you an order on the treasury at Lima, which will, of course, be honoured as soon as the authority of President Vivancohidas is established."

"I do not doubt the goodness of the security," Harry said quietly, "although possibly I might have to wait some time before the order was cashed; but while hunting I have not come upon any treasure. We have occasionally, when halting at streams, amused ourselves by doing a little gold-washing, but when I tell you that during the eight months since we started from Cuzco we have only collected about twenty ounces of gold, you may well suppose that no good fortune has attended us."

"Is that all, senor?"

"I give you my word of honour that is all, senor; and as I shall have to lay in a store of provisions and so on for my journey down to Lima, you may well imagine that it would be a serious inconvenience to me to part with it."

"Quite so, senor; so small a sum as that would not go far among the four thousand men under my command. However, I shall have pleasure in giving you the pass that you ask. You have had good sport, I hope?"

"As good as I expected. We kept ourselves in food, and have seen a splendid country, which I hope some time will again be cultivated, and add to the wealth of your country."

After a further exchange of compliments Harry returned to the inn where they had put up.

Next morning, after purchasing some coffee and other stores that were needed, they set out.

"Now we are all right, Dias," Harry said as they started.

"I hope so, senor; but from what I heard yesterday evening several strong bands of disaffected soldiers are in the hills between this and Oroya. Quinda's troops have by no means all joined him, and several companies that broke off have stationed themselves in the hills along this road. They have stopped and robbed more than one mule train with silver from the mines there. They have not meddled, as far as I hear, with Quinda's troops, but have simply seized the opportunity of perpetrating brigandage on a large scale."

"Well, we must take our chance, Dias. Fortunately we have money enough at Lima to replace the animals. We have pretty well finished all our stores, and beyond the tents and the bedding, which would be a matter of a hundred dollars, there is nothing worth thinking of; still, certainly I do not want to lose it. I hope we sha'n't fall in with any of those scoundrels."

"I hope not, senor. Perhaps we had better put our gold dust and money in José's boots. They are less likely to examine him than they are us.

"You had better put half in his boots, and give the other half to my wife to hide about her clothes. We shall want some money, if we are robbed, to take us down to Lima. With the gold dust we could get a couple of mules and enough provisions to take us down there. We should be in a very awkward position if we found ourselves penniless."

They stopped for the night at a little village close to the lake. There was but one small room at the inn, but at the other end of the straggling village there was a yard where the mules could stand, and a loft where Dias, Maria, and José could sleep.

Harry and his brother had lain down but an hour on their blankets when there was a shouting in the street, and two or three shots were fired. They leapt up.

"We had better hide our rifles and pistols," Harry said, "under that ragged bed that we did not care about sleeping on. We may possibly get them again even if we are robbed of everything else."

A minute later four or five men with a lantern rushed into the room. They were all armed with muskets, and one carried a torch.

"Who are you?" this man asked.

"We are English sportsmen," Harry said. "We have been shooting for some months at the foot of the hills, and are now returning to Lima. There are our guns, you see."

"We will take you before the captain," the man said. "Bring those guns along, Pedro and Juan."

The village was in an uproar. Some fifty men were occupied in searching the houses and in appropriating everything they thought useful. One house had been set on fire, and near this a man in an officer's uniform was standing. He heard the report of Harry's and Bertie's capture.

"English sportsmen, eh! How long have you been shooting?" he asked.

"Eight months."

"Eight months! Then guard them securely, Montes; they are doubtless rich Englishmen, and we shall get a good ransom for them. English senors who come out here to shoot must be men with plenty of money; but likely enough they are not sportsmen, but gold-seekers. However, it matters little."

"I protest against this," Harry said. "Our consul at Lima will demand satisfaction from the government."

The other laughed.

"Government!" he said, "there is no government; and if there were, they would have no power up in the hills."

So saying he turned away.

Plunder that had been collected was brought in and divided among the party, four of the men with muskets keeping guard over the prisoners.

"I don't see anything of Dias and the mules," Bertie said in English.

"No, I have been expecting to see them brought up every minute. Now I am beginning to hope that they have got safely off. I think the fellows began their attack at our end of the village.

"You know how watchful Dias is. Very likely he or José were up, and you may be sure that the moment they heard the uproar they would drive the mules out and be off. You see only two of them are laden, and they could have thrown the things on to their backs and been off at once. He would know that it was useless to wait for us. I expect he would turn them off the road at once and make down towards the lake. If these fellows had caught him and the mules they would certainly have brought them up here before this."

"I hope he got off -- not so much because of the mules, as because I am sure that, if he gets fairly away, he will do what he can to help us."

"I am sure he will, Bertie. We must make the best of it. There is one thing, we have got a good month before us. It will take them all that time to go down to Lima about our ransom and return; and it is hard if we don't give them the slip before that."

A quarter of an hour later the band started with their booty and prisoners for the hills.

"I don't suppose they will go far," Harry said. "Quinda has got his hands full, and will be wanting to start as soon as he can to join Vivancohidas. He won't lose time in hunting the scoundrel who has caught us, so I expect the band make their head-quarters in some village at the foot of the hills."

This turned out to be so. After a march of four hours the band halted in a village in a valley running up into the hills. The prisoners were thrust into an empty hut, and four men with muskets told off as their guard. Next morning the captain of the band came in.

"I shall require a hundred thousand dollars for your ransom," he said.

"We could never pay such a sum," Harry said. "We are not rich men. I am a lieutenant on half-pay in the English navy, and, having nothing to do at home, came out with my brother for a year's sport. I could not pay a tenth of that sum."

"That we shall see," the man said. "If you cannot pay, your government can. You will at once write to your consul at Lima, telling him that if this hundred thousand dollars are not handed over to my messenger within four days of his arrival there, you will both have your throats cut."

"I will write the letter if you wish," Harry replied quietly, "but you won't get the money. If you like to say ten thousand dollars, I dare say the consul will do his best to raise that amount."

"One hundred thousand is the smallest sum," the man said angrily. "He can get it out of the government there. They will not choose to risk having trouble with your country for the sake of such a sum."

"Gamarra is away," Harry said, "and it is pretty certain that he will not have left a hundred thousand dollars in the treasury; and even if he has, you maybe sure that his people there would not give it up, for he wants every penny for his war expenses."

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"So much the worse for you. Write as I told you; here is paper, pen, and ink. Do not write in English. I will come back in a quarter of an hour for it."

"This is awkward, Bertie. It is evident that I must write. As to their paying twenty thousand pounds, the thing is absurd; if he had mentioned two thousand they might have considered the matter. What I hope is that they will not send up anything. I feel certain that we shall be able to get away from here within a month; and if they were to send up one or two thousand pounds, we should probably miss the fellow on the way. In that case we should have to repay the money when we got to Lima, which I certainly should not see my way to do -- anyhow, until I got to England, when I could, of course, sell out some of my stock. There is nothing here that we could use as invisible ink. If there were, I would risk writing a message with it; but even then it is fifty to one against their bringing it to light. Well, here goes!" and he wrote in Spanish the required message.

The robber on his return read it through, turned the paper over to see that nothing was written on the back, and held it up to the light.

"That will do," he said. "Now let me warn you, don't attempt to escape. You won't succeed if you do, and the sentries have orders to shoot you down should you attempt it."

The time passed slowly. The brigand was evidently determined to give them no chance of escaping, and four sentries remained round the hut, one at each corner. In the daytime the prisoners were allowed to sit at the door of the hut, but they were shut up at nightfall. The guards were not allowed to speak to them, and there was therefore no chance of offering them a bribe. On the evening of the fifth day they had, as usual, been shut up, and were chatting over the situation.

"If they continue to guard us like this, Bertie, I really don't see a shadow of a chance of getting away. We calculated on there being one, or perhaps two sentries at the door, and thought we could have cut a hole through that adobe wall at the back and crept out through it; but as there is a guard at each corner, I don't see a chance of it. The fellows are evidently afraid of their captain, and each keeps to his corner, and sits there and smokes and drones out songs, but they never move till they are relieved. Of course we must make the attempt if we see no other way of escaping. But I have still great hope that Dias will somehow or other try to get us out, though how he can do it I don't know."

They observed that the sentries were not changed in any military way. Five minutes before sunset the four men who were to relieve those on guard came sauntering up. The former guard ordered the captives into the hut and bolted the door, and then after a short chat with the others went off, the new sentries having already taken their posts at the corners of the hut. On the fifth evening after their capture they saw approaching a peasant woman sitting on a mule. A man was walking beside her. Behind the woman was a small barrel, and two packs and two small wine-skins hung on each side.

"Harry," Bertie exclaimed, "I believe that is Dias and Maria!"

"It is," Harry said. "Thank God they have found us! Twenty to one they will get us out. What have they got with them, I wonder?"

They stopped in the road opposite the house, which was the end one in the village.

"You are not to come nearer," one of the sentries shouted.

"I am sure I don't want to come nearer," the woman said pertly. "You don't think you are so handsome that I want to get a better sight of your face?"

"What have you got there?" the man asked. "We shall be coming off duty in ten minutes."

"Well, we have got a little of everything," she said. "As pretty sashes as there are in the country, beautiful silk neckerchiefs, silver brooches for your sweethearts, and for those who purchase freely a glass of the best pisco spirit."

"Well, wait, and I dare say we shall lay out a dollar or two."

A minute or two later four other men sauntered up, and began to talk to Maria, who slipped off her mule. The guards, fearful that the best bargains would be sold before they could get forward, hurried the prisoners into the hut and bolted the door. The brothers heard a great deal of talking and arguing, and ten minutes later the sentries came up to their usual post.

"I would not mind betting odds," Bertie said with delight, "that Dias has drugged that spirit."

"I expect so, Bertie. He would be sure that they could not resist it, for it is the best spirit there is in Peru."

For a time the sentries talked, saying that the pedlars' goods were cheap and the spirit as good as any they had ever tasted. "We had great difficulty in getting her to sell us a second glass each; and she was right, for she had not much of it, and it must help her rarely to sell her goods. The husband seemed a surly sort of chap. I wonder such a pretty little woman would marry such a fellow."

"I suppose he was well-to-do and she was poor," another said; "such is generally the case when you see a marriage like that. I dare say he makes a good thing of it; the goods are as cheap, though, as they would be in Lima."

Gradually the talking ceased, and within an hour there was perfect quiet outside the hut. Half an hour later they heard footsteps coming quietly up to the door. They held their breath; but instead of, as they expected, hearing the bolt drawn, they heard the new-comers going round the hut, pausing a minute at each corner. Then they again stopped at the door; the two bolts were shot back, and the door opened.

"Come, senors," Dias said; "it is quite safe. We have put them all to sleep. Here are their muskets and pistols. You had better take them, in case we are pursued, which is not likely. At any rate, should one of them wake the want of a gun will mean delay in raising the alarm.

"Don't speak, senors; it is as well to keep quiet till we are fairly off." He shut the door and rebolted it, and then led the way down into the road.

Not a word was spoken till they had gone a hundred yards, and then Harry said: "You have done us another good turn, Dias; we did not see any possible way of getting out; but we both agreed that if you could find us you would."

"Of course, senors, you could not suppose that Maria and I would go quietly off."

"How did you manage to get away, Dias?"

"It was easy enough. After what we had heard of these brigands I made up my mind that I would not unsaddle the mules, nor take the packs off the two loaded ones. The burdens were not heavy, for we have little but our bedding and the tents left, and I thought they might as well stay where they were, and in the morning we could shift them on to the others. I told José to watch about half the night; but I was standing talking to him, and smoking my last cigarette, when he said suddenly, 'I can hear a noise at the other end of the village.'

"The evening was still, and I could also hear the sound of many footsteps, so I ran and pulled down the bar at the back of the yard, called Maria, and told her and José to take the mules straight down to the lake, and then to follow the bank. Then I ran to warn you; but before I got half-way I heard shouts and firing, and knew that I was too late, so I ran back to the lake, where I overtook the mules, and we mounted and went off at a trot. When I got a quarter of a mile away I told the others to go on to Junin, which we knew was twenty miles away, and put up there till I joined them. Then I ran back to the village, and, keeping myself well behind a house, watched them getting ready to start, and saw you. There was nothing to do but to follow you. I did so, and observed where they had shut you up, and I waited about for some hours, so as to see how you were guarded.

"I saw their captain go into your hut twice. When he came out the second time he had a paper in his hand. He went to the house he has taken possession of, and I kept a good watch over that. Presently two lieutenants came out, talking together. They entered another house, and ten minutes afterwards issued out again, dressed in ordinary clothes, such as a muleteer or a cultivator fairly well off would wear, and returned to the captain's house, and stayed there for a good half-hour before they came out again. Two horses had been brought round to the door. The captain came out with them, and was evidently giving them some last instructions. Then they rode off, saying good-bye to some of the men as they passed through the village.

"Knowing the ways of these bandits, I had no doubt the paper I saw their captain bring out of the hut where you were was a letter he had compelled you to write to request a large sum of money to be sent in exchange for you; and as I felt certain that we should rescue you somehow, I thought it was a pity that this letter should go down, so I started at once to follow them. They had not got more than a quarter of an hour's start of me, and by the line they had taken I saw that they intended to go to Junin. I did not think it likely that they would enter the place, because they would be sure to meet some of Quinda's men there; but would probably sleep at some small village near it, and then make a circuit to strike the road beyond the town.

"Fortunately I had some money in my pocket, and at the first farm I came to I bought a mule. You see, senor, I had not lain down the night before, and had done a fair day's work before I started to follow your captors. I had walked twenty miles with them, and had been busy all the morning. I knew it could not be much less than thirty miles to Junin, and that if I could not find them there I should have to push on after them again the next morning, so I gave the farmer what he asked for his mule, and started at once on it barebacked. It turned out to be a good animal, and I rode hard, for I wanted to get down to Junin before the two men. I reckoned I should do that, because, as they were going a very long journey, they would not want to press their horses, and besides would prefer that it should be dark before they stopped for the night.

"When I got to Junin I found Maria and José, who had put up the mules at the only inn there. I set Maria to watch on the road leading into the town, and went out with José to a little village a mile back, where I made sure the fellows would stop. I was not long in finding out that they had arrived about half an hour after I had ridden through, and had put up at the priest's. That was good enough for me. We went back to the town. I had some supper, which I can tell you I wanted badly, for I had been afraid of going into the brigand's village to buy anything, as, being a stranger, I might have been asked questions, so I had had nothing since the night before. I had found that there was a road from the place where they had stopped, by which they could ride along by the lake without going into the town; so José and I ambushed there an hour before daylight, thinking that they would be off early. We were right; for in a quarter of an hour they came along. Day was just breaking, so we could make out their figures easily enough, and as they were not five yards away as they passed, we were not likely to miss them. Well, I found the paper you had written in the coat-pocket of one of them, together with two hundred dollars, no doubt for the expenses of his journey. We hid the two bodies under a heap of stones."

"Then you killed them, Dias?" Harry said, in a tone of surprise.

"Of course! what else would one do with them? They were brigands, and they had attacked a peaceable village and killed several people. Even if I had not wanted to get your paper it would have been a very meritorious action."

"Oh, I am not blaming you, Dias, at all! There was no other way of getting the paper, and it may be regarded as an act of necessity. And what did you do with their horses?"

"José went on with them, and I returned to the town again and started with Maria and the mules. We journeyed to a village half-way to Oroya. Of course we overtook José a mile or two after we had left Junin. There we put up at a quiet place and talked over the situation. We knew that there was no particular hurry, for we read your letter, and knew that no harm would come to you for a long time. It would be a month at least before they would expect the men back with the money. There was another letter, addressed to Don Mariano Carratala, whom I know to be a busy politician in Lima. The money was to be paid to him; at least he was to receive it from the two men immediately they left the British consul's house, and he was to hold it for Valdez, which is the name of the brigand."

"I thought he would not trust the men to bring up a sum like that."

"It would be enough to tempt the most incorruptible Peruvian, and certainly the men he sent down would have taken good care never to come to this part of the country again if they had got the money into their possession. I don't think either it would have been safe in the hands of Carratala, if he did not know that sooner or later he would get a knife between his shoulders if he kept it. Next morning Maria and I started back, bringing with us four mules, the fastest we had. We rode on two and led the others. I knew some people at Junin, for I have often passed through the town when I have been bringing down silver from Cerro, and one managed to get for us that little barrel of pisco. I was sure that no soldier would refuse a glass; but it was almost a sin to give such liquor to the dogs. Then we bought peasants' clothes, and a parcel of goods such as travelling hawkers carry.

"You know how we succeeded. Of course we had drugged the pisco heavily, and knew that two glasses would send any man off to sleep in half an hour. As soon as it was dark, Maria went on with the mule. We shall find her half a mile from here at a deserted hut where we left the other three mules."

"Well, Dias, you have assuredly saved our lives. Guarded as we were, there was not the slightest chance of our getting away by ourselves; and as the British consul certainly could not have raised the sum they demanded, we should have had our throats cut when the messengers returned empty-handed. Valdez is not the man to go back from his word in that respect."

"It is a pity you have lost your arms, senor."

"Yes, we have certainly lost our double-barrelled guns, but our rifles and pistols are hidden in the straw of the bed in the room where we slept. We had just time to hide them before the brigands burst into the room."

"Then we can recover them, senor. Of course I intended to ride straight to Junin, but it won't make very much difference. We will ride to the village, get the rifles and pistols, and then follow the road by the lake. It is now only nine o'clock; we can be there by one easily, and reach Junin by morning. It will be perfectly safe to rest there. I suppose your guards will be relieved about twelve o'clock?"

"Yes, that was the time we heard them changed."

"They will most likely discover that you have gone then. When they find the four guards sound asleep, they are sure to unbolt the door and see if you are there, then of course they will give the alarm at once. But I hardly think they will even attempt to pursue. They are infantry, and none of them are mounted but the officers, which means that at present only Valdez himself has a horse. They would know that you had been assisted, and that probably horses were waiting for you somewhere. There is the hut, senors."

Maria ran out as they came up.

"The saints be praised," she exclaimed, "that you are with us again, senors!"

"The saints are no doubt to be praised," Harry said, "but we feel at present a good deal more indebted to Dias and yourself than to them. We are indeed grateful to you both, and you managed it splendidly. My brother and I felt so confident that you would do something to get us out, that we were not in the least surprised when we recognized you and Diaz got up as travelling hawkers."

"You did not tell them that we were with you?"

"No. Fortunately they asked no questions at all, and took us for Englishmen travelling by ourselves. They may have thought of it afterwards, but in the hurry of carrying off their booty they apparently gave the matter no attention. If they had done so they would probably have sent a party out in pursuit of the mules. Even if they had not done so, they would have been sure to look with some suspicion at two hawkers arriving at such an out-of-the-way village at such a time."

"Well, we had better be moving at once," Dias said. "We are going down to the village where they were captured, Maria. They hid their rifles and pistols there when they found the place was in the hands of the brigands."

Three minutes later they started. There was a full moon, so they were able to ride fast, and it was just midnight when they arrived at the village. When they knocked at the house where their rifles had been left, the proprietor looked out from the upper window in great dismay, fearing that the brigands might have returned. However, as soon as he recognized the party he came down and opened the door. The arms were found where they had been hidden, and in five minutes they were again on their way, and arrived at Junin at five o'clock. It was necessary to wait here twenty-four hours to rest the animals. The next morning they started as soon as it was light, and picked up José and the convoy. The brothers mounted the two horses, and Dias and Maria rode on one mule, and led three behind them. José rode another and led four. The horses and the mule Dias had bought were sold at Oroya, and after purchasing enough provisions for the rest of their journey they started for Lima, having concluded that it would be better, now that they were on the main track, to follow it instead of striking across the hills.



Chapter XIII

Letters From Home


There was some little discussion over the amount of supplies that it would be necessary to purchase.

"Travelling quietly, the journey will not occupy over fourteen days," Harry said. "Do not get anything more than is absolutely necessary. It is evident that the whole country is in a disturbed state, and it is as well to have nothing to lose. We can buy nearly everything we want in the way of meat and flour at villages we pass through. Therefore, if we have enough tea, coffee, and sugar there will be really no occasion to buy anything more. We have still two or three bottles of spirits left, and you can buy pulque everywhere. There is a proverb two or three thousand years old, 'The empty traveller can sing before the robber'. We are reduced to that condition, except for our tents, bedding, and blankets, and they have done good service and would not cost much to replace. There remain, then, only the animals. They would certainly be a serious loss to us."

"Brigands would not want to take them. They would not be of the least use to them in the mountains. I would not say the same of parties of disbanded soldiers making their way down to Lima or Callao, who might prefer riding to travelling all that distance."

"The brigands might take our rifles and pistols, Dias."

"Yes, they would be sure to do that, senor. But we have had more than our share of bad luck already, what with the brigands in the Cerro pass, and these rascals we have just had to do with. I will enquire when the last silver convoy went down. If one has gone during the past five or six days, we could overtake it soon, for we can do two days' journey to its one. If no convoy has gone forward later, and there is one starting shortly, it might be worth our while to wait for it, for by all accounts the road down to Lima is infested by discharged soldiers, and ruffians of all kinds from Callao and Lima."

"Have the convoys an escort?"

"Yes, senors. The silver mines have always a considerable force in their pay. They used to have troops from the division stationed here, but what with the constant revolutions, and the fact that more than once the escort, instead of protecting the convoys, mutinied and seized them, they found it better to raise a force themselves. They do not take Creoles, preferring pure-bred Indians, who are just as brave as the Creoles, if not braver, and can be relied upon to be faithful to their trust. The consequence is that, in spite of the disturbed state of the country, it is a long time now since one of their escorts has been attacked, especially as the robbers would find great difficulty in disposing of the silver, as each ingot is marked with the name of the mine it comes from.

"They might, of course, melt it up again; but even then there would be a difficulty, as the law is very strict as to the sale of silver, and a certificate has to be obtained from the local authorities in every case, stating where it was obtained. This is hard upon the natives, for many of the little mines are worked among the mountains, and the rascals, to whom all official positions are given in reward for services done to the party which happens to be in power for the time, take good care to fleece the Indians heavily before they will give them the necessary documents. Nothing can be done here, senors, without greasing the palms of two or three people, and the grease has to be pretty heavily laid on."

Dias went out and made enquiries. "There will be no convoy for another fortnight. One went down ten days ago."

"I certainly shall not wait another fortnight, Dias. As to an escort, less than a dozen men would be useless, and as they would be a fortnight at least going down, and as much returning, even if you could get twelve men who could be relied upon, it would be a very expensive job. We might as well risk losing our baggage, and even our guns. The great thing will be to reduce the weight as much as possible. Four cotton beds take up a lot of space, and I think in any case I should have bought new ones at Lima; at any rate they can go. The blankets and ponchos we could, of course, carry behind us. So that practically there are only the two tents, cooking utensils, and the stores, which will not weigh many pounds, to carry, and with our clothes the whole will make a ridiculously small load even for one mule. We had better get rid of the pickaxes and shovels, they would fetch pretty nearly as much here as we should give for new ones at Lima.

"Thus, then, with Donna Maria riding one of the mules, there would be our five selves and three led mules, of which only one would be laden. That would offer no great temptation to plunderers; and as we shall all have guns across our shoulders, they would see that it would not be worth while to interfere on the very slight chance that the one laden mule might be carrying anything valuable."

"I agree with you, senor. Our appearance would be that of a party of travellers who have been exploring the old ruins, or, as has been done before, endeavouring to ascertain whether the rivers on the east are navigable down to the Amazon. Besides, the bulk of the people here do not forget what they owe to Englishmen, and the fact that you are of that nation would in itself secure good treatment for you among all except desperate men."

Accordingly they started the next morning. Maria rode, in Amazon fashion, on a mule between her husband and Harry. Bertie followed with José, to whose saddle the three baggage mules were attached in single file. They were undisturbed on their journey. Three or four times they were hailed by men on the rocks above as they went through difficult points of the pass. The reply of Dias, that the two gentlemen with him were Englishmen who had been exploring the ruins and doing a little shooting among the hills, generally satisfied them. One or two, however, who enquired what the mule was carrying, were invited by him to come down and see, though at the same time they were informed that the load contained nothing but blankets and cooking vessels, and enough provisions to last them on the way.

When, within two days' journey from Lima, a party of rough men came down into the road, Dias rode forward to meet them and repeated his usual story. "You can examine the mule if you like," he said, "but I warn you not to interfere with us; the English senors are not men to be meddled with. They are armed with rifles, and each carries a brace of double-barrelled pistols. They are dead shots, too, and you may reckon that it will cost you over a dozen lives were you to interfere with them. Moreover, the other muleteer and myself could give a fair account of ourselves. Rather than have trouble, however, two of you can come forward and see that my statement as to what the mule carries is correct. Its burden would not fetch fifty dollars at Lima."

Two of the men came forward and examined the mule's burden, and felt the saddles of the others to see that nothing was concealed there. When they rejoined their party one who appeared to be their leader came forward.

"Senors," he said, "I regret that we have stopped you; but we are poor men, and are obliged to take to the road to live. Perhaps your honours would not mind giving us ten dollars to buy food at the next village."

"I have not many dollars left," Harry said, "but if you really need food you are welcome to ten of them, for we shall need nothing more than what we carry till we arrive at Lima." He handed him the ten dollars, and then, showing him his purse, said, "You see there are but five others."

With many thanks the man retired, and he and his companions took off their hats as Harry and his party rode through them.

"Another such stoppage," Harry said with a laugh, "and we shall have to fall back upon our little stock of gold-dust."

However, they met with no more trouble, and on the following evening rode into Lima and took up their quarters at the hotel. Dias asked that he might go on with the mules to his home.

"In the first place, senor, we want to know how things have gone on in our absence. We had arranged with neighbours to look after the garden and the house. They were glad to do so, as the garden was a fruitful one. They were to take all they could raise and keep it well planted, so that whenever we might return we should find our usual supply of fruits and vegetables. In the next place, Maria is nervous about my staying here after what happened last time. We may take it as certain that the friends of the men we hurt will take the chance of paying off the score if they can find an opportunity. I shall come in each day to see if you have any orders for me."

"There will be no occasion for that, Dias. We have quite made up our minds to wait here for a week before starting on our next expedition, so if you will come over in four days that will be quite soon enough. You can overhaul the blankets and bags, and see that those good enough to keep are put in good repair, and those worn out replaced. We shall want quite as many stores as those we took last time, for there are very few villages except on the sea-shore, and we shall find difficulty in replenishing our stock. We shall have to buy double-barrelled guns in place of those we lost, but that we shall do ourselves. We have plenty of ammunition and cartridges for the rifles and pistols, but we had only a few shot cartridges left when we lost the guns."

As soon as Dias had gone on with the mules Harry went to the British consul's and found three letters waiting there for him, two from Miss Fortescue and one from Mr. Barnett. He put the former into his pocket to be read and enjoyed privately, but opened that of Mr. Barnett at once. It was in answer to that Harry had written at Cuzco.

"My dear Harry," he said,

"Your first letter was quite satisfactory. I was glad to find that you had reached Lima without encountering more than a stiffish gale, which was as well as you could have expected. I was still more glad that you had found Dias alive and willing to accompany you. Your letter from Cuzco has now reached me. I think you were extremely lucky to get through that street broil without any damage to either of you. It was certainly a hazardous business to interfere in an affair of that kind without having any weapons except the sticks you carried. Still, I can well understand that, as you would certainly have lost the services of Dias had you not done so, it was worth running a good deal of risk; and, as you say, it had the natural effect of binding him to you heart and soul.

"I feel very uneasy about you both, and have blamed myself many a time for suggesting this scheme to you. I can only say that it is really the only possible way in which it seemed to me you could carry out the task set you. In fairy stories it is, so far as I can remember, a not uncommon thing for a king to set some task, that appears absolutely hopeless, to the suitors for his daughter's hand, and the hero always accomplishes the impossible. But this is always done with the assistance of some good fairy, and unfortunately good fairies are not to be met with in the present day. I have great faith in Dias, but fear that he is a very poor substitute for a fairy godmother. Still, I am convinced that he will do all in his power, and will even strain his conscience severely, by conducting you to places where his traditions lead him to believe that gold, either in the shape of mines or hidden treasure, is to be found.

"Your search will not improbably lead you into places where the Indians have won back their own from the civilization introduced by the Spaniards, and I have always heard that on the eastern side of the Cordilleras the natives entertain a deadly hatred for whites, and attack all who endeavour to penetrate into the forest. Don't be too rash, lad. Remember that it will not add to your lady-love's happiness to learn that you have been massacred in your attempt to carry out your knight-errant adventure, and if you are careless about your own life, don't forget that its loss will probably entail the loss of your brother's also. Dangers, of course, you must meet and face, but remember that prudence is a valuable aid to bravery.

"I am glad to know that Dias has taken his wife with him. A woman is a very useful adjunct to an expedition such as yours. Of course in some ways she is necessarily a trouble, and always a responsibility. Still, if, as you say is the case with her, she is a good cook, this makes a wonderful difference in your comfort, and certainly adds to the chance of your preserving your health. And in the next place, should you fall ill, or be mauled by a tiger or puma, she will make a far better nurse than Dias himself would be. Now that you are cutting yourself adrift from civilization, I shall not expect to hear from you again for a long time. I shall try and not be uneasy; but really, Harry, I do feel that I have incurred a very heavy responsibility, and may, with the best intentions in the world, have sent you and Bertie to your death. I have, as you directed me, addressed this to the care of our consul, and it must be many months before you receive it, many months more before I again hear from you. Should you require more money, draw upon me. I have always a good balance standing at the bank, therefore do not hesitate to draw, in case the amount sent out to you quarterly does not prove sufficient to carry out any scheme you may have in hand.

"With all good wishes for your own and Bertie's welfare,

"I remain,

"Your affectionate guardian,

"James Barnett."

When he returned to the hotel he handed Mr. Barnett's letter to Bertie to read, and said:

"Stop down here in the patio, Bertie; I have two letters that I want to read quietly."

Bertie laughed.

"All right, Harry; take your time over them; I won't disturb you."

It was dusk now, and when Harry went to his room he lit a couple of candles and seated himself in a large cane arm-chair and opened his letters.

The first one consisted chiefly of expressions of pleasure at his arrival at Callao, of remarks upon the voyage, of complaints as to the long time that had passed without news of him, and of assurances of affection.

The second was, like Mr. Barnett's, in reply to his letter from Cuzco.

"My dearest Harry,

"After reading your letter I have been more and more impressed with my heartlessness in allowing you to undertake such a journey as you have before you. I ought to have been braver. I ought to have refused absolutely to allow you to go. The prospect of your being able to overcome my father's objections really amounts to nothing, and I ought to have said that I would not accept the sacrifice, and would not allow you to run such risks; that it would be better and kinder for both of us to accept the inevitable, and not enter upon such a struggle with fate.

"Do not think that I am already growing weary of waiting, and that my heart is in any way changed. It is not that. It is anxiety about you, and the feeling how wrong I was to let you go. Were there even a shadow of chance of your success I would wait patiently for years. I do not say that my life is a pleasant one. It is not. My father is still bitterly angry with me for, as he says, throwing away my chances; that is to say, of marrying a man I do not care for, simply because he is rich. But I can bear that. Mother is very very good, and does all in her power to cheer me; but, as you know, she has never been much more than a cipher, accustomed always to submit to my father's will, and it is wonderful to me that in our matter she has ventured, not openly to oppose him, but to give me what strength and comfort she can.

"I hardly know how I should have got on without her comfort. My father hardly speaks to me. He treats me as if I had been convicted of some deadly sin, and is only restrained from punishing me in some way because, by some blunder or other, contumacy against the will of a father has been omitted from the penal code. Seriously, Harry, it makes me unhappy, not only for myself but for him. Until I was unable to give in to him in this question he has always been the kindest of fathers. I am sure he feels this estrangement between us almost as much as I do, but believes that he is acting for my good; and it is a great pain to him that I cannot see the matter in the same light as he does. Of course to me it is most ridiculous that he should suppose that my happiness depends upon having a title, and cutting a figure at court, and that sort of thing; but there is no arguing over it, and I am as thoroughly convinced that my view is the correct one as he is that it is utter folly.

"However, I am almost as sorry for him as for myself, and would do almost anything short of giving you up to make him happy. However, do not think that I am very miserable, because I am not. Somehow, though I can't give any good reason for my belief, I do think you will succeed. I do not say that I think for a moment you are likely to come home with the sum my father named as necessary; that seems to be quite hopeless. But I think somehow you may succeed in doing well; and though some people might consider that he was justified in refusing his consent to what he might think was a bad match, he could not do so with any justice were I to determine upon marrying a gentleman with some fortune. He thinks a great deal of public opinion, and would know that even chat would be against him. But Indeed, Harry, I am beginning to doubt whether in the end I shall be able to sacrifice my life to his unfortunate mania, that I must marry what he calls well. I love you, and told him that if at the end of two years you were not in a position to claim my hand, I would give in to my father's wishes. I will keep my promise so far, that I will not run away with you or marry you in defiance of his command. But as I have agreed to wait for two years for you, I may ask you to wait another two years for me.

"When I think of you going through all sorts of dangers and hardships for my sake, I feel that it would be downright wickedness to turn against you if you find that you cannot perform an impossible task. Instead of this separation making you less dear to me, it is affecting me in quite the other way. My thoughts are always with you. How could it be otherwise? I have worked myself up to such a pitch that I have almost resolved that, when the two years are up, I will say to my father: 'I shall ask Harry to release me from my promise to him, and for two years, Father, I will go about and allow men a fair chance of winning my love. If at the end of that time I have met no one to whom I can give my heart, I will then go my own way, and if Harry will take me I will marry him.' It will require a great deal of courage to say so; but you are doing so much to try and win me, that it would be hard indeed if I were to shrink from doing a little on my part.

"Still, it would make it easier for me if you should have the good fortune to bring home something; not because, as I have told you many times, I should shrink for a moment from renouncing all the luxuries in which I have been brought up, and for which I care so little, but because it would, in his eyes, be a proof of how earnestly you have striven to do what you could to meet his requirements. I did not mean to say this when I began my letter, but it seems to me that it will give you heart and strength in your work, and that you will see from it that I, too, have taken my courage in my hand, and show you that your love and faithfulness shall some day have the reward they deserve.

"God bless you and keep you, dearest,

"Your loving HILDA."

Harry read the letter through again and again, and at last Bertie came in.

"What! at it still, Harry?" he said with a laugh. "You must have got your letters by heart by this time. I have been sitting in the patio by myself for two mortal hours expecting you to come down. At last I said to myself, 'This sort of thing will bring on madness. When a healthy sailor forgets that his brother is waiting for supper, to say nothing of himself, it is clear that there is something radically wrong.'"

"It is evident, Bertie, that at present you know nothing of human nature. If there had been anything radically wrong in this letter I should probably have been down long ago. It is just the contrary. Hilda says that if I don't succeed here, she will give herself, or rather her father, two years, and at the end of that time, if she doesn't find someone she likes better, she will marry me, whether he likes it or not -- at least, that is what it comes to."

"I congratulate you, old boy. At the same time, it is evident that she would not have been worth her salt if she had arrived at any other conclusion. Now, having settled that comfortably, let us go and have something to eat. You appear to forget altogether that you have had nothing since breakfast, and it is now past eight o'clock."

"You boys think of nothing but eating," Harry grumbled.

"Well, up till now, Harry, from the time we started, I have observed that you have a very healthy appetite yourself, and I can tell you it has cost me half a dollar in bribing the cook to stay on beyond his usual hour. I did not like to tell him that you were engaged in reading a love-letter fifty times, so I put it delicately and said that you were engaged in business of importance. It went against my conscience to tell such a buster."

"There, come on, Bertie. I had begun to hope that you were growing into a sensible fellow, but I am afraid that there is no chance of that now, and that you will continue to be a donkey to the end of your life."

Harry had told Dias that they had better take two or three days at home before they came into Lima again, but to his surprise the muleteer came in at ten o'clock next morning.

"Well, Dias, I did not expect to see you again so soon. You have found everything right at home, I hope?"

"No, senor, I am sorry to say I did not. Three days after we left here our house was burnt down."

"Burnt down, Dias! I am sorry indeed to hear that. How did it happen? I thought you said that you had locked it up, and left no one there."

"That was so, senor. The people who took over the garden were to go into the house once a week to see that everything was in order; but as this fire broke out only three days after I left, they had not entered it. Everyone says that it must have been fired on purpose, for the flames seem to have burst out in all parts at once. No one in the town thought that I had an enemy in the world, and all have been wondering who could have had a grudge against me. Of course we need not go very far to guess who was at the bottom of it."

"I suppose not, Dias. It must have been those scoundrels we gave such a thrashing to."

"There is no doubt of that, senor. But this time they have got the best of me, for they know very well that I have no proof against them, and that it would be useless to lodge any complaint."

"I am afraid it would, Dias. Is it quite burnt down?"

"The walls are standing, senor. It takes a good deal to burn adobe."

"What do you suppose it would cost to put it in the same condition as before, with the furniture and everything?"

"No great thing, senor; two hundred or two hundred and fifty dollars. It would not be as much as that if it hadn't been that Maria had left her festa dresses and her silver trinkets behind. There was not much furniture in the house; but I think I could replace everything for about two hundred dollars, and I have a good deal more than that laid by."

"I shall certainly make that up to you, Dias. It was entirely your kindness in deciding to take us on Mr. Barnett's recommendation, and to undertake this journey, that brought the ill-will of these scoundrels upon you. Of course it is of no use doing anything now, but when our search is over I shall certainly see that you are not in any way the loser."

"No, senor; if I could not replace it myself I might accept your kind offer, but I can do it without breaking very heavily into my savings. And indeed their attack on me was the outcome of an old grudge. I have been long regarded as a fortunate man, and truly I have been so. If there was a job for five mules, and I was disengaged, I always had the first offer."

"But that was not fortune, Dias; that was because you were known to be wholly trustworthy."

"There are few muleteers who are not so, senor; it is rarely indeed that muleteers are false to their trust. I can scarce remember an instance. We Indians have our faults, but we are honest."

"Well, perhaps your getting the first job to go with foreign travellers may have been a piece of good fortune, but it is because these were so well satisfied with you that others engaged you. Trustworthiness is not the only thing wanted in a muleteer; willingness, cheerfulness, and a readiness to oblige are almost as important for the comfort of travellers. Well, do you think these fellows will try and play you another trick, Dias?"

"I hope they will," Dias said savagely, "that is, if they don't have too much odds against me. I owe them a big score now, for twice they have got the better of me. I should like to get even with them."

"Well, Dias, I hope they won't try anything of the sort. If anything should happen to you, I should not only be extremely sorry for your sake and your wife's, but it would destroy the last chance I have of carrying out my search for treasure. Do you think that if I were to go to the consul and lay a complaint against them, on the ground, in the first place, of their attack on you, and now of burning your house, it would have any effect?"

"If you were to make a complaint it might do, senor; it certainly would not were I to do so. A little bribe would, of course, be necessary; you cannot do anything without that. The officials here are all Gamarra's men, and there is not one of them who would not take a bribe. But would it be worth while, as we are only going to stay here a week? And if you got them imprisoned they would be out again before I came back, and would be more anxious than ever to get rid of me."

"There is a good deal in that, Dias. As, of course, we shall be away, and starting for home again as soon as we return here, their spite would be directed entirely against you."

"I hope, senors, that while you stop here you will never go out without your pistols. It is against you they have a grudge now more than me; it was owing to you that they failed in killing me."

"We will do so; and we won't carry sticks this time, so that if they see us going along they will think we are unarmed."

Whenever they went out after dark, indeed, Harry and Bertie had an idea that they were followed, and on their way home each invariably carried a cocked pistol in his pocket, ready for instant use. It was well that they did so, for on returning late one evening from Senor Pasquez, four men suddenly sprang out upon them.

They were on their guard, and their arms went up in an instant, and two shots were fired. As the pistols were almost touching the men's heads when the trigger was pulled, both the assailants dropped dead, and the others at once took to their heels.

"There are two of Dias's enemies wiped out," Harry said quietly. "I hope the others will give us a chance before we leave. Well, let us walk on before the watch comes along. It would ruin our plans altogether if we were kept here for an indefinite time while enquiries are being made."

The next morning they heard from their waiter at breakfast that two men had been found dead in the street.

"They are muleteers," he said, "but are known to be bad characters, and are suspected of having been concerned in several murders. It is evident that they made a mistake this time, and have got what they deserved. They are known to be associated with others. There were five of them; one was killed in a knife fight some months ago, and a search has been made for the others, but it is not likely that they will be caught. They were probably concerned in the affair, and knowing that they would be suspected of having a hand in this, and that their character will go against them, I expect they went off at once to the foot of the hills, and won't be heard of again for some time to come."

"I think it a pity they were not all shot. It is a shame that in a town like this people cannot walk in the streets after dark without the risk of being assassinated."

Dias was very pleased when, on coming up that morning, he heard of what had happened. He quite agreed that the other men would almost certainly have taken to the mountains.

"Even if they have not, senor, you are safe from another attack. Now they know that you carry pistols, and are prepared for them, they will let you alone."

"When we come back here, Dias, we will give you a brace of our pistols, and I trust you will carry them in your pocket ready for use after dark, whether you are in Lima or at Miraflores."

"Thank you, senor. I do not think they are likely to show their faces here again for a long time; but at any rate I will be on my guard, and will gratefully accept your offer of the pistols. Now, senors, I must set to work to-day to get in our stores for the next journey. I have made a list of what we shall want."

"Well, I have plenty of money, Dias, for I find two remittances from home awaiting me here. We have already bought two double-barrelled guns and a stock of ammunition, principally buck-shot, for we shall not be doing much big game shooting. We can always buy food at the sea-side villages."

Three days later all was in readiness. The mules were brought up from Miraflores by José, accompanied by Maria, and an early start was made on the following morning.



Chapter XIV

The Castle Of The Demons


"To-morrow, senor," Dias said, "you will see the spot I was telling you about, where, as the traditions say, the spirits of our ancestors inhabit the ruins of a building so old, that it was ancient when the Incas first came here. They are still there, and men who have been rash enough to approach the spot have been found torn to pieces as if by wild beasts; but none go near now."

"Did the Spaniards never go there?"

"I know not, sir; but 'tis likely they never even heard of it. The country is all dry and barren, and there were no mines to tempt them. The Indians never speak of it; those who were alive when the Spaniards came had some reasons for not doing so; and even now you could go to the nearest village, which lies more than twenty miles away, and ask the people about it, but they would only say that they had never heard of it, that no such place existed, for they believe that even to speak of it would bring dire disaster. We Indians are Christians; the Spaniards made us so. We make the sign of the cross, and we bow before their images and pictures, and once a year we go to their churches; but among the tribes east of the mountains that is all. We believe in the traditions of our fathers and in the demons of the forest; and though on this side of the hills, where the Spaniards held a tight grip upon us, the people have well-nigh forgotten their old faith, they still believe in many of the tales they have learned from their fathers, and this of the Castle of the Demons, as it is called, is as strong as ever in these parts."

"Have you ever seen the castle, Dias?"

"I have seen it, senor. There is only one point from which it is visible. We shall go there to-morrow, it is ten miles from here. The castle lies in a rift of the rock. I should say that in ancient times this opened to the sea, but the building closed the entrance. Whatever it may have been, it does not rise above the summit of the cliff, which goes down as straight as a wall for miles on the sea-face. The rift on the land side of the castle seems to have a width of about fifty feet, and I could see openings which were, I suppose, windows. The rocks on each side are higher than the castle itself, so that anyone coming along would not see it until he looked down upon it."

"But of course it is visible from the sea, Dias?"

"It would have been visible in the old days without a doubt, senor, but it cannot be seen now. The stones are the colour of the rocks beside them. They are stained and broken, and unless a boat went along within a very short distance none would dream that there was a break in the cliff there. I heard that from a fisherman whose boat was driven in by a gale and well-nigh lost. He said that he could see that the stones, which are very large -- much larger than any of those in the remains of the buildings of the Incas -- were not in regular lines."

"It is very strange that anyone should have taken the trouble to build a place in such a singular position. Is there not any legend as to its construction?"

"There is a tradition, senor, that it was built as a prison, by the king of those times, a thousand years before the Spaniards came, and even before the people whom the Incas conquered came into the land, and that it was a place of imprisonment, some say of a wife, others of a son, who had rebelled against him. Some say that it was built by the demons, but as it happened long before our people came here, none can know."

"Well, Dias, it seems to me that this old place is very likely to have been used as a hiding-place for treasure. As to these tales about demons, of course they are ridiculous. I took your advice when we were being opposed by fierce Indians, but when it is a question of demons, I can trust to my revolvers and rifles against a legion of them."

"Well, senor, you are the master. I have led you here as I promised. There may be treasure here or there may not. If you will go, you must; but I pray you not to command me to go with you. I would have followed you to the death through the swamps and forests on the other side, but I dare not risk being torn to death by demons and being left without burial."

"I do not press you to go, Dias. I respect your convictions, though I do not share in them. I have had a year of travel with you, and we have had many adventures together. This will be my last before I return home. Here at least there seems to me a chance of finding treasure, an infinitely better chance than any we have had, except in the gold valley. Here is a mysterious castle, of whose very existence the Spaniards seem never to have heard. It is just the place where treasure might be hidden. If it has guardians, they must be human, and also there can be but few. The urgent necessity for secrecy was so great, that it must, like all the other secrets, have been confided to a few only. Maybe but one or two old men are there, of whom certainly I need not be afraid. I have told you why I came here, and why I feel so anxious to find a valuable mine, or part of the lost treasures of the Incas. So far I have failed altogether, and I should be a fool as well as a coward were I not ready to run some slight risk in searching this mysterious castle."

"So be it, senor. I say not that you may not succeed. It may be that the demons have no power over white men. If you go and return safely I will go with you, and, should you find treasure, aid you to carry it away. I will lead you to within two miles of it, and will wait three days for your return. If you come not then, I will return to my place and mourn for you."

"Very well, Dias, you may count upon my return long before the three days are up. Now, in the first place, take me to the point from which I can have a view of the castle."

"We have had a long journey to-day, senor, and it is two hours' journey from here. We had better rest and go in the morning."

Harry nodded.

"We will be off early. You say it is ten miles from the spot where we shall see it. If we start at daybreak I can be there before noon, which will give me plenty of time for a first look round the place. We have got some torches left. I shall want them, for possibly there may be some chambers underground into which we shall have to penetrate. We may take it as certain that, whether the old people hid a great treasure from the Incas, or the Incas hid one from the Spaniards, they did not leave it about in rooms, but stowed it away in vaults like those we saw at Pachacamac, and these will certainly want a lot of looking for."

"I will help you look, senor, and will work there as long as you like in the search, if you return and tell me that you have seen and heard nothing of the demons that are said to be there. I am not afraid of danger when I know that it is men that we have to do with. But I dread being strangled and torn, as the legends say that all who have ventured here have been."

"But according to your own account, Dias," Bertie laughed, "that was long, long ago, and the demons may have got tired of guarding a place that no one came near, and have gone elsewhere in search of victims."

Dias shook his head gravely. In spite of his life as a muleteer, and his acquaintance with Englishmen, he was as superstitious as the rest of his countrymen. The nominal Christianity enforced by the Spaniards upon the natives was but skin-deep, and thus they clung with undying fidelity to the superstitions and traditions that had been handed down from generation to generation, and had been preserved with a tenacity that even the tortures of the Spaniards had failed to shake. The failure to obtain the gold which they confidently expected to find in the valley had still further strengthened his belief that it was destined that these treasures should never be discovered; and although when there he had listened gravely to Harry's explanations of the manner in which the lake had been formed, his own conviction that all this was the work of demons had been unshaken. If, then, a spot, which even the tradition handed down to him had in no way connected with the guardianship of demons, was so firmly watched, how much more must this be so at a spot which all legends agreed was inhabited by demons, and had been the scene of so many executions by them of those who had ventured near.

As Bertie and his brother sat together by the fire that evening after the others had retired to rest, they talked long over the matter; for just as when they had approached the gold valley, their excitement had increased with every day's journey. Harry felt that this was his last chance, his only hope of gaining the object for which he had left England.

"It is strange, Harry," Bertie said, "that the natives should believe these absurd stories about demons. Dias seems, in every other way, as sensible a fellow as one can want to meet, but in this respect he is as bad as any of them."

"It is not extraordinary, Bertie, if you remember that it is not so very long ago since people at home believed in witches who sailed through the air to take part in diabolic ceremonies, and brought about the death of anyone by sticking pins into a little waxen image, and that even now the peasantry in out-of-the-way parts of the country still hold that some old women bewitch cows, and prevent milk turning into butter however long they may continue churning. Fairy superstitions have not quite disappeared, and the belief in ghosts is very wide-spread.

"When you think of that it is not surprising that these poor ignorant natives still have implicit faith in the traditions of their ancestors. It is possible that this old place is still inhabited by Indians, who have been its guardians for ages, and if not now, may have had charge of it long after the Spaniards came here, and murdered any who ventured to approach the place. We know that the tradition of the gold valley has been faithfully maintained in the family of Dias; this may also be the case in the family to which the guardianship of this old place was entrusted, but to my mind it is less likely. In the case of the gold valley there was nothing for those in the secret to do but to hold their tongues; but to supply guardians to this place from generation to generation must have been a much more irksome task, and it may have been abandoned, either from the dislike of those who had to spend their lives in such a monotonous business, or by their families dying out. I certainly don't want to have a fight with men who are only following orders passed down to them for hundreds of years. If they attack us, we shall have to fight; but I sincerely trust that we may find the place deserted, for, fight or no fight, I mean to get the treasure if it is there."

"I should think so," Bertie agreed. "The treasure is absolutely of no use to them, and may be no end of use to you."

"To both of us, Bertie. If there is a treasure, you may be sure it is a large one, ample for both of us, and to spare. Of course we shall have trouble in getting it away -- the gold would be invaluable to any of these rascally adventurers who are a curse to Peru. I really want to see the place, even putting aside the question of the treasure, for it must have been extraordinarily well hidden if the Spaniards never came upon it; and I think there can be no doubt whatever that in this respect the traditions must be true. The whole thing would have been upset if the Spaniards had once paid a visit there, for, from what we saw at Pachacamac and Cuzco, they spared no exertions whatever to root out likely hiding-places. The treasure, if there is one, will be difficult to find, but I have got nearly a year yet, and if necessary I will spend the whole of it in digging. Dias could go and get provisions for us. Of course he must not always go to the same place. Sometimes he can go up to Huaura, sometimes down to Chancay or Ancon. This place, he has told me, lies a mile or two south of the Salinas promontory, which would partly account for its escaping notice, for the road from Huaura, as we see on the map, skirts the foot of the hill, and goes straight on to Chancay and Ancon, and there is no earthly reason why anyone should go out to the promontory. People here don't leave the roads and travel eight or ten miles merely to look at the ocean, especially when by following the straight line they would see it without trouble. Well, we have both had hard work during the past year, what with felling trees to make bridges, chopping logs for fires, making roads practicable by moving rocks out of the way, occasionally using our picks where Dias thought that there was a lode, and carrying mules' burdens up and down steep places.

"Altogether it has been a sort of backwoodsman's life, and if there are treasure-vaults in this place I think we shall be able to get at them, however thick and heavy the stones may be on the top of them."

"I am game," Bertie said. "There is a lot more excitement in working when possibly a treasure lies under your feet than in chopping away at trees, some of which are so hard as almost to turn the edge of an axe. The place cannot be very large, so it won't take us very long if we are obliged to tear up every foot of it. I suppose there cannot be above three feet of stone over the mouths of any of these vaults."

"I think, Bertie, that when we have once investigated the place and settled on our plans, we had better send Dias and José down to Callao to get three or four kegs of powder and some boring tools, besides a supply of provisions. We should get on a lot faster with these than with only pickaxes. We shall want a couple of strong iron crowbars for lifting slabs of stone, and of course some fuse for the mines."

"We should have to be careful not to put too much powder in, so as not to bring the whole thing down about our ears."

"Oh, we should not want to make a mine of that sort, but only to blast the stone as they do in quarries and mines. We should have to make a hole to begin with, by means of our picks and crowbars, in one corner of the room, two or three feet wide; then we must make a couple of holes the size of the boring tool, a foot or so away, according to the hardness of the ground, put in charges and fire them, and in that way blow down the rock into the hole we had made; and so we should go on until we had done the whole floor. Of course, the bigger the hole we first make -- that is to say, the wider the face it has -- the easier we shall blow the stone down afterwards. I have watched them blasting stone at Portland, and at some galleries they were making at Gibraltar, and I know pretty well how it is done. Of course it is hard work driving the borers down, for that we shall want two or three sledges of different weights. It will make our arms ache at first, but after a week or two we shall be able to stick to it fairly well. Now we had better turn in. We shall start at daybreak tomorrow. It will take us two hours to reach the spot from which Dias said we could see the place, and another three hours to get to the castle. That will give us a long afternoon to take our first look over it."

"There, senor," Dias said, when at eight o'clock in the morning they stopped on a projecting spur of the hill, "that is the castle!"

From where they stood they could see that the ground fell away into what was at first a mere depression, but gradually deepened into a valley half a mile wide. Still farther down the sides became more precipitous, and in the distance the valley was closed in by rock walls, and appeared to come to an end. That it did not do so was evident from a streak of bright green in the centre of the valley, showing that a small stream must run down it. From the point at which they stood they could see the level line of the plateau near the cliff facing the sea, and on the surface of this a dark zigzag line marked the course of the ravine. Then, when apparently close to the termination of the flat land by the cliffs, the dark streak widened out somewhat. Through a small but powerful telescope which Harry carried he could make out distinctly the upper part of what might be a house.

"It is a strange-looking place for a castle to be built," he said, "but it quite answers to your description, Dias. There are certainly some openings, which may have been windows. I am sure no one looking from here, and ignorant that such a place existed, would notice it, and of course from the valley it could not be seen at all. Even from this height I do not think I can see more than ten or twelve feet of the upper part. But surely it must be noticeable to anyone coming along the cliffs?"

"It may be, senor, but I cannot say. Certainly no native would go along there even in the daytime. Still, it does seem likely that in the Spanish time some must have ridden along the top of the cliffs, and if they had seen the castle it would certainly have been searched. Assuredly it has not been so. I have been at Ancon and Salinas many times, and have talked with the people there. They would never speak on the subject to one of white blood, but knowing that I was of native blood, and belonged to one of the families to whom the secret could be strictly trusted, they were ready enough to talk about the Castle of Demons. Had the Spaniards ever searched it they would have known, and the place would no longer be feared; but all say that from the time of the conquest by the Spaniards no living being has, as far as is known, entered it."

"Then the Incas knew of it, Dias?"

"I think so, senor, though I have not heard that any of them ever lived there; but tradition says that the vessel in which a great store of treasure was sent away from Pachacamac, and which, as is proved by Spanish writings, was never heard of afterwards, and doubtless was sunk in a great storm that came on two or three days after it sailed, was intended to be landed and hidden in this castle, which they thought might well escape the observation of the Spaniards."

"And even among your traditions there is no allusion to what became of this treasure ship?"

"No, senor; all traditions say that it was never heard of from the day it sailed. Had it landed at that castle the secret would have been handed down to some of the native families, just as that of the golden valley and of other hidden treasures has been. But there can be no doubt that the ship was lost with all her treasure."

"Well, we need not talk any more about it now, Dias; we shall learn nothing more, however long we stay here and stare at it."

They stopped half an hour for breakfast and then rode down the valley. When they got near the spot where it closed in Harry saw by the pallor on the native's face that he was beginning to be greatly alarmed.

"You had better stop here, Dias. My brother and I will go on and explore this ravine and have a look at the place. We will take some ropes with us, for the ravine may be blocked by falls of rocks, and we may have to let ourselves down. Evidently the water gets to the sea, or this valley would be a lake like that in the golden ravine, for although it is but a mere driblet of water now, you can see by the banks that a considerable amount comes down in the wet season. How it gets past the castle I don't know; I can only suppose that there is a passage for it underneath the building. We will take both our guns, Bertie, and our pistols. That there are no demons we are quite sure, but the place may have been used as a hiding-place for outlaws and brigands, who could find no better spot, as there was no fear whatever of its being discovered. We will take some bread and meat in our haversacks and a flask of spirits. Perhaps we shall be away longer than we expect, Dias, but at any rate we will not stop there after dark."

Tears were in the Indian's eyes as Harry and Bertie said good-bye to him and started, and when he saw them enter the ravine he sat down with his elbows on his knees and cried unrestrainedly. His wife went up to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Do not sorrow, Dias; as for me, I have no fear, though I love them as well as you do. I do not say that there may not be demons in the castle -- everyone says there are; -- but though these may strangle our people who break the orders that were given that none should go near, I do not believe they can hurt our white friends. You saw that they had no fear; you know how brave they are, and how they laughed at the idea of the demons having any power over them. Do you think I could smile and talk if I thought they were in danger? Still, as there is no need to prepare dinner yet, I will tell my beads over and over again. We shall know if any harm comes to them if we hear them fire their guns, for it is certain that they would do so. Even if a legion of demons attacked them they would never run away, but would fight till the last."

"I love them," Dias said; "I love them as my own sons. At first, when they came to me from Senor Barriett, it was for his sake that I consented to accompany and aid them; but from that night when they saved my life by rushing, with no weapons save their sticks, into the midst of five men with drawn knives, I felt how noble they were, and I loved them not only for the sake of my life, but for their bravery. Since then my feelings have grown every day. Have they not treated us as equals, as they would do people of their own race -- us who, by every Peruvian with white blood in his veins, are looked down upon?"

"It is true, Dias. They have laughed and joked with us, and have treated me with as much respect as if I had been of pure Spanish blood, and have always done everything they could to make things easy for me. I will not believe God and the Holy Virgin can permit them to be overpowered by the evil ones. Should it be otherwise, should they never return, I should be inconsolable. It would be to me as if you yourself had died, and I should be ready to stab myself to the heart at the thought that we had brought them here."

"I could not live after it either, Maria; but, as you say, I will trust that God will protect them."

He cut down two rods and fastened them together in the form of a cross, and then he and his wife knelt before it and repeated innumerable paternosters and Ave Marias, crossing themselves as they did so.

José, as soon as he had removed the burdens from the mules and turned them out to graze at the edge of the streamlet, came and joined them in their supplications, occasionally breaking off from the repetition of the only prayers he knew, and in his native language imploring the saints to protect their friends.

"There is no humbug about Dias," Bertie said as they left the others. "He is really in a blue funk."

"Yes, he is quite in earnest; and we know that he is no coward in other matters."

"Certainly not. He showed any amount of pluck in the affair with the Indians. But he seems such a bright, sensible sort of chap, that it is quite funny to hear him going on about his demons. I should not be surprised at anything the ordinary peasant might believe, but it is different with a man like Dias."

"You know, Bertie," Harry said, coming to a sudden stop, "I think we are making a mistake going on into this ravine. I have no belief that the place is inhabited; still, there may be desperadoes, and perhaps a few fanatics. It is quite possible that a certain number of families bound themselves to keep watch here, and formed a little community that has lasted to the present day."

"But how could they have lived?"

"We will talk that over, Bertie, if we find any of them there. Now we must turn back. It is not more than a mile at the outside to the place where we can climb the hillside. In that way we shall be able to look down into this ravine, and take a general view of the place. We shall know what we are doing then, whereas if we were to go on through the gorge without knowing anything about it, we might find ourselves caught in a trap. It won't make half an hour's difference, for the ground up there will be as good walking as it is here, while we might find all sorts of obstacles in this ravine, and with two guns apiece, ammunition, pistols, coils of rope, food, and so on, we should find it awkward work climbing among heaps of rocks.

"You were saying, How could a group of people exist here for centuries without any communication with the outside world? Well, I don't suppose they could. They might get water from the stream, and possibly there may be some way of getting down to the sea-shore; anyhow, this stream must find a passage when it is in flood. They might have been able to get enough fish for their wants; but a fish-and-water diet would scarcely be sufficient.

"At the same time we are by no means sure that they could have had no communication with the outside, for just as some families may have been ordered to live here, others may have been instructed to supply them with food. The watchers may have had a store of gold-dust sufficient to last them all this time, and their friends outside may have brought them a sheep or two, and corn and other articles of necessity once a week. There could have been no difficulty in doing so. The stories of demons, and probably the murder of inquisitive people who tried to pry into what was going on, created such a dread of the place that those in the secret would come and go without the slightest difficulty. Conceivably, young men may from time to time have gone out for a year into the world and brought back wives with them, or girls may have been sent by the people in league with them outside, and obtained husbands, which is less likely. I should think it was more probable that young boys and girls would be kidnapped, and brought in here from time to time. All this is pure guesswork, of course, but nevertheless there may be people here, and it is just as well to take a look round from above before we trust ourselves inside the place."

On gaining the plateau they followed the crest of the valley until they came to a spot where the ravine appeared to end. They found that in fact it made a sharp turn. It was here only some ten feet wide, but soon broadened out to thirty. Fifty yards farther there was another sharp bend, the ravine narrowed to twenty feet, and the sides became absolutely perpendicular. Twenty yards farther still they saw something like a wall about thirty or forty feet high stretching across the gorge, which was here some seventy feet deep. About twenty feet from the foot there was a steep ascent of rocks, such as might have fallen there by a slip from one side or the other. Above these a perpendicular wall rose for another twenty-five feet. Harry and his brother looked at it in surprise from the height at which they stood. Its appearance was precisely that of the wall-precipices on each side. It was rough and uneven, and they could see no signs of any joints.

"It looks as if it were natural," Bertie said, "but it can't be."

"No, it must certainly be artificial, but it is a wonderful imitation, and certainly anyone coming up the ravine would suppose that bank of rocks at the foot had fallen from its face; but we know that it can't be that, for the water makes its way through. Besides, you see it is only three feet wide at the top, and then there is a narrow ledge a couple of feet wide, which was evidently made for the garrison to stand upon and shoot their arrows at anyone attempting to come up the ravine. Behind the slope is all rough rocks, except just below our feet, where there is a narrow stone staircase of regularly-cut steps. It is so narrow that it could not be noticed by anyone standing here, unless they bent over to look straight down as I am doing. Well, it is just as well that we made the circuit, for we certainly could not have climbed over there."

Another sharp turn, and the ravine ran straight towards the castle. They hurried on, and when they had gone fifty yards stood at the edge of a roughly circular pit. It was seventy or eighty feet across, narrowing at each end. At one end was the ravine at whose mouth they were standing, and directly opposite, in what might be called the neck of the bottle, stood the Castle of the Demons. It was some fifty feet in width, and as it stood back about forty feet up the neck it could hardly be seen at any point except that at which they were standing. There was no door or other opening at less than some twenty-five feet from the ground. At that height was a broad aperture about four feet high and twelve wide. Above this were several smaller openings about four feet square. The singular point in the structure was a rough arch of rock, which extended above it and formed its roof. This arch projected thirty or forty feet in front of the building, so that the latter had the appearance of standing in a great cave.

"What an extraordinary-looking place!" Bertie said in a low voice.

"Extraordinary, but how splendidly chosen for concealment! You see the top of the rock above it is level with the ground on either side. This would perfectly well account for people riding along the line of the cliffs, and passing over without dreaming that there was a house below them. Even if they went to the edge on this side, they would simply see this deep pit and the ravine beyond, but could not by any possibility obtain a sight of the house unless they came round to nearly where we are standing, which they could have no possible motive for doing. Besides, you see, all the way we have been passing through a thick bush; and I have no doubt that in the old time a wood stood here, possibly planted by the builders of the house. Of course the arch existed before the house was built. The stratum below was probably softer, and the stream gradually trickled through, and perhaps in some great flood, when this basin was full, burst its way out, after which the rock gradually fell until it formed that great natural arch."

"Well, let us go round and have a look at the other side."

They found that the width of the arch to the sea cliff was a hundred and fifty feet.

"If the castle extends to this face, Bertie, it is a hundred feet across, but from here we can't see whether it does so. It is probably built flush, however, as Dias said that it was not noticeable from the sea, and had the arch projected beyond it it could certainly have been seen."

"Well, Harry, if you will tie a rope round my waist you can let me down, and I will have a look at it. You can hold me easily enough if you stand twenty feet back from the edge, and you won't have to pull me up, because I can easily climb up the rope by myself. I need not go down more than thirty or forty feet, and I can do that easily enough."

"Oh, I could pull you up, Bertie."

"Well, you could do that if by any chance I should get tired; then I could give a shout, and you could haul on the rope."

"There are lots of stumps of trees here, Bertie, and I can take half a turn round one of them and so let you down easily; then when you shout I will fasten the rope there and come to the edge, and I can hear whether you want me to haul or not. Of course it must depend whether there are any jagged rocks sticking out. If so, it would be better for you to climb, as the rope might chafe against them if I pulled."

"I understand." Bertie laid down his weapons and water-flask, made a loop at the end of one of the ropes they had brought large enough for him to sit in, then he looked for a spot where the short grass extended to the very edge. "This is a good place, and the rope won't chafe as it runs over that. Now I am ready. If you will go back to that stump fifteen feet away and let it out gradually, I will be off."

He knelt down, and putting the rope over his head took a firm hold of it just above the loop, and then crawled backwards, his brother keeping the rope taut. "Slack it out gradually now," Bertie said; "I am just over."

Directly afterwards his shoulders disappeared. Harry let the rope slowly out until he calculated that fifty feet were over the cliff, then he fastened it very securely round the stump and went forward to the edge.

"Are you all right, Bertie?" he shouted.

"Quite right."

The face of the rock was very even, and there was nothing for the rope to chafe against. Harry lay down at the edge, keeping a firm hold of the rope to prevent himself from slipping over, and was able to look down on Bertie.

"Well, Bertie, what is it?"

"It is the wall of the house, I have no doubt, but it is so cleverly built that I can scarcely see where the arch ends and the house begins. Looking quite close I can see where the stones join, but their face has been left rough; and as it is just the same colour as the rocks, and lines have been cut down its face, and cracks made across it answering to the lines in the rock on both sides, I am sure I should not have known it was built up unless I had examined it. It is much narrower on this side than on the other -- not more than twenty-five feet, I should say. There seem to be some irregularly-shaped holes in what looks like a fissure in the middle. I suppose they are to light the rooms on this side of the house, but they are certainly too small to be noticed from the sea."

"Does the sea come right up to the foot of the cliff?"

It was a minute before the answer came. "The water comes to the foot, but there is a line of rocks running along forty or fifty feet farther out. Some of them seem to be thirty feet out of the water; at one end they touch the cliff, and at the other there is a free passage. The water is very clear, but as far as I can judge I should say there is a depth of a fathom or a fathom and a half between the rocks and the cliff. Certainly a boat could row in to a position underneath where I am."

"Is there anything more?"

"No."

"You don't see an entrance down here?"

"No."

"All right! Then you may as well come up again. Can you climb up?"

"Easily."

"Well, hail me if you want me to haul."

Harry went back to the stump, unwound the rope until it was only half a turn round it, and then, holding it firmly, stood ready to haul up.



Chapter XV

Investigations


Harry was relieved when, a few minutes later, Bertie's head appeared above the edge, and directly afterwards he crawled over. "My arms have strengthened ever so much with our work. I could have done it before, but it would have been hard work."

"Well, so far so good, Bertie. There is no doubt that it is one of the best hiding-places in the world, and I am not a bit surprised that the Spaniards never found it. Now we will go back to the edge of the ravine and have a good look from that side."

As they went along he said, "Let us have a look at these bushes, Bertie. The soil is very thin about here, and I wonder that the trees grew."

"These are pines," Bertie said, "and in the mountains we often saw pines growing among rocks where there did not seem a handful of soil for them."

On examining they found several old stumps, and thrusting a ramrod down Harry found, to his surprise, that the soil was from three to four feet deep. He tried again a little farther off, and found that it was two feet; further still, it was only one.

"The tree must have stood in a hole in the rock," he said. "Try another one, Bertie." The same results were obtained. "That explains it, Bert. Evidently when they planted the trees to prevent this place from being seen from the hills, they cut away the rock in circles about twelve feet across and made cup-shaped holes, which they filled up with earth. When they planted the young trees I dare say at first they watered them. They could easily enough fetch water up from the stream. When the trees got fairly rooted they would be able to leave them alone, perhaps giving them a good watering once every two or three months. Whenever the rains came they would be able to give up watering altogether, for in these basins the earth would keep moist for a very long time. It would be a big job, but no doubt the king who built the place had all his tribe at work on it. It is probable that the Incas had established themselves at Cuzco for many years before they came down to this place, and the trees may not have been planted till their coming was first heard of. In that case there would be plenty of time to hide the place before they came down and searched the shore. We know that the Chimoos resisted them for a considerable time before they were finally conquered. Well, for whatever purpose this place was built it is one in which either the Chimoos or the Incas, if they ever found the place, would be likely to hide treasure, which is satisfactory. Now we will sit down here for a short time and watch both windows. You look at the two top lines, Bertie, and I will look at the two lower lines. I certainly do not see any signs of life. That is how the water gets out," and he pointed to a roughly-shaped arch about twelve feet wide and as many high. Through this the little stream disappeared. "I expect there is a similar passage at the other end."

"There may have been," Bertie said. "I was hanging so close to the wall that there may very well have been one without my being able to see it. But it looks pitch-dark in there. If there were much of an opening we ought to see the light, for, as we agreed, it can't be more than a hundred feet long."

"That is the first place we will investigate, Bertie. The question of how we are to get into the house wants some thinking over. That lowest window is a good twenty-five feet above the ground."

"Of course if we had a grapnel we could fasten it to the end of a rope and chuck it in."

"We shall have to make something of that sort. If the window had been on the other side instead of this it would have been easy enough, because I could have lowered you and slipped down the rope afterwards, but that arch sticking out so far on this side makes it impossible. All that we can do now is, as far as I can see, to lower ourselves down on to the top of that wall in the ravine, then go and examine the tunnel. We have got plenty of rope to lower ourselves from here on to the wall."

They watched the building for another twenty minutes. "I am convinced that no one is there," Harry said. "I have not seen as much as a shadow pass any of the windows since. If people did live in it they would naturally be on this side of the house, because the rooms here are better lighted and more cheerful, and no doubt they are the principal rooms, as the house narrows so much at the other end."

"Well, let us try it," Bertie said. "If there is a strong force here we should only have to make a bolt back to that narrow staircase. We could hold that against a whole tribe."

They rose and walked along the edge of the ravine till they were above the wall, then, fastening the rope to a stump, they slid down on to it.

"So far so good," Harry said, as, holding their rifles in their hands, they went down the steps. Then he suddenly stopped. "Hullo," he exclaimed, "here are two skeletons!"

They were not quite skeletons, for the bones were covered by a parchment-like skin, and there were still remains of the short skirt each had worn in life. A spear lay beside each. With difficulty the brothers passed down without treading upon them.

"They must have been here a long time, Harry," Bertie said when they got to the bottom.

"Any time," the other said. "In the dry air of these low lands there is scarce any decay. You remember those mummies we saw. I believe iron or steel will lie here for years without rusting. They may have been here for a couple of hundred years or more."

"I wonder what killed them, Harry?"

"I have no idea. You see, one was lying almost on the other with his arms round his body, as if he had died trying to lift him up. If they had been shot by arrows they would still be sticking into them; if they had been killed by people pursuing them they would probably be lying upon their backs, for they would naturally have faced round at the last moment to resist their pursuers, whereas there are no signs of injury. This settles the point that there is no one in the house. Had it been inhabited, the bodies would have been removed from the path, for it is by this that people would go out and return. There may have been a ladder down from the wall; the only other way they could have got out would have been through that passage to the sea. A boat may have been kept there; but even if that had been so, we should scarcely have found those bodies on the steps. Well, we shall have plenty of time to talk over that."

They walked across the open space until they approached the building. For a height of twenty feet it was constructed of stone, above that it appeared to be made of the great adobe bricks which had been so largely used at Pachacamac, and in others of the old ruins they had seen.

"There is no question that it must have been built by the Chimoos or some race before them," Harry said; "the Incas could have had no possible reason for erecting such a place. Well, now for the tunnel."

The little stream only occupied two feet of the passage. They were therefore enabled to walk down dry-foot.

"We ought to have brought a torch with us," Bertie said.

"I don't think we shall want that; there is a sort of thin blue light, the reflection of the light upon the water outside, though I don't know why it should be so blue."

The reason was soon manifest. The passage sloped downwards, and when they had gone some fifty feet their progress was arrested by water which appeared of a deep-blue colour.

"That is it," Harry said. "You see the roof comes down into the water twenty feet off, and the light has come up under it. They sloped this passage to make the water flow out below the surface of the sea, so that the opening could not be seen from without. By the light I should not say that the opening is more than six inches under the water. I don't know how the tides are, but if it is high tide now, the top of the opening would be eighteen inches out of water at low tide, for, as you know, the tide only rises about two feet on this coast. In that case a boat would be able to come in and out at low tide, but of course a man wanting to come in or go out could easily dive under at any time. Well, that settles that point for the present. It was a clever plan; any amount of water could flow out in flood time, and yet no one who took the trouble to come behind that ledge of rocks we saw would have any idea that there was an opening. I think now that we had better go back, Bertie; in the first place because we can do nothing until we have manufactured a grapnel of some sort, and in the next place because every moment we delay will add to the anxiety of our friends in camp. We must have been away three hours, I should say."

They ascended the steps, fastened the short rope round a block at the top of the wall across the ravine, and lowered themselves down. They had to proceed with great care while making their way down the slope composed of rough and jagged rocks, Once at the bottom of the ravine, however, they walked briskly on. They had scarcely issued from the entrance when they saw a stir in the camp in the distance and heard a shout of delight, and then Dias dashed off to meet them at the top of his speed.

"Thanks to all the saints, senor, that you are safe! You do not know how we have suffered. We have prayed ever since you started, all of us. Once or twice I threw myself down in despair, but Maria chided me for having so little faith in God to keep you from evil, and cheered me by saying that had harm come to you we should assuredly have heard the sound of your guns. Have you been in the castle?"

"No, Dias, we have not been in -- for the good reason that we could not get in, because the only entrance is fully twenty-five feet from the ground. We cannot enter until we have made some contrivance by which a rope can be fixed there, or manufactured a ladder, which would be the best way and save a lot of trouble, if we could get a couple of poles long enough. We thought that we would come back when we had seen all there was to be seen outside the place."

The Indian's face fell. "Then you do not know what is in the house, senor?"

"No; but we are certain that there is no one there, and that probably no one has been there for the past two hundred years, and perhaps a good deal longer."

"And the demons have not interfered with you?"

"The demons knew better," Bertie laughed.

"They may not be powerful in the daytime," Dias said in an awed tone. "It is at night that they would be terrible."

"Well, Dias," Bertie said, "everyone knows that the demons cannot withstand the sign of the cross. All you have to do is to make a small cross, hold it up in front of you and say, 'Vade retro, Satanas!' and they will fly howling away."

"Seriously," Harry said, "you know it is all bosh about demons, Dias."

"But the church exorcises evil spirits. I have seen a priest go with candles and incense to a haunted house, and drive out the evil spirits there."

"That is to say, Dias, no spirits were ever seen there afterwards, and we may be very certain that no spirits were ever seen there before, though cowardly people might have fancied they saw them. However, to-morrow we shall get inside, and Bertie and I will stop there all night, and if we neither see nor hear anything of them you may be quite sure that there are none there."

"But the traditions say they have strangled many and torn them, senor; their bodies have been found in the daytime and carried off."

"It is quite possible that they were strangled and torn there, but you may be sure that it was the work not of demons, but of the men who were set to guard the place from intruders. Well, those men have gone. We found two skeletons, which must have been there at least a hundred years, perhaps a great deal more. They were lying on the stairs, the only way of getting into the place, and they would have been removed long ago if anyone had been passing in or out."

By this time they had arrived at the camp. "I knew you would come back all safe, senors," Donna Maria said triumphantly; "I told Dias so over and over again. But what have you seen?"

"I see something now -- or rather I don't see something now that I should like to see," Bertie laughed. "I thought you would have got a good dinner ready for me, but I do not see any signs of its being even begun."

The woman laughed. "I have been too busy praying, senor, and have been keeping up Dias's spirits. I never knew him faint-hearted before, and it really almost frightened me; but I will set about getting dinner at once."

"No, no," Harry said; "we are really not hungry. We had a good meal before we started. So do you three sit down and I will tell you all we have seen."

The three natives listened with intense interest. When he had done, Maria clapped her hands. "It must be a wonderful place," she said. "I wish I had gone with you, I will go to-morrow if you will take me."

"Certainly we will take you, Maria; and I have no doubt that Dias will go too."

"I will go as far as the place," said Dias, "but I will not promise to go in."

"I won't press you, Dias. When we have slept there a night I have no doubt you will become convinced that it is quite safe. And now about the ladder. We shall really want two to be comfortable -- one for getting up to the window, that must be made of wood; the other, which will be used for getting up and down the wall in the ravine, may be made of ropes. But I think that that had best be hung from the top of the ravine above it, so as to avoid having to climb over those rough stones at the foot, which are really very awkward. One might very well twist one's ankle among them."

"I will go at once, senor, and get the poles," Dias said. "You may as well come with me, José. We passed a wood in the valley about five miles off; there we can cut down a couple of young trees. If we put the saddles on two of the riding mules, when we have got the poles clear we can fasten the ends to ropes and trail them behind us."

"We shall also want some of the branches you cut off, Dias. You had better say thirty lengths of about two feet long, so that we may place the rungs nine inches apart. You had better get poles thirty feet long, for we may not have just the height by a couple of feet."

The two natives at once rode off, and the brothers set to work to collect sticks for the fire.

"It is too bad, senors, that this should not have been done while you were away, but we thought of nothing but your danger."

"You were perfectly right, Maria; if we were in peril, you did the best thing of all to obtain help for us. As to the dinner, there is no hurry whatever for it. What have you got to eat?"

"There is nothing, senor, but a few of the fish we fried two days ago, and the ham that we smoked of that bear."

"I will take the line, then, and go down and try to catch some fresh fish," Bertie said. "There is a good-sized pool about half-way between here and the ravine. I might get some fish there."

"I will take my gun, Bertie, and go up to the bushes by the ravine, and see if I can get a bird or two. There is no other shelter anywhere about here."

In half an hour the lad brought a dozen fish into the camp. None of them were above half a pound, but they were nearly of a size.

"These will be very nice," the woman said with a smile as he handed them to her. "I have thrown away the others. I do not think we dried them enough; they were certainly going bad. I have heard your brother fire several times, and as he does not often miss, I have no doubt he will bring us something."

Twenty minutes later Harry was seen coming along. When he arrived he threw down a large bunch of wild pigeons.

"There are ten brace," he said. "That will give us four apiece. I found nothing in the bushes, but I suddenly remembered that when we went across from the ravine to the house, lots of wild pigeons rose from the sides of the rocks. We did not give them a thought at the time, our attention being fixed upon the building. But when I got nothing above, I suddenly remembered them, and concluded that they had their nests in the crannies of the rocks. So I walked along to the top, and as I did so numbers of them flew up. I shot a couple; most of the others soon settled again, but some kept flying round and round, and in ten minutes I got as many as I wanted. Then of course I had to go down into the ravine by the rope and the steps to gather them up. I returned the way we did, by the rope we had left hanging from the top of the wall."

Maria was already at work on the birds. Taking them by the legs, she dipped them for a minute into a pot of boiling water, and as she took them out Bertie pulled off the feathers. Then she cut off the heads and feet, cleaned them, and spitted them on José's ramrod, and, raking out a line of embers from the fire, laid the ends of the ramrod on two forked twigs while she attended to the fish.

"But they will be done before the others arrive," Bertie said.

"No, senor; there they come! They will be here in a quarter of an hour. The cakes are ready and hot, so we will lay the pigeons on them, and they will be nicely flavoured by the time that we have eaten the fish and are ready for them."

Dias and José soon arrived at a gallop, with the long poles trailing behind them and a fagot of short sticks fastened to each saddle.

"Those are capital poles, Dias," Harry said as he examined them -- "strong enough for anything. We will chop notches in them for the rungs to lie in. There will be no fear then of their shifting, which they might do if the lashings stretched. Now, we have got a capital dinner just done to a turn, so you see we have not been lazy while you were away.

"You see," he said, after they had finished breakfast, "my shooting has quite settled the point that no Indians are in the castle. If there had been they would certainly have come to the windows to see who was firing. I kept an eye on the castle between each shot, and saw no signs of any movement. It is a capital thing that so many pigeons live among the rocks. If we content ourselves with say five brace a day, they will last us a long time, and will be a change from salt and dried meat, which we should otherwise have to depend upon, for we cannot be sending away for fresh meat two or three times a week. We can get fish, though I don't suppose that will last very long, for the pool will soon be fished out, and I don't think that there is water enough in other places for fish of that size."

"We can get them from the sea, Harry. We have got plenty of large hooks and lines, which we used on the other side of the mountains. If any of the window openings on that side are large enough, we can let down the lines from there. If not, we can do it from the top where I went down."

"I should not like that," Harry said. "One might slip on that short grass."

"Well, one could dive out through the passage and sit on that ledge of rocks, and fish either inside them or in the sea outside."

"Yes, we might do that, Bertie, and certainly it would be a first-rate thing if we could get plenty of fish. It would keep us in good health and make a nice change. I think to-morrow morning, Dias, we had better fix our camp close up to the mouth of the ravine. Out here in the open valley we can be seen from the hills, and if anyone caught sight of the animals, it would very soon get talked about, and we should have a party down here to see who we were and what we were about."

"Yes, senor, that would be much better. I should not have liked to go nearer this morning; but now that you have been there twice, and have returned safely, I am ready to move."

"It would certainly be better; besides, it would save us a couple of miles' walk each time we wanted a meal. However, when we once set to work I have no doubt we shall establish ourselves in the castle. Of course one of us will come down morning and evening to see to the animals."

As soon as the meal was finished they set to work to make the ladder. A short stick was cut as a guide to the space that was to be left between the rungs. Bertie and José marked off the distances on the two poles, and Dias and Harry with their axes cut the grooves in which the sticks were to lie. Then the poles were laid a foot apart, and the work of pressing the sticks into their places began. They agreed that the ropes should not be cut up, as they would be wanted for fastening on the loads whenever the mules went to fetch food or powder. Two of the head-ropes were used on each side, and a firm job was made.

"When you go, Dias, for the powder and so on, you must get another supply of rope. We shall want a longer ladder than this in the ravine, and also a rope to lift powder and firewood and so on into the castle, and perhaps for other things that one does not think of at present. Tomorrow we will unfasten the cord by which we descended to the wall, as we shall not want to use that in future. I think to-morrow, when we go to the castle, as you and José do not mean to accompany us, you might take your axes and cut down a lot of those stumps among the brushwood, split them up, and pitch them into the courtyard of the castle. It would be well to lay in a good stock of firewood. We shall want it for cooking and lighting of an evening. We have only one or two torches left, and we shall want a cheerful fire."

"I may go with you to-morrow, may I not?" Maria said.

"Certainly you may, if you wish."

"I should like to," she said. "In your company I sha'n't be a bit afraid of demons; and I want to see the place."

"That is right, Maria, and it shows at any rate that your curiosity is stronger than your superstition."

"If Maria goes I will go," Dias said. "I don't like it; but if she went and I didn't I should never hear the last of it."

"Very well," Harry said with a laugh, "I do think she would have the better of you in the future if you didn't. So you see you will be both conquering your superstitions -- she, because her curiosity is greater; you, because you are more afraid of her tongue than you are of the demons."

"A woman never forgets, senor; if she once has something to throw up in a man's teeth it comes out whenever she is angry."

"I suppose so, Dias. Bertie and I have had no experience that way, but we will take your word for it."

The next morning they moved the mules and all their belongings to the extreme end of the valley. Then they had an early breakfast. José took up his axe and the others their arms; the former turned back for the point where he could climb the hill. Dias and Harry took the heavy end of the ladder, Bertie the light one, and they started up the ravine. Maria followed with a store of bread that she had baked the day before. It was hard work carrying the ladder up the rocks at the foot of the wall. When it was securely fastened there, they mounted and dragged it up to them.

When they came out into the open space there was a pause. "It is, as you said, a strange place, senor."

"It is, Dias, an extraordinary place; and if the people who built it wanted, as I suppose they did, to avoid observation, they could not have chosen a better. When those trees were growing it would have been impossible to catch sight of them without coming down the ravine."

"It looks very still," Dias said in a doubtful voice.

"That is generally the case when a place is empty, Dias, Now let us go on at once and get the ladder up."

As soon as the ladder was in position Harry mounted, closely followed by Bertie. Dias hesitated; but a merry laugh from his wife settled the point, and he followed with an expression of grave determination on his face. As soon as he was on the ladder his wife followed him with a light step.

As Harry reached the top, he found that the sill of the window was two feet and a half above the floor of the apartment. He stepped down and then looked round. The room occupied the whole width of the house, and was some twenty feet wide. Four rows of pillars ran across it, supporting the roof above. The ends of the room were in semi-darkness. It was not above ten feet in height. There were rude carvings on the pillars and the walls.

By the time he had made these observations the others had joined him. "I see people there," Dias said, in an awed voice, pointing to one end of the room. Harry dropped the barrel of his rifle into the palm of his left hand. After gazing two seconds he placed it on his shoulder, saying, "There are people, Dias, but they won't do us any harm;" and he walked in that direction. Two figures lay on the ground; four others were in a sitting position, close to each other, against the end wall. Some bows and arrows and spears lay near them. All were dressed in a garment of rough cloth. Harry walked up to one and touched it on the head with the muzzle of his gun. As he did so it crumbled away; the bones rattled on the stone floor as they fell. Donna Maria gave a little cry.

"They are dead!" she exclaimed. "They must have been dead years and years ago."

"Two or three hundred, I should think. Your legends are evidently true, Dias. There was a party left here to keep strangers from entering this place. Now, before we go farther, let us think this out. We will sit down on the ledge of the window. But before we do so, take a good look at their arms and skulls, Dias. You have often been with travellers to the ruins; let us hear what you say."

Dias, who was now assured that he had only to deal with human beings, examined them carefully, looking at the ornaments that still hung round their necks, and then said: "They are not the old people, senor; these were Incas."

"That is an important point; now let us see how this is to be explained. Now," he said, as they sat down, "it is clear that the Incas did know this building. They may have discovered treasures here or they may not; but it would certainly seem that they were as anxious as the Chimoos had been to keep its existence a secret, and it is certain that they must have had some interest in doing so. We have reason to believe that the Spaniards at least did not know of it. There is no doubt whatever that these men were not killed in fight; on the contrary, their sitting position proves that they died quietly, and probably at the same time. We see no signs of food; we may find some as we search the place. If we do not, we must take it that they either died from an outbreak of some epidemic or from hunger. And it is quite probable that the two skeletons on the steps were two of their companions who were going out to seek for food, and that they fell from weakness; one clearly died in the act of trying to lift the other. What do you think of that, Dias?"

"I think that what you say is likely. But why should they have died from hunger?"

"It is probable that others were in the secret, and were in the habit of bringing provisions to them, and perhaps of relieving them at certain periods. We know that there were fierce battles in the early times of the Spaniards. In one of these battles the whole of those who were acquainted with the secret may have fallen. Or it may have been earlier after the conquest had been completed, when the Spaniards drove tens of thousands of men to work as slaves in the mines. The people here may have remained at their post, hoping for relief until it was too late. Two of the strongest may have started at last, but have been too weak to climb the steps, and died there. Their comrades may have never known their fate, but have sat down to die here, as you see. I should think it probable that the second of my suggestions is likely to be the right one, and that this did not take place until perhaps a hundred years after the arrival of the Spaniards, otherwise those legends of men who came near this place being killed would never have been handed down. If all this is as I suggest, either the Incas knew that the Chimoos had buried treasure here, or they themselves buried some, although, as you say, there is no tradition of treasure having been taken here. But it is possible that that treasure ship, which undoubtedly sailed from some place along the coast and was never again heard of, really came here; that her treasure was landed, and the vessel then destroyed. In either case, there is strong reason for hope that there is treasure somewhere in this castle if we can but find it."

"We will find it," Bertie said confidently. "What you say must be true. These Indians would never have been fools enough to sit here and die without some good reason for it. Well, I vote that before we do anything else we clear these bones out."

"We can do that the first thing to-morrow morning, Bertie. We can't just throw them out of the window. The bones are of men who died doing their duty to their country. We will leave them as they are to-day, and to-morrow we will bring up one of the big leather bags, place the bones in it, and take them down into the valley and bury them."

"Then you won't sleep here to-night, Harry?"

"No; I have not a shadow of superstition, but I do not think it would be lively here with those things at the end of the room. Now, let us look about a bit.

"This was evidently the great hall of the place; do you not think so, Dias?"

"Yes, senor; the house gets narrower as it nears the sea. This is by far the best lighted room on this side. No doubt the rooms on this floor were the abode of the chief who built it, and his principal followers; the others would be above."

"Well, we will light the two torches. Yes, there is no doubt that this was the room. You see there are brackets against all the pillars for holding torches. Before we go farther we will see what they are made of."

He took his knife out of his pocket and went up to one of the brackets, which consisted of bars of metal an inch and a half square and eighteen inches long. They widened out at the end, and here was a round hole about two inches in diameter, evidently intended to put the torch in. The metal was black with age. He scraped a few inches off one of them with his knife. "Silver!" he exclaimed. "It would have been better if they had been gold. But as there are four on each pillar, and twelve pillars, they would make a tidy weight. That is a good beginning, Bertie. If they are the same in all the rooms there would be several tons of it."

There was but one door to the room; through this they passed. Dias, now that there was some explanation for what he considered the work of the demons, had a more assured air. One passage led straight on; two others ran parallel to the wall of the room they had left.

"We will examine these first," Harry said. "It is likely enough they lead to the stairs to the lower room. There must be two floors below us, one above the level of the top of the tunnel, the other below that must be divided in two by it."

As they advanced into the passage there was a strange and sudden clamour, a roaring sound mingled with sharp shrieks and strange little piping squeaks. Maria ran back with a shriek of alarm, and there was a strange rush overhead. The torches were both extinguished, and Harry and his brother discharged their rifles almost at the same moment. Dias burst into a shout of laughter as they both dropped their weapons and swung their double-barrelled guns forward. "What on earth is it, Dias?"

"It is bats and birds, senor. I have seen them come out of caves that way many times. I dare say the place is full of bats. The birds would only come into rooms where there is some light."

Turning round they saw quite a cloud of bats flying out through the door.

"Confound it!" Harry said. "They have given me the worst fright I ever had in my life."

They went back to the room, they had left. Both Harry and Bertie had lost every tinge of colour from their faces.

"I am very glad, Harry," Bertie said, with an attempt at a laugh, "that you were frightened. I was scared almost out of my life."

Maria had thrown herself down on her face.

"Ah, senors," Dias said triumphantly, "you thought they were demons!"

"I did not think they were demons, Dias, but what they were I could not tell you. I never heard any such sound before. I am not ashamed to say that I did feel badly frightened. Now, see to your wife, Dias."

"There is nothing to be afraid of, Maria. What are you lying there for?"

The woman raised herself slightly. "Are you alive?" she said in a dazed way.

"Alive? of course I am! You don't suppose I am going to be frightened at a lot of bats? There, look at them, they are still streaming out."

"It is all right, Maria," Harry said. "You have had a fright; and so have Bertie and I, so you need not be ashamed of yourself. It is all very well for Dias to laugh, but he says he has seen such things before."

"If you were afraid, senor, I need not be ashamed that I was; I really did think it was the demons."

"There is no such thing, Maria; but it was as good an imitation of them as you are ever likely to see."

"I was in a horrible funk, Maria," Bertie said, "and I am only just getting over it; I feel I am quite as pale as you. What are you looking so pleased about, Dias?" he asked almost angrily.

"I am pleased, senor, now I have got even with Maria. The first time she says to me 'demons', I shall say to her 'bats'."

"Now, let us start again," Harry said as they all laughed. "But instead of going down, we will go upstairs. I have not pulled myself quite together yet, and I don't suppose you have."

"No, my knees are quite wobbling about, and if I saw anything, I certainly could not aim straight just at present. And it's rum; we had the main-mast struck by lightning off the Cape one voyage I made, and I did not feel a bit like this."

"I dare say not, Bertie. We all feel brave in dangers that we are accustomed to; it is what we don't know that frightens us. We will sit here on the window-sill for another five minutes before we move again. José, you have got some pulque in your gourd, I suppose?"

"Yes, senor."

"Then we will all take a drink of it. I don't like the stuff, but just at present I feel that it won't come amiss at all."

Some of the spirit was poured into a tin mug they had with them, and mixed with water, with which they had filled their water-bottles from the stream before starting.



Chapter XVI

The Search Begins


In a few minutes all were ready to go on again. Harry had asked Maria if she would like to go down the ladder and wait till they returned.

"No, senor, I should not like it at all. I don't care how full of bats the rooms are, now that I know what they are. As for Dias, I have no doubt that the first time he heard them he was just as frightened."

"No, I was not; but I dare say I should have been if the man I was with -- I was then only about José's age -- had not told me that the cavern was full of bats. There was a great storm coming on, and he proposed that we should take shelter there. We brought the mules into the mouth of the cave, and he said, 'Now, we will light a torch and go in a bit farther, and then you will be astonished. It is a bat cavern, and I have no doubt there are thousands of them here. They won't hurt us, though they may knock out our torch, and the noise they make is enough to scare one out of one's senses, if one does not know what it is.' Though I did know, I own I was frightened a bit; but since then I have been into several such caves, so I knew in a moment what it was. I ought to have warned the senors, for an old house like this, where there is very little light, is just the place for them."

"But there were birds too, Dias."

"Yes, I expect they were nearer. Perhaps some of them were in the other rooms, where they would be close to the openings. But they were probably scared too by the noise of the bats, and as the windows behind were too small for them all to fly out together, they made for the light instead."

"Well, now, let us start," Harry said, getting up. They again lit their torches, and this time found everything perfectly quiet in the passage. Two or three yards beyond the spot at which they had before arrived they saw a staircase to the left. It was faintly lighted from above, and, mounting it, they found themselves in a room extending over the whole width and depth of the house. The roof at the eastern end was not supported by pillars, but by walls three feet wide and seven or eight feet apart. The first line of these was evidently over the wall of the room they had left. There were four lines of similar supports erected, they had no doubt, over the walls of rooms below. The light from the four windows in front, and from an irregular opening at the other end some three feet high and six inches wide, afforded sufficient light for them to move about without difficulty. There were many signs of human habitation here. Along the sides were the remains of mats, which had apparently divided spaces six feet wide into small apartments. Turning these over they found many trifles -- arrow-heads, bead-necklaces, fragments of pots, and even a child's doll.

"I expect this is the room where the married troops lived and slept," Harry said; "there is not much to see here."

The two stories above were exactly similar, except that there were no remains of dividing mats nor of female ornaments. They walked to the narrow end. Here the opening for light was of a different shape from those in the rooms below. It had apparently been originally of the same shape, but had been altered. In the middle it was, like the others, three feet high and six inches wide, but a foot from the bottom there was a wide cut, a foot high and three feet wide. As they approached it Dias gave an exclamation of surprise. Two skeletons lay below it. "They must have been on watch here, senor, when they died," he said as they came up to them.

"It is a rum place to watch," Bertie said, "for you cannot see out."

"You are right, Bertie, it is a curious hole."

The wall was over two feet thick; all the other openings had been driven straight through it, and, as they had noticed, were doubtless made in the stones before they were placed there, for inside they were cleanly cut, and it was only within three inches of the outer face that the edges had been left rough. This opening was of quite a different character. It sloped at a sharp angle, and no view of the open sea could be obtained, but only one of the line of rocks at the foot of the cliffs. It was roughly made, and by the marks of tools, probably of hardened copper, it had evidently been cut from the inside.

Harry stood looking for some time. "I cannot understand their cutting the hole like this. It could not be noticed from the sea that there was an opening at all; that is plain enough. But why make the hole at all when you can see nothing from it? And yet a watch has been placed here, while there was none at the other places where they could make out any passing ship."

"Perhaps," Bertie said, "it was done in order that if from the other places boats were seen approaching, they could chuck big stones down from here and sink any boat that might row inside the rocks into the entrance to the passage, which, as this is in the middle of the room, must be just under us."

"In that case they would have kept a supply of big stones here. I have no doubt whatever that it was made some time after the castle was built, and I should say, judging by its unfinished state, the work was done in haste. But what for, goodness only knows. Well now, having made no discoveries whatever on the upper floor, we will go down. It is certain that there can be no great treasure hidden under any of these floors, there is not depth enough for hiding-places. I counted the steps as we came upstairs, and there cannot be much more than two feet between the floor of one room and the ceiling in the next. I fancy that this is of single stones, each the flooring length of the space between the half-walls. You see that there is a long beam of stone running on the top of the dividing wall, and the ends of these stones appear to rest on it. It is below that we must look for hiding-places."

They descended to the first floor. They found that the space behind the great room was divided into a number of chambers. All of these, with the exception of the small one on the sea-face, were necessarily in absolute darkness, and in all were brackets for torches, similar to those in the principal chamber. Bertie counted them, and found that, including those first met with, they numbered one hundred and twenty-three.

"How much do you think they weigh apiece?" he asked Harry when the tour was finished.

"I have not the slightest idea, Bertie. I should think about fifteen pounds, but it may be five pounds less than that. They would certainly give a very nasty knock on the head."

"Oh, I was not thinking of knocks on the head. If there are a hundred bars at fifteen pounds apiece, it is a big amount of silver; if they are only ten pounds each -- and really I think that is nearer the mark -- they weigh a thousand pounds. What is silver worth a pound?"

"It varies. You can put it at five shillings an ounce; that would be three pounds sterling for one of silver -- three thousand pounds in a rough calculation for the lot."

"Well, that is not a bad beginning, Harry; it would pay all the expenses and leave a couple of thousand over."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "A drop in the ocean as far as I am concerned, Bertie. Still, it is a beginning; and you may be sure that they did not take all this trouble to guard this castle for the sake of three thousand pounds' worth of silver."

They now went down to the next floor. Here there were two staircases, and the space was divided into two parts by a wall along the centre. There were no openings whatever for light. One half had evidently been devoted to arms. Here still lay hundreds of spear-shafts, tens of thousands of arrows, piles of hide shields, and caps of the same material.

"This store must have been larger than was required for the garrison of the place," Harry said, "it must have been a reserve for re-arming a whole tribe."

Besides the arms there were great bales of rough cloth and piles of skins, all in a marvellous state of preservation owing to the dryness of the air. After thoroughly examining the room they went up the stairs leading into it and descended those into the adjoining chamber. This was divided into compartments by transverse walls four feet shorter than the width, thereby leaving a passage through from end to end. Here in confusion -- for the most part turned inside out -- were sacks of matting and bags of leather. One of the compartments was filled with great jars arranged in tiers. Some of the compartments were quite empty.

"I think, senor, that these were stores of loose grain, probably maize. I do not see a single grain left."

They looked carefully round with the torches. "This carries out our idea, Dias, that the people upstairs died of hunger. I have no doubt, as you say, that the sacks did contain grain. If these had been cleared in the ordinary way there would certainly remain a good deal loosely scattered about. They might have been full or half-full at the time the place was left as we found it. Possibly, instead of ten men, the garrison may have been ten times as strong at first, but in the fifty or hundred years before the last survivors died they may have dwindled to a tenth of that number. However, it is plain that, as you say, the store of food was not carried away, but was consumed to the last grain. In the same way you can see, by the way the sacks and bags are tumbled about and turned inside out, how careful was the search for any remnant that might have been overlooked when they were first emptied. It all points to starvation."

Three of the largest divisions bore evident traces that at some time or other, animals, probably llamas or vicunas, had been closely penned there. Another had been occupied by a store of hay, some of which still remained. When they had thoroughly examined this room, Harry looked at his watch and said, "It is late in the afternoon -- our torches are nearly finished; however, there is time for a casual look round at the cellars below. To-morrow we will begin a regular search there."

They descended by the staircase to the basement.

"How narrow this place is!" Bertie exclaimed. "It is not much more than half the width of the room above."

"Of course it is not; the two rooms above occupied the whole width of the house, these only occupy the width between the passage and the rock-wall on each side. You see, the tunnel is twelve feet wide, and we may take it that these walls are at least three feet thick -- it is not as if they had been built of brick, or even of stones cut to shape. They knew nothing of the arch, and, as you saw outside, this came up nearly to a point. The stones were longer and longer with each course, each projecting over the one below it, until, when they were within two feet of joining, a very long slab was laid across them. The stones may be three feet wide at the bottom and ten feet at the top, and you see the wall extends over here in the same way -- as of course it must have done, otherwise the whole thing would have overbalanced and fallen in before that slab at the top was added. So, you see, there is the width of the tunnel, twelve feet, and the two walls, say six feet more, to be taken off the fifty feet. So the cellars by the side of the passage can only be about sixteen feet and a half at this end, which is what they seem to be, and will go away to nothing at the other end, as we shall see presently."

The first thing they saw was a sunken tank in the floor. This was full of water. It was about four feet square, and on sounding it with one of the ramrods, they found it was about the same in depth, the water coming to within a foot of the top. It was against the wall facing the ravine.

"This must have some connection with the stream. Otherwise it would have been dry long ago."

"We did not see any hole when we went down the passage," Bertie said.

"No. Most likely a hole something like this was cut in the rock outside, and a pipe driven to the bottom of this cistern. They would only have to fill the one in the tunnel with cut blocks to within a foot of the surface, and with smaller stones to the same level as the bed of the stream; then the water in the cistern would always be level with that outside. They put it in this end so as to be well out of reach of the salt water farther in. They were no fools who built this place. However closely they were besieged, and even if the enemy occupied the space in front of the house, their water-supply was secure."

"But in time of floods, Harry, if the water rose a foot in the passage -- and we saw it did more than that -- it would flood the whole of this basement."

"That is so, Bertie; but you may be sure that there was some provision against that. They would have some valve that they could shut, or possibly there was a block of wood covered with leather that they could push into the pipe at the bottom of this cistern."

Beyond a considerable store of firewood, in large and small blocks, nothing could be seen in the chamber.

"I expect these two places were used as prisons," Harry said, "though in case a very large force were assembled some may have slept here. At ordinary times the upper rooms would be quite sufficient. But you see they had to build the whole height of the rocky arch, and they wanted the entrance to the place to be so far above the ground-level that it would be extremely difficult for an enemy to climb into it. A hostile force could only have come in at that entrance, and a small body of determined men might have held it against a host. These lower chambers were simply cellars; the store-rooms were above them, and the habitable part of the castle. Now let us look at the chamber on the other side; no doubt we shall find it just like this."

This proved to be the case. There were another cistern and more piles of firewood, otherwise it was empty. After a short survey they returned to the main chamber, bringing up with them two of the empty leather bags. In these they placed the bones of the dead, the remains all crumbling when touched, as the first skeleton had done. The bags were lowered to the ground, and the four searchers descended and carried them to the mouth of the ravine. In a spare bag which they brought with them they placed the bones of the two skeletons on the steps, and then carried them all out to the open valley.

"We will bury them when we move the camp down here to-morrow morning," Harry said. "We forgot the two up at that window. That is no matter, we can throw them out to-morrow; they will lie as well at the bottom of the sea as in the earth here."

Not much was said as they returned to the castle. They had been a very silent party all day. The gloom and darkness, the way in which their voices echoed in the empty hall, had exercised a depressing effect on them; and Donna Maria, generally the most talkative of the party, had not quite recovered from the shock which the exit of the bats had given her. It was not until she had cooked a meal, and they all sat down to it, that they quite recovered their spirits. They had found José awaiting their return. He had a blazing fire, having brought down as much firewood as he could carry, and Dias had briefly told him the result of their explorations.

"Well, Harry, what do you think altogether?" Bertie asked after the meal was over.

"I think we ought to be very well satisfied," he replied. "Everything has borne out the ideas we had. The castle may have been built as a fortress by some great chief, certainly before the time of the Incas, or it may have been used for a prison. The ornaments and things we found showed that it was known to the Incas. They would have had no occasion to use it when they were undisputed masters of the country, but when the troubles came with the Spaniards a garrison was placed here, and possibly some of their chiefs took refuge in the place. Then came the time when all opposition to the invaders ceased, and only a small body of men were left here to guard the secret, and the treasure if there were any. Generations may have passed before the last of the garrison died of hunger, and probably all others who were in the secret fell in some insurrection or died in the mines. All this seems plain enough, except that possibly there was no treasure. That left by the Chimoos may have been discovered by the Incas. I should think it extremely likely that the ship Dias mentioned as setting out with a large amount of treasure was intended to land its stores here.

"It may have done so, or it may have sunk at sea. I am inclined to think that it was lost, because the traditions concerning these hidden treasures seem to be extremely accurate; and yet, as Dias says, none tell of any Inca treasure being concealed here. However, it is quite possible that the treasure did come here and was landed, and that the ship was then broken up, so that it might be supposed she was lost at sea, and that this was kept so profound a secret by the men here, that the news was never generally known even among the natives. So far our search to-day has been successful, but I see that a hunt for the treasure will be a very difficult one. Certainly in the upper chambers there doesn't appear any possibility of such a hiding-place existing. The whole space is accounted for. The walls are all of solid stone, and have no special thickness. If the roofs had been arched there might be empty spaces on each side of the spring of the arch, but they are supported by pillars or walls, with only just space between the floors for the beams of solid stone. Of course it is in the lowest room that one would expect to find hiding-places like those we saw at Pachacamac." He paused.

"Well, why should they not be there, Harry?"

"Because, as we saw, the floor is at most twelve inches above the water-level. How is it possible that they could have constructed chambers below that level, that is in the bed of a torrent? It is probable that the solid rock lies many feet below the bed of the stream. A portion of that great arch must from time to time have fallen into it; and it may be that the river once ran forty or fifty feet below its present level. In all the places that we have seen these treasure chambers were formed in solid adobe foundations, as the temples always stood on artificial terraces. With all our appliances at the present time it would be next to impossible to sink in a stratum of great rock fragments below the water level, and I do not believe that the old people here could have done so even had it been a solid rock. The difficulties of excavating chambers in it would have been enormous. They could split rocks with the grain, and all the stone walls we have seen were made of regular pieces, and evidently formed of stone so split. They were able to give them a sort of facing with great labour, but the tools they had were not made of material hard enough to work in solid rock, and the labour of excavating such chambers would have been stupendous. Therefore I am at a loss to imagine where any such chambers can be in that castle."

Dias nodded gravely. He had been with travellers who had done a great deal of excavation, and he was able to understand Harry's argument. Maria, who was listening attentively, also understood it. José simply rolled cigarettes and smoked them. It was a matter for his elders, and he did not even try to follow what Harry was saying. There was some minutes' silence, and then Bertie said, "But the floors are all even."

"What do you mean, Bertie?" Harry asked in a puzzled tone.

"I mean, Harry, that they run straight along. There is no dip in them."

"Of course there isn't. Who ever heard of building floors on the slope?"

"Yes, that is what I mean. We know that the tunnel slopes down its own height. It is twelve feet high at the entrance, and at the lower end it is some inches below the level, so it falls twelve feet at least. At the end where the cistern is, the floor of the basement is only a few inches above the bottom of the passage; therefore at the other end it must be twelve feet above the water-level."

"You are right, Bertie!" Harry exclaimed. "What a fool I was not to think of it! There must be a space underneath it a hundred feet long, sloping from nothing down to twelve feet. There is room for a dozen chambers such as those we saw on each side of the tunnel. Well done, Bertie! you have given me fresh hope. It would be a splendid hiding-place, for any searchers who came down and saw the water in the cistern would believe at once that, as neither the Chimoos nor the Incas could have known how to build under water, there was no use in searching for hidden chambers under this floor. You see, neither of them had any knowledge of cement or mortar. All their bricks and stones are laid without anything of the sort; and whatever amount of labour was available no chamber could be made under water, for as fast as holes were dug the water would come in, and even if they could line it with stone-work the water would penetrate through the cracks. Now, Dias, that we see with certainty where we have to dig, we can make our preparations. I will write down a list of the things we decided the other day we should want: -- Six kegs of powder, two hundred feet of fuse, four boring-tools, six steel wedges, the smallest smith's fire you can buy -- for we shall have to sharpen the tools, -- six borers, a large bundle of torches, four sledge-hammers -- we have enough pickaxes and shovels, -- and another fifty fathoms, that is a hundred yards, of rope. I don't know anything else that we shall want in the mining way.

"You and your wife had better settle what provisions you must get. We shall certainly need a good supply of flour -- a couple of sacks, I should think -- tea, coffee, and sugar, dried or salted meat. And you might get a supply of smoked fish. I have no doubt that we shall catch fresh fish here in the sea, but we shall all be too busy to spend much time on that. You had better get three or four gallons of pulque; one cannot be always drinking coffee. We have still got a good stock of whisky and brandy. Your wife will certainly want a good supply of red pepper and other things for her stews. It would not be a bad thing to have a couple of crates of poultry. Don't pack them too closely, or half of them will be smothered before you get them here. Dead meat would be of no use, for it won't keep in this heat. We can turn them all out in the courtyard in front of the castle, and they can pick up their living there among the lower slopes of the cliffs. We can give them a few handfuls of grain a day. Don't get too many cocks, and let the hens be young ones. They ought to supply us with plenty of eggs and some broods of chickens. You must calculate what the weight will be, and take the mules accordingly."

"Very well, senor. I need not be away more than three days at most. It is only about twenty miles to Ancon."

"You might take the two llamas down with you and sell them there. They have done good work, and I should not like to kill and eat them. So mind you sell them to someone who wants them for carriage work. We shall not require them any more for that purpose. Will you want to take José with you?"

"I think not, senor, for I should say that four baggage mules will be ample, and I can lead them myself; and certainly you will find José useful here."

Dias and his wife then withdrew a short distance from the fire, and engaged in an animated conversation as to the things she required.

"Don't stint matters," Harry said, raising his voice. "We may be here for the next two or three months, and the less frequently you have to go down to buy things the better. It would be easy to account for your first purchases by saying that you were going on an expedition to the mountains, but you could not go to the place with the same story again."

"There are other places I can go to, senor; but I will get a good store of everything this time."

Dias started at daybreak with four mules and the two llamas. The others rolled up the tent-beds and the remaining stores, loaded up the other mules, and moved down to the mouth of the ravine. Here they pitched the little tents again.

"They will form a central point for the mules to come to," Harry said. "We will leave the sacks of maize here, but give the animals a good feed now. They will be sure to keep close to the spot. All the other things we will carry into the castle; but before we start we will bury these bags of bones."

When this was done, and the saddles taken off and piled together against the rocks, the other things were made up in portable packets, and they started up the ravine. They made three journeys before everything was brought to the foot of the ladder leading up to the window. Then the two brothers mounted, and hauled the things up with a rope which José, who remained below, fastened to them. When the last was up he went to the foot of the rock and brought several armfuls of the wood he had thrown down on the previous day. This was also hauled up.

"You had better fetch some more, José. We mean to keep a big fire burning here night and day; it will make the place cheerful. I will have a fire also burning where we are at work below. Now, senora, we will rig up some blankets on a line between the pillars at the end of the room opposite to that in which we found the skeletons, so as to make a special apartment for you and Dias. We will spread our beds at night near the fire."

The screen was soon made. A cord was run from the wall to the pillar next to it, some five feet above the floor, and three blankets were sufficient to fill the space.

Harry was about to make another line from the pillar, when Maria said:

"I would rather not, senor; I am not a bit afraid. This screen is quite large enough, and it will be more cheerful not to be shut up altogether, as then, when I am lying down, I can see the reflection of the fire on the walls, and it will be much more cheerful."

Then a blazing fire was lit. The wood was almost as dry as tinder, and burnt without smoke. It was built almost touching the back wall, in which, some five feet above the fire, Harry with a pick made a hole four inches deep.

While he was doing this, José went down and cut a sapling four inches in diameter, growing in a cleft on the rock, and from this cut off two six-foot lengths and brought them up. One end of the thickest of these was driven into the hole and tightly wedged in there, the other end was lashed securely to an upright beam.

"There, Maria," he said when it was finished, "you will be able to hang your pots and kettles from that at any height you like above the fire. Now, you can set to work as soon as you like, to get breakfast for us. We have been at work for four or five hours, and have good appetites."

"I have the cakes ready to bake, senor, and I sha'n't be long before I get an olla ready for you."

"Well, José, what do you think of the place?" Harry asked.

"I should like it better if it were not so big," the lad said. "I shall want a broom, senor, to sweep out the dust."

"It is three inches deep," Maria said.

"I should not bother about that, Maria; it would be a tremendous job to sweep such a big room, and the dust is so fine that it would settle again and cover everything. Besides, it will be a good deal softer to lay our beds on than the stones would be, so I think you had better let it remain as it is, especially as you are fond of going about without your shoes. I think I will rig up a blanket against the doorway. It will make the place look a good deal more snug, and will keep the bats from returning."

"I am not afraid of the bats, now I know what they are; but I should be constantly expecting them to rush out again."

"I expect a good many went back last night," Harry said. "We won't put the blankets up till after dark. They are sure to come out again; then, as soon as they have gone, we will close it, and they won't be able to get in when they come back before daybreak."

Harry's expectations were fulfilled. At dusk a stream of bats rushed out again, but this time quite noiselessly. The rush lasted for three or four minutes. As soon as they had gone, the blankets were hung up, and fastened across the doorway.

"They will be puzzled when they come back."

"Yes, senor," Maria said; "but when they find that they can't get in here, they will come in through the openings above."

"So they will; I did not think of that. But when they once find that they cannot get out here in the evening, they will go out where they came in, and we shall have no more trouble with them. I don't know whether they are good to eat?"

Maria gave a little cry of horror.

"Oh, senor! I could not eat such horrible things!"

"Their appearance is against them, Maria; but when people eat alligators, frogs, snakes, and even rats, I don't see why a bat should be bad. However, we won't touch them unless we are threatened by starvation."

"I should indeed be starving before I could touch bats' flesh, senor."

"Well," Harry said, "if people eat monkeys, rats, and squirrels -- and it seems to me that a bat is something of a mixture of the three -- one might certainly eat bats, and if we are driven to it I should not mind trying; but I promise you that I won't ask you to cook them."

They chatted for another hour, and then Maria went off to her corner. The brothers spread their beds by the fire, and José had his blanket and poncho, and it was arranged that any of them who woke should put fresh logs on the fire.

They were all roused just before dawn by a squeaking and twittering noise. They threw on fresh logs, and as these blazed up they could see a cloud of bats flying overhead. They kept on going to the doorway, and when they found they could not get through they retired with angry squeaks. The light was gradually breaking, and in a few minutes all had flown out through the opening. Harry and his brother followed them, and could see them flitting about the upper windows. Presently, as if by a common impulse, they poured in through the various openings.

"I don't suppose we shall see any more of them," Harry said, "and I own that I shall be glad. There is something very weird in their noiseless flitting about, and in the shadows the fire casts on the ceiling."

"They are a great deal larger than any bats I have seen," Bertie said.

"I have seen as large, or larger, at Bombay and some of the towns on the coast."

"They bite people's toes when they are asleep, don't they?"

"Yes, the great vampire bat does, but I have never heard of any others doing so. They live on insects, and some of them are, I believe, vegetarian."

"Are vampire bats found here?"

"I do not think so; I fancy that they inhabit Java and other islands in the Malay Archipelago. However, they are certainly rare, wherever they come from, and you can dismiss them altogether from your mind."

"I was glad when I heard your voices, senors," Maria said when she appeared a quarter of an hour later. "I knew they would not hurt me; but I was horribly frightened, and wrapped myself up in my blanket and lay there till I heard you talking, and I heard the logs thrown on the fire; then I felt that it was all right."

"I don't suppose they will come again, Maria."

After drinking a cup of coffee, with a small piece of maize cake, Bertie said:

"What is the programme for to-day?"

"We can't do much till Dias comes back. We may as well go down and have a look at the lower rooms. I don't think there is much dust on the floor there, but while José is away looking after the mules we will cut enough bushes to make a couple of brooms. We shall want the place swept as clean as possible, so that we can look about, but I don't think there is the least chance of our being able to move the stones. Before we do anything we will go down to the pool and have a swim, and dive out through the entrance and have a look at those rocks."

"That is right," Bertie said. "I was longing for one yesterday morning, but of course the first thing to be done was to examine this place."

"Would it be safe for me to bathe, senor?"

"Quite safe, Maria; the slope is very gradual, and you need have no fear of getting out of your depth suddenly. We will be off at once, Bertie."



Chapter XVII

At Work


Harry and his brother went to the edge of the pool, where they undressed and waded out. They found that the bottom of the passage sloped more gradually at the edge of the water than it did higher up, and they were able to walk out till they came to the point where the roof dipped into the water. They dived, and in a few strokes came up beyond the roof.

"This is glorious!" Bertie said. "We have often bathed in pools, but this is a different thing altogether. It is more than a year since we had our last dip in the sea, the day we arrived at Callao."

Although there was little or no wind, the rollers were breaking on the line of rocks outside, pouring over the lower points in volumes of foam, and coming in broken waves up the passage.

"We mustn't go beyond the point, Bertie, or we may be dashed against the foot of the cliff. We will climb up that rock to the left; it is not too steep, and I think we can manage it. From there we shall get a good view of this side of the house and of the situation in general."

It required considerable care to climb the rocks, and more than once they hurt their feet on sharp projections. The top of the rock, however, was smooth by the action of time and sea, and they were able to sit down on it in comfort.

"The castle is just as you described it, Bertie; and certainly no one sailing past, however close he came outside these rocks, would be able to detect it. No doubt the stone of which it is built is the same as that of the cliffs. Most likely it was taken from the ravine where the passage now is, and had fallen from the arch above. It might have been more noticeable at first, but now it is weathered into exactly the same tint as the cliffs. The openings are very dodgily placed, and a stranger would not dream that they went many inches in. Now, from where we stand we can look up into that curious opening on the top story. I have been puzzling over that ever since I saw it, but can't think of any possible reason for its having been cut like that, except to enable them to throw stones on to any boat that came into this passage behind the rocks; and yet that can hardly have been the case, for, as I remarked, there are no stones piled up there. Certainly they had a very large number of arrows, but stones would be very much more useful than arrows against a boat almost under their feet. However, that does not concern us now. This line of rocks must greatly aid in hiding the house from the sea. They are higher than you thought they were, looking down at them from above. We are quite thirty feet above the water, and at two or three points they are at least ten or twelve feet higher. Of course a short way out no one would be able to see that they were detached from the cliff, or that there was any passage whatever behind them.

"Besides, they break the force of the waves. If it was not for them it would be impossible for any boat to come up close to the face of the house, and a heavy storm might even break down the wall altogether. A tremendous sea would roll in here in a westerly gale; and if it hadn't been for these rocks it would have been necessary to build the lower part of the house absolutely solid to resist the sea. It is possible that the rocks were higher than they now are when the place was first constructed, in which case the house might have been almost entirely hidden from sight. Well, we may as well go back again, Bertie; we know all there is to be known about this side."

They swam back into the tunnel, dressed, and went out.

"We have come out, Maria," Bertie called. "The coast is clear for you. The water is not so deep as we thought it was, and you can walk out to the point where the roof comes down on to the water without getting out of your depth."

It did not take them long to cut a number of switches to serve as brooms, and a couple of handles. They carried them up into the house, and lashed the switches firmly on to the handles. The work was rough, but the brooms when completed were large, and, although not strong enough for heavy work, would do well to sweep aside the thin layer of almost impalpable dust on the floor below.

"Shall we take wood down there, Harry?"

"No; I think a fire would be a drawback rather than an assistance. It would be very valuable if we were working at one spot, but it could give no general light in a place a hundred feet long. We will take a torch down, and hold it and sweep by turns. We shall only want, to begin with, to make a clear path a couple of feet wide down the middle. Of course later on we shall clear it all. That will be sufficient to enable us to see how the floor is constructed, whether with big blocks or small ones, how closely they are fitted together, and so on. It is certainly unlikely that we shall find any indication as to where chambers exist."

It took but a very short time to clear the path; the dust was so light that one sweep of the broom cleared it away. When they got to the farther end they returned to examine the floor. For four or five feet from the cistern the rock had been evidently untouched, except to cut off any projecting points. Then there was a clear line running across the path. Bertie held the torch down close to it. Harry knelt down and examined it.

"This is a clean cut, Bertie. It is evidently solid above this, but the stone is not quite the same colour on each side of it, and it looks as if they had cut away the rock here and begun to build so as to keep the floor level. The cut may be six inches deep and it may be a foot, that doesn't matter. The face of this stone is very smooth, but it is not cut; it is, I think, the face of the natural fracture. Move the torch along and let us see where the next join is. Ah, here it is!"

The slab was four feet across.

"You had better sweep the dust off both ways, Bertie, so that we may see what size it is."

It was, they found, about eight feet long.

"It has straight edges, Harry, almost as straight as if it had been sawn."

"Very likely it was sawn, Bertie; They could have had no tools that would cut a hard stone like this regularly, but as they were certainly clever builders they must have employed some means to do it. Possibly they used a saw without teeth, for however much they might have hardened the copper, the teeth could not have stood, but if they had a hard copper band fixed like the saw some masons use, and kept the stone moistened with fine sand, they might have cut into it. Of course it would have been a slow process; but they would not have needed to go far into the stone, for when they got down two or three inches they might have broken it through by dropping a heavy weight on the end. It would not have mattered if the fracture had not been straight below the cut, for only on the surface would they have wanted to fit accurately to the next stone. In another way they might have got a straight edge, that is, by driving very dry wedges into the cut made by the saw, and then moistening them. I know that great stones can be split in that way. They may have used both methods. However, it doesn't matter to us much how they did it. It is clear that they could in some way or other cut stones. As they took the trouble to do so here, we may conclude that they were anxious to have a smooth floor that would be extremely difficult to get up.

"They would never have taken all this trouble if they had merely been making a floor for a cellar. For that purpose it would only have been necessary to throw rocks and stones of all sizes into the vacant space below, and when it was nearly full, to level it with small stones and sand. That they chose to undertake such tremendous labour as the making of so regular a floor as this must have been, shows that they had some very strong motive for doing so."

Going carefully along the track they had cleared, they found that the stones were of different sizes; some were but two feet wide, others as much as ten, but all fitted so closely together that it was difficult to see the joints.

"It is going to be a hard job to get these out, Bertie," Harry said, when they had completed their examination, "and it is lucky for us that the room gradually narrows from sixteen feet wide to two at the other end, and when we stepped it we made it eighty feet long. We need not take up the stones near the rock wall, for the ravine would naturally narrow as it went lower, and the depth would be greatest by the side of the wall of the tunnel."

"Well, we shall soon blow up the stones when we have got the powder."

"I hope so, Bertie; but I see that we shall have difficulty unless these top stones are extraordinarily thick."

Bertie looked surprised. "Why, I should have thought the thicker they were the more difficult to break up."

"Beyond a certain point that would be so. But suppose they are six inches thick, you may take it for granted that underneath there will be rubble, loose stuff, except where any chambers may be built. If we were to bore a hole through this top layer the powder, instead of splitting the stones up, would expend its force among the loose stuff beneath it; and besides, instead of remaining in its place, it might get scattered, and we would then get no explosion at all."

"Then we should only have to make the hole four inches deep, Harry?"

"As a result of which there would only be two inches of tamping over the powder, and this would blow right out, as if from a little mortar, and would have no effect whatever upon the stone. I have no doubt that we shall find some way to get over these difficulties, but it is evident that the work will not be all clear sailing."

"Of course we shall manage it somehow, Harry, even if we have to smash up all the stones with the sledge-hammers Dias will bring us."

"Is breakfast nearly ready, senora? That swim in the sea has given us a prodigious appetite. Did you enjoy it?"

Maria nodded.

"It is very nice, senor; but I should have liked it better if the water had not been so blue. It seems so strange bathing in blue water."

"You will soon get accustomed to it," Bertie laughed. "There are no pools except that one two miles up the valley. Besides, it is much nicer to have a great bathing chamber all to yourself. Here comes José!"

"Well, José, are the mules all right?" he shouted.

"Yes, but I had difficulty in catching them. They had evidently been frightened by something, and were three miles up the valley with their coats all staring. It must have been either a puma or a jaguar. Of course they must have got wind of him in time; but as, fortunately, they were not tethered, they were able to get away from him."

"I should think he must be up somewhere among the bushes, José," Harry said. "We had better go down tonight and see if he returns again. We shall be losing some of the mules if we don't put a stop to his marauding. Besides, it will be very dangerous for you, José, cutting the wood up there, if he is lurking somewhere. It is fortunate that you escaped yesterday."

"I expect he was on the other side of the ravine, senor; and even if he had not been, the sound of the chopping would have scared him. They will not often attack in the daytime."

When they had finished their breakfast José asked what he should do next.

"There is nothing else to do, so it would be as well to take our pickaxes and get some of those brackets out of the walls. We will begin with the other rooms of this floor and leave these here till the last."

"I will come and hold a torch for you, senors," Maria said. "I like to be doing something. I will wash up first, and then I shall have nothing to do till it is time to get ready for dinner. Now I know there is a savage beast about I should not like to go down the ladder."

"There is very little chance of his coming down the rocks," Harry said. "He is more likely to be lying somewhere on the other side watching the mules."

No move was made until the woman was ready to start. Then they lit two torches. She took one and Bertie the other, while José and Harry took two picks. It was hard work, for the brackets were driven far into the pillars and walls. It was necessary to knock away the stones round them to a depth of two or three inches before they could be got out. They worked one at each side of a bracket, relieving each other by turns, and after four hours' work only eighteen brackets had been got out. As far as they could tell by lifting them, the weight was somewhat greater than they had at first supposed. Harry could hold one out in each hand for a minute and a half, Bertie and José for a little over half a minute, and they agreed that they must be about twenty pounds each.

By this time their shoulders ached, and it was agreed that they had done a good day's work. For the rest of the day they did nothing but sit on the sill of the window and smoke quietly. The next day's work was similar, and twenty more brackets were got out. Late in the afternoon they saw Dias coming down the steps, and at once went down the ladder to meet him.

"Have you got everything, Dias?"

"I think so, senor, and I can tell you that the mules have had a pretty heavy load to bring back."

"Well, we will go with you at once, Dias, and bring some of the things up. I expect you have had nothing to eat since the morning. Before you do anything else you had better go in. Your wife has been keeping a dish hot for you, as she did not know when you might arrive."

"I shall not be long before I come and help you, senor. I have unsaddled the mules and turned them out to graze."

"It is just as well, Dias, for there is a beast somewhere about that gave them a fright last night. We will get all the eatables up to-night, the powder and drills and hammers we can very well leave till to-morrow morning."

It took them four trips to bring the provisions over, for it required two of them to carry each sack of flour, and indeed all had to give their aid in getting them up the rocky slope at the foot of the wall.

"No one seemed to think it unusual, your taking so large a load, I hope, Dias?" Harry said as they sat down to their evening meal.

"No, senor. The man I bought the powder of was a little surprised at the amount I wanted; but I said that I might be absent many weeks in the mountains, and might want to drive a level in any lode that I might discover. I led him to believe that I had seen a spot in the mountains that gave good indications, and that two of my comrades were waiting there for my return to begin work at it. I sold the llamas to a man who carries goods from Ancon up to Canta, and got the same price that you gave for them."

Harry then told him the work on which he had been engaged since he had been away.

"Of course there is no hurry about the brackets, but as we could do nothing else without the powder and drills, it was just as well to get them out, as otherwise we might have been delayed when we had done our other work. We think that they weigh twenty pounds each, so that altogether they will be worth nearly four thousand pounds. Not a bad start. I am afraid we sha'n't make such quick work down below."

"We shall see," Dias said cheerfully, for now that his fear of the demons had passed he was as eager as Harry himself to begin the search for the treasure.

"Has Maria seen any more bats?"

"Yes, she has seen some more bats," his wife said, "but no demons. Dias, what do you think? Don Harry suggested that we might eat the bats."

"I have heard of their being eaten," Dias said, "and a man who ate them raw told me that he had never enjoyed anything more. But I should not like to try it myself, unless I were driven to it as he was."

"How was that, Dias?"

"He was a muleteer, senor, and was up in the mountains. He had a cargo of silver on his mule, and during the day he had seen some men who he doubted not were brigands on the top of the ravine he passed through. He knew of a cavern where he had once taken refuge with the animals during a storm. It lay on the hillside some twenty or thirty yards away from the road. The entrance was hidden by bushes, and he had first noticed it by seeing a bear come out as he was passing along. He had his pistols, and thought that it was better to risk meeting a bear than a brigand. He arrived opposite the cave just as it became dark, and at once led the mules up there. He first lighted a torch -- the muleteers always carry these with them -- and then went in with his pistols ready, but there were no signs of a bear anywhere near the entrance.

"He drove the mules in and put out his torch. The entrance had been only wide enough for the laden animals to pass, but it widened out a great deal inside. He took off the loads, piled them up in the narrow part to make a barricade, and then sat down at the entrance and listened. He soon heard five or six men come down the road talking. They were walking fast, and one was saying that he could not be more than half a mile ahead, and that they should soon catch him. When they had gone, he went some distance in the cave and relighted his torch. He went on and on. The cave was a very large one, and when he had gone, as he thought, four or five hundred yards, it branched off into three. He took the middle one, and followed it for a long way. At last it opened into a large chamber from which there were several passages. Here he found a large number of things that had evidently been stolen from muleteers. There were at least a dozen mule loads of silver; goods of all kinds that had been brought up from the coast; the ashes of fires, and a great many bones and skins of llamas, and some sacks of flour.

"He thought he would now return to the mules; but apparently he entered the wrong passage, for he went on till he felt sure he ought to be in the chamber where he had left the animals, and he was turning to go back when he tripped over a stone and fell, and his torch went out. Then he felt in his pocket for his box of matches, and to his horror found that it had gone. It must have dropped out when he was examining the passages. He did not think much of it at first, but he had passed several openings on his way, and in the dark he probably turned down one of these. At any rate he lost his way somehow, and wandered about, he thinks, for hours; but it might have been much less, for he told me that he quite lost his head. At last he came out into a place where he could only feel the rock on one side of him, and knew that he must be in a large chamber.

"Looking up he saw, to his joy, a faint light, and moving a little, caught sight of a star. He was utterly worn out, and threw himself down. He was awakened by a strange rustling sound, and looking up saw that daylight was breaking, and that a stream of bats was pouring in through a hole, which was about three feet wide. He made several efforts to climb up to it, but failed. The bats hung thickly from every projecting point in the rocks. He hurt himself badly in one of the attempts to get up, and twisted his foot. All day he lay there. Then the idea struck him that he would kill a bat, cut it open, and use it as a poultice to his foot. The creatures did not move when he touched them, and he cut off the head of one of them and split it open. He did this three or four times during the day, and felt that the application was easing the pain of his ankle.

"When it became dusk the bats flew out again, and he knew his only chance was to keep his ankle perfectly rested. In the morning he killed some more bats. He was by this time tortured with thirst, and sucked the blood of one of them, and in the afternoon ate one raw. Another night passed, and in the morning he felt so much better that he could make another trial. He ate another bat to give him strength, and in the middle of the day made a fresh attempt. He had while lying there carefully examined the wall of rock, at the top of which was the opening, and had made up his mind at what point would be best to try. This time he succeeded. He made his way down the hillside, and found that he was a quarter of a mile higher up the pass than the spot at which he had left the mules. He hobbled down, and to his delight found his animals still in the cavern.

"He had when he first got there opened their sack of grain in order to ensure their keeping quiet. There was still some remaining at the bottom. He lost no time in loading them and leading them out, and made his way down the pass without seeing anything of the robbers. Afterwards he went back there with a good supply of torches, found his way to the cave, and brought down two mule-loads of silver. Gradually he brought the rest of the goods down, and today he is a rich man."

"Well, I think under those circumstances, Dias, I would have eaten bats myself. It was certainly a clever idea of his to convert them into poultices, though the general opinion is that cold bandages are the best for a sprained ankle."

Then they discussed their plans for the next day. "I know nothing about blasting, senor. You give me instructions, and I will do my best to carry them out; but it is useless for me to talk of what I know nothing about."

"There is a lot of common sense in that, and yet in every work, Dias, sometimes while a skilled man is puzzling how to do a thing a looker-on will suggest a satisfactory plan. That treasure has been buried there I have no doubt whatever. They would never have gone to the labour of paving those cellars as carefully as they have done unless for some special purpose. The floor was undoubtedly made when the house was built, and if we find treasure-chambers there they will be those of the old people. Of course they may have been discovered by the Incas, and when they in turn wanted to bury treasure this place might occur to them as being particularly well fitted to escape search by Spaniards. However, to-morrow we shall learn something more about them. The first thing to do in the morning, when we have brought up the rest of the goods, is to sweep the floors of those chambers carefully. When we have done that we will determine where to set to work."

Two trips brought up the powder and instruments.

"We will take one of the kegs of powder down with us," said Harry, "and leave the other five in the empty room behind this. It is just as well not to have them in this room; the sparks fly about, and some things might catch fire. I don't think there is any real danger, but, at the same time, it is best to be on the safe side."

"There are a dozen pounds of candles in this bundle, senor. You did not tell me to get them, but I thought they might be useful."

"Thank you, Dias! they certainly will be useful. What are they? -- tallow?"

"Yes, senor."

"Then before we go down we will get a couple of pieces of flat wood, and drive a peg into each, sharpened at the upper end. Candles stuck on these will stand upright, and we can put them down close to where we are working. They will give a better light than a torch, and leave us all free to use the tools. Did you think of buying some more tinder?"

"Yes, senor, I have five boxes, and half a dozen more flints."

They carried the keg of powder, the sledges, drills, and wedges downstairs, and then Dias and José set to work to sweep out the two chambers. The work was easy, but they were obliged to stop several times, being almost choked with the light dust. Harry and Bertie offered to take their turn, but the others would not hear of it, and they were glad to go up to what they called their drawing-room until the work was done and the dust had settled a little. Then they examined the pavement carefully with their torches. They had hoped that they might find either copper rings, or at least holes where rings had been fastened, but there were no signs whatever of such things in either of the chambers.

"We will begin to work half-way down," Harry said. "Of course the treasure may lie near the cistern end, but the depth below the floor would be very shallow there. More likely the chambers would be at the deep end. If we begin in the middle we may be pretty sure that we have not passed them. We will begin rather nearer the passage wall than the other, as the depth there will be greater. It does not matter which stone we take, one is as likely as another. Step ten paces from the cistern, Bertie, and the stone you stop on we will try first."

When Bertie came to a stand-still they carefully examined the pavement. "You are standing on one of the cracks, Bertie; I will stay there while you all bring the tools along."

"Shall I open the powder?" Bertie asked.

"No. It is no good doing that until we have quite decided what we are going to do. The wedges certainly won't go into this crack. I think our best plan will be to sink a bore-hole about two inches from the crack. We will drive it in in a slanting direction towards the edge, and in that way it will have more chance of blowing a piece out. First of all, we must make a slight indentation with a pick, otherwise we sha'n't get the bore to work. I will begin."

He took a pick and struck several blows.

"It is very hard stone," he said. "I have scarcely made a mark upon it."

He worked for some time, and then let Bertie take the pick. The lad struck a blow with all his strength, and then dropped the pick with a loud cry, wringing his hands as he did so.

"You have jarred your hands, Bertie; you should not hold the haft so tightly."

"It did sting!" Bertie said. "I feel as if I had taken hold of a red-hot poker. It has jarred my arm up to the shoulder; I can't go on at present."

"You try, Dias."

Dias went more carefully to work, knelt down on one knee, and proceeded to give a number of what seemed light blows.

"That is better than I did, Dias. The stone is crumbling into dust, and we shall be able to use the borer in a short time. Perhaps it will be better after all to drive the hole down straight. It will be easier to begin with; when we see how thick the stone is we shall know better how to proceed."

In ten minutes Dias had made a hole a quarter of an inch deep.

"Now, give me one of the borers -- that one about two and a half feet long. I will hold it, and you strike to begin with, Dias, only mind my fingers. Keep your eye fixed on the top of the borer, and take one or two gentle strokes to begin with; then, when you know the distance you have to stand from it, do your best. You needn't really be afraid of striking my fingers. I shall hold the drill at least a foot from the top."

Dias began very carefully, gradually adding to the strength of the blows as he got the right distance, and was soon striking hard. After each blow Harry turned the borer a slight distance round. When he heard the native's breath coming fast he told José to take a turn. The lad was nervous; the first blow he struck only grazed the top of the borer, and narrowly missed Harry's fingers. José dropped the sledge. "I can't do it, senor; I am afraid of hitting your fingers. I will sit down and hold it; it does not matter if you hit me."

"It would matter a good deal, José. No, no; you have got to learn."

"Would it not be well, senor," Dias said, "to take the borers and three hammers outside, and try them in soft ground? We could work them there till we all got accustomed always to hit them fair. There would be no occasion for them to be held, and we should get confident. I could have hit twice as hard as I did, if I hadn't been afraid of missing it."

"I think that is a very good plan, Dias. The loss of a day or two will make no difference. We shall make up for it afterwards."

Accordingly the drills and hammers were all taken up, and they were soon at work. Two or three gentle taps were given to the borers, to make them stand upright, and then all four began work. At first they often either missed the heads of the borers or struck them unevenly.

"It is well, Dias, that we carried out your suggestion, as I see I should have had an uncommonly good chance of getting my fingers smashed, or a wrist broken. I have missed as often as any of you."

They stopped frequently for breath, and at the end of an hour were glad to lay down their hammers. Dias was comparatively fresh; his practice as a woodsman now did him good service.

"I should have thought from the number of trees that I have helped to cut down," Bertie said, "that I could hit pretty hard, but this is a great deal stiffer work. I should say that this hammer is at least twice the weight of the axe, and it is the lightest of the four. I ache a good deal worse than I did when I first chopped that tree down."

"So do I, Bertie. We will stick at this till we get accustomed to the work. By doing so we shall gain strength as well as skill."

"I will get some grease, senor, from Maria, and then I will rub your shoulders, and arms; that will do you a great deal of good."

"Thank you, Dias! It would be a good plan."

Dias did this to José as well as to the brothers, and then José in turn rubbed him.

They waited half an hour, and then Harry said: "Let us have another spell." This time a quarter of an hour sufficed. "It is of no use, Harry; I can't go on any longer," Bertie said. "I feel as if my shoulders were broken."

"I am beginning to feel the same, Bertie. However, we are all hitting straighter now. We will go up into the shade and take it quietly for two or three hours; then we will have a spell again."

However, after the rest, they all agreed that it would be useless to try again, for they could not lift their arms over their heads without feeling acute pain. Three days were spent at this exercise, and at the end of that time they had gained confidence, and the heads of the drills were no longer missed.

After the first day they only worked for a quarter of an hour at a time, taking an hour's rest. The pain in their arms had begun to abate. On the following day they practised striking alternately, three standing round one borer. They found this at first awkward, but by the end of the day they were able to strike in regular order, the blows falling faster after each other on to the drill.

"I think we shall do now," said Bertie. "No doubt we shall hit harder with a fortnight's practice, and shall be able to keep it up longer. However, I think that even now we have sufficient confidence in striking to be able to hold the borer without any fear of an accident."

The next day they began work early in the cellar. José volunteered to take the first turn to hold the drill.

"You understand, José, you must turn it round a little after each stroke, and in that way it will cut the hole regularly."

Harry took his place on one side of José, who sat with a leg on each side of the drill. Dias stood facing Harry, Bertie behind José holding the torch so that its light fell strongly on the head of the drill. At first the two men struck gently, but gradually, as they grew confident, increased the weight of their strokes until they were hitting with their full power. After ten minutes they stopped. "Let us look at the hole," Harry said. "How far has it got down?"

José moved his position and Harry examined the hole. "About an eighth of an inch," he said. "Let us scrape the dust out of it."

"Shall we take a spell now, Harry?" Bertie said.

"No, we will wait five minutes and then go on again, and after that we will change places with you, relieving each other every twenty minutes."

The work went on, and at the end of two hours the hole was three inches deep. Another hour and a half and the drill suddenly went down.

"We are through it," Bertie said, "and I am not sorry."

"Now I will lift the drill up gently, Bertie; do you kneel down, and when I stop, take hold of it close to the floor, so that we may see the thickness of the stone."

"Five inches," he said as he measured it. "Now put on a little grease, Dias. I will lower it again, and we shall be perhaps able then to get some idea of what is underneath."

He lowered the drill and turned it round two or three times, and then carefully raised it. Some sand and little stones were sticking to it.

"Sand and gravel," he said. "That settles that point. Now we have done a good morning's work, and let us go up and have breakfast."

Maria looked enquiringly at them. "I was just coming down for you. Well, what have you done?"

"We have drilled one hole, Maria, and none of us have got our fingers smashed, so I think we have every reason to be satisfied with our first experience at the work."

As they breakfasted they talked matters over. Harry said that he was certain that the thickness of the stone was not sufficient for them to break it up by blasting. "We shall have to try some other plan. It is equally certain that we cannot smash the stone with the sledge-hammers, and I don't think that the wedges would break it. Of course if we got one stone out it would be comparatively easy to lift the next, as we could put the crowbars under it. If we can do it in no other way, we must drill a line of holes close to each other right across the stone, and we might then break off the piece between them and the crack and get our crowbars under the slab. It might be worth while to drill holes a foot apart, from the point where we have begun to the other end of the room. Of course if we found that gravel and stones were everywhere under the slabs we should learn nothing; but the opening to the chambers is probably covered by another stone, and if we found that, we could put in one or two more holes so as to be sure that it was flat, in which case we might smash it somehow. Of course, if we don't come upon a flat stone we shall conclude that they put a layer of sand and fine gravel over the slabs covering the vaults, and must then, as I say, get up one stone and gradually lift all the rest, clearing out the gravel as we go to the depth of a foot or so. In that way we shall make sure that we shall not miss any chamber there may be.

"I think that would certainly be the best plan. At present we are groping altogether in the dark, and it will take us a fortnight at least to make that row of holes close to each other, as you propose."



Chapter XVIII

Disappointment


Six more days were spent in driving holes according to Harry's plan. The result was in all cases the same. Sand and small stones were brought up attached to the grease. They had now sunk the holes at a much more rapid rate than at first, for they were accustomed to the work, their muscles had hardened, and they were able to strike more frequently and with greater force. They would have got on still more quickly had it not been for the trouble in sharpening the drills. These were heated in the small blacksmith's fire Dias had brought. They were first placed in the fire, but this was not sufficiently hot to raise them beyond a dull red glow. When this was done a shovelful of glowing fragments was taken from the fire and placed on the hearth, and among these the small bellows raised the ends of the drills to a white heat, when of course they were easily worked. At first they had some difficulty in tempering them. Sometimes, when cooled, the points were too soft, at other times too brittle; but at the end of a week they had arrived at the proper medium. But one of the party had to work steadily to keep the drills in good order.

Bertie was daily employed at this work, as José generally failed to give the proper temper to the tools. Bertie, however, generally managed to get in two or three hours' work below. Although perfectly ready to do his share, he was by no means sorry to be otherwise employed for a part of the day, and as he was now able to talk Spanish with perfect fluency he and Donna Maria maintained a lively conversation whenever they were together. All the party, however, were glad when Sunday came round and gave them a day of complete rest; then they would bathe, fish, shoot pigeons, or lie in the shade, each according to his fancy, and recommence work with fresh vigour the next morning.

Just a fortnight after they had begun work they were about to begin a hole in a fresh stone. Talking it over, they had come to the conclusion that this was the most likely spot in the cellar for the situation of an underground chamber. Farther on there would scarce be width for one, for it was here but eight feet across. Where they had already tried there would scarcely have been depth enough. This seemed to them to be the happy medium.

Before setting to work Dias passed his torch over the stone. Presently he stopped. "Will you light two of the candles, senor; the torch flickers too much to see very plainly."

Somewhat surprised, for no such close examination had been made before, the candles were lighted and handed to him. Dias knelt down, and, with his face close to the stone, moved about carefully, examining it for some minutes without speaking.

"This stone, senor, is broken," he said at last, "broken into a dozen pieces, and they have been so carefully fitted together again that the dust that settled upon it quite prevented our seeing it till we swept it again just now, and it was only because there was a tiny chip out where I first looked that I noticed it."

Harry knelt down and also examined the stone. Like all the others, it had not been faced with tools. Consequently, although roughly even, there were slight irregularities in the surface. Now, as Dias pointed them out to him, he saw that there were lines running through it here and there.

"Look here, senor. The stone has been struck here. Here are some dents."

These were scarcely noticeable. The surface had taken the same colour as the rest of the stone. They were of irregular size, and from a quarter of an inch to an inch in diameter, and nearly in the centre of the stone, from which point several of the cracks started.

"It certainly looks as if the stone had been struck with something heavy," Harry said. "I should think, by the appearance, some very heavy piece of rock must have been dropped upon it."

"Yes, senor, very heavy rock -- so heavy that there must have been many men to lift it."

"It must have been heavy indeed to break up this slab."

"Perhaps it is not so thick as the others," Dias suggested.

"I don't like it, Dias. Well, let us set to work. We will try the wedges there. They were no use against the solid stone, but they might move these pieces. Put one of the borers just at the place from which these cracks start -- at least, I suppose they are cracks -- and let us drive it in for an inch. You hold it, José. Don't turn it, we want it to go in just in a line with this crack. I know we cannot drive it in far, but at least we may make it go deep enough to give a wedge a hold in it."

Five such small holes were made in a crack that seemed to form a rough circle, then the wedges were put in, and they began to work with sledges. In ten minutes Harry, examining the place carefully, said: "The bit of stone is breaking up. There are lines running across it from the wedges. Give me the heaviest sledge." He swung it round his head and brought it down half a dozen times in the centre of the wedges. The cracks opened so far that he could see them without stooping.

"Now we will try with the crowbars," he said.

In ten minutes a fragment of the stone was got up; then they hammered on the wedges again, and a piece of rock, which was roughly seven or eight inches in diameter, broke completely off.

"It is only about two and a half inches thick," Harry said as he drew one of the fragments out. And, holding the candle to the hole, he went on: "And there is another slab underneath. That settles it. We are at the top of one of these vaults. The question is, is it empty? I am afraid it is. This stone has evidently been broken up and fitted in again with wonderful care."

"Why should it be fitted in carefully if they emptied the chamber?"

"That I can't tell you, Dias, and it is of no use trying to guess now. First of all, we will get the rest of the stone up. It won't be difficult, for now that we have made a start we can use our crowbars. José, run up and tell my brother to come down. We shall want him to help with the crowbar; and besides, he would, of course, wish to be here, now that we are on the point of making a discovery one way or the other."

In a minute Bertie came down with José, and Donna Maria followed. "José tells me you have broken a hole in one of the stones," Bertie exclaimed as he ran up.

"We have got a bit out of a broken stone, Bertie. This stone had been broken before, and evidently not by accident. It is only half the thickness of the others, and, as you can see, there is another slab underneath."

"Who can have broken it, Harry?"

"That question we cannot decide, but I should say probably the Incas. We agreed that it was very possible they discovered the hidden treasures of the Chimoos. They must have learned, as the Spaniards did, how cleverly these places were hidden, and it must have been as evident to them as it is to us, that if there was a hiding-place here, this must be the spot."

When one or two more pieces of the stone had been got out by the aid of crowbars, the rest was removed without the least difficulty. Another slab two feet square was exposed. In the middle of this was a copper ring, and the slab fitted, into a stone casing about eighteen inches wide. As soon as this casing was cleared, Dias and José took their places on one side, the two brothers on the other. A crowbar was thrust through the ring, and all of them, taking hold of the ends, lifted with all their strength. At first the stone did not move, but at the second effort it lifted suddenly. It was the same thickness as the one they had broken, and, on being moved, was easily handled. The torches were thrust down, and all peered eagerly into the vault. So far as they could see it was empty.

"Shall I jump down, senor?'

"No, the air may be bad, José. Run up and bring down a short length of rope, twenty feet will be ample. Now, let your torch drop down, Dias. If it burns, it will be safe for us to go down; if not, we must keep on dropping blazing brands into it till they burn."

As, however, the torch burnt brightly, Harry lay down, and, saying, "Hold my legs, Bertie!" looked down into the vault. Eighteen inches below the surface, the hole widened out suddenly. A minute later Harry's head appeared above the surface again.

"It is empty," he said in as cheerful a voice as he could manage. "Of course it is a disappointment," he went on, "but I felt certain that it would be so directly we found the stone was cracked. The only hope was that the first finders of the treasure afterwards used the place for the same purpose. That they thought it possible they might do so is clear by the care with which they fitted the stones together."

None of the others spoke. The disappointment was a heavy one. Bertie broke the silence by saying; "Well, better luck next time. They may have found out this place, but there may be others which they did not find."

"Quite so, Bertie. Now we have got up one stone, It will be comparatively easy work getting up the others. We will take up every stone to the end, and then work back till we get to a place where there is not more than a couple of feet between the bottom of the stone and the top of the rock."

At this moment José ran into the room with the rope. Harry took it, and dropped one end until it nearly touched the floor below. "Hold on," he said, "and I will slip down first." Half a minute later he stood at the bottom of the chamber, beside the torch, which was still burning.

"It is only about three feet across at the bottom," he said; "the wall by the passage goes straight up, on the other side it is the bare rock, so it is almost wedge-shaped. It is twenty feet long, and five feet high up to its roof, that makes it nearly seven to the upper part of the mouth." The vault was absolutely empty. He moved about for a minute and then said: "Gold has been stored here. There are particles of gold at the bottom, and there is gold-dust in the cracks of the broken face of the rock. Now I will come up again. Hold the rope tight; I will climb about a yard, and then I can get my fingers on the ledge."

He was soon up. "Now, do any of you want to go down?" Dias and José shook their heads; and Bertie grumbled, "I don't want to look at the beastly hole; it has been trouble enough to get at it."

"Well, I think we will not do any more to-day, Dias. It has rather taken the heart out of one. Still, we could not expect to hit upon the treasure for the first time. We will go up and talk it over, and when we have smoked a pipe or two we shall be more inclined to take a cheerful view of the matter. We won't talk about it till we have got to the end of our second pipe."

The tobacco did its usual work, and it was with quite a cheerful voice that Bertie broke the silence: "The Incas must have been pretty sharp fellows to find that hole, Harry?"

"Well, very likely they heard that the Chimoos had treasure there. Indeed they must have known, because, you see, not one of the other stones is broken, so they evidently knew where that chamber was situated."

"Yes, I suppose that was it. Well, we are in fine working order now, and we sha'n't be very long getting the other stones up."

"Not very long this side anyhow, Bertie. We shall want some short blocks of wood to put under the stones as we raise them. I expect they are all five inches thick, and they must be a very big weight. Evidently it is going to be a longish job. As we have been a fortnight without fresh meat, Dias had better go off and buy half a dozen sheep. We won't have dead meat this time. He can bring them slung over the mules, and we can kill them as we want them."

"We have not had fresh meat, but we have not done badly, Harry; we have generally had a good many eggs and some pigeons, and José has brought us in fish from that pool. But they have dwindled down lately. He only brought in a couple of fish yesterday evening."

"Well, the pigeons are getting scarcer too, Bertie. We have killed a good many, but the rest are getting very shy, and I think most of them must have gone off and settled in new places on the face of the rocks above the ravine. While Dias is away, we will try and lay in a stock of sea-fish. We can swim out and sit on the rocks during the day, and lay our lines at night. We have worked very hard for a fortnight, and we deserve a holiday."

Dias, when he was spoken to, said he would start at once with four mules for Huacha. "It is not above fifteen miles," he said, "and I can get there this evening. I should think that I could buy the sheep there; if not, I must go on to Huaura. Each mule will bring two sheep. Of course I could drive them, but that would seem more singular."

"You had certainly better take the mules, Dias. Tie the sheep carefully on them, so that they will not be hurt."

"I will take eight of the leather bags, senor. The sheep are not large, and I will sling one on each side of the mules."

"Yes, it would be as well, while you are about it, to bring eight. You may as well get some more coffee. We drink a lot of that, and like it strong. If your wife thinks we shall want more sugar, or anything else, by all means get some."

As soon as Dias started, the lines were got ready. They cut a couple of saplings to serve as rods, and José, digging among the rocks, found plenty of worms, beetles, and grubs for bait. In addition, they took a cake or two of maize, to break up and throw in to attract the fish.

"We had better swim out in our flannel shirts and trousers," Harry said. "They will soon dry, and they will keep off the sun. If we were to sit there without them, we should get blistered from head to foot."

"Shall we fish outside the rocks, or inside, Harry?"

"We will try both; but I think we are likelier to catch most inside. I should think a back-water like that would attract them."

They met with equal success on both sides of the rocks, and by evening had caught over forty fish, at least half of which weighed over four pounds. Then they set the long lines, each carrying forty hooks, and returned to the castle with as many fish as they could possibly carry. Maria was delighted with the addition to her larder, and she and José set to work at once to clean and split them. In the morning they were hung in strings from the broad window. Maria said they would get the benefit of the heat from the walls, and any air there might be would be able to pass round them.

By means of the night-lines they caught almost as many fish as they had done with their rods, and that day they had the satisfaction of bringing in more than they could carry in one journey.

"We have got plenty now to keep us going for another three weeks," Harry said, "and we can always replenish our stock when we choose."

Dias returned at sunset carrying one sheep over his shoulders.

"I have left the others out there, senor; I don't think there is any fear of their straying. There is no fresh grass anywhere except near the stream, and moreover, being strange to the valley, they will naturally keep near the mules."

Another month passed in continuous labour. The stones had all been taken up in the basement they had first visited, but no other chamber had been found. The parallel chamber had given them much trouble at starting, as no stone had been found showing any cracks upon it, and they had had to blast one stone to pieces before they could begin to cut up the others. No chamber whatever had been discovered until they were within six feet of the farther end. Then one was found, but it showed no signs whatever of having ever been used. "So far so bad," Harry said when the supper had been eaten almost in silence; "but that is no reason why we should be disheartened. If the Incas buried a treasure they may have thought it prudent to choose some other spot than that used by the old people."

"But where could it be, Harry? You agreed that there was not sufficient depth between the floors for any place of concealment."

"That is so, Bertie, of course. I have been thinking of it a lot during the past few days, when the chances of our finding a treasure under the basement were nearly extinguished. There are still the side walls."

"The side walls!" Bertie repeated. "Surely they are built against the rock?"

"Yes, but we don't know how straight the wall of rock is. You see, they did not build against it at all in the basement, but above that the side walls begin. The rock must have been irregular, and as the walls were built the space behind may have been filled in or may not. When they came to build they may have found that there was a cavern or caverns in the rock -- nothing is more likely -- and they may have left some sort of entrance to these caverns, either as a place of refuge to the garrison if the place were taken, or as a hiding-place. They might have thought it more secure for this purpose than the underground chamber, which was their general hiding-place. At any rate it is possible, and to-morrow I vote that we have a thorough inspection of the walls of the storeroom below this. That would be the most likely place, for near the sea-level the chances of finding caverns would be much greater than higher up."

Bertie's face brightened as Harry proceeded.

"It certainly seems possible, Harry. Of course the other place seemed so much more likely to us that we have never given the side walls a thought. We may find something there after all. I do hope we may, old boy. I cannot believe that after things have gone altogether so well with us, and we have been twice so near finding treasure, that we should fail after all. Which side shall we begin on?"

"We will have a look at them before we decide, Bertie. We have not really examined them since the first day; I really forget what stores we found in the two side-rooms."

An examination in the morning showed that the passage near the entrance to the rock on the left-hand side had been used for fuel, that on the other side was filled at the upper end with skins for some distance, and spears and sheaves of arrows were piled against the outer wall along the rest of the distance.

"Which do you think is the most likely hiding-place?"

"I should say the right-hand passage. The other with the fire-wood in it might be visited every day, but the spears and arrows would only be wanted in case of any attacks upon the castle, or to arm a large force going out to give battle there. They would naturally put anything they wanted to hide in the passage less likely to be visited."

"That does seem probable," Bertie agreed; "therefore, hurrah for the right-hand side!"

"I still think, senor," Dias said, "that there must be treasure concealed somewhere. I should not think a guard would have been placed here, and remained here so many years still keeping watch, as we find they did at that big loophole on the top floor, unless there was something to watch."

"Quite so, Dias. I have thought that over in every way, and I can see no possible motive for their being here except to prevent the place from being examined. That was needless if there was nothing to guard, and nothing to take away, except these silver brackets, which in those days would scarcely have been worth the trouble of getting out and carrying away. There must be treasure somewhere. We know now that it is not in the basement, and we will try these side walls, even if we have to blow half of them in; there is no doubt that the stones are at least as thick as those at the end, but they will not be difficult to manage. I noticed in the upper story that they had not taken the trouble to fit them nearly so accurately as they did those of the outer walls. I don't say that they didn't fit well, but the stones were of irregular sizes, and I have no doubt that in many places we could prize them out with a crowbar. Once an opening is made, there will be no difficulty in getting a lot of them out, as the old people did not use cement or mortar. Well, to-morrow morning we will move all the spears and arrows across to the other side of that passage and have a good look at the stones, but we will go up first and look at the side walls of all the other rooms and see if they are of the same build. There may be some difference which we have not noticed. You see all the side walls of this room are built like those in front. I didn't notice whether it was the same in the other rooms."

"I will look at once," Dias said, lighting a torch at the fire.

"No, senor," he said, when in ten minutes he returned; "none of the walls on this floor are built of stone like this. This was the grand chamber, the stones are all nearly one size, and so well fitted that you can hardly see where they join each other. In the other rooms they are not so, but the stones are, as you noticed above, irregular in size, and although they fit closely, there is no attempt to conceal the cracks."

"Thank you, Dias! Well, we won't look any more to-night; we shall see in the morning if the room below us is built in the same way. I have no doubt it is. At any rate we have done enough for to-day. There is some whisky left in that bottle, Bertie, and we may as well make ourselves a glass of grog. Maria, you had better get down that jar of pulque. We will drink to better luck next time."

The woman smiled faintly. She did not often do so now, her spirits had gradually gone down as the hopes of success faded.

"Now, Maria," Harry said, "you had better take a glass of pulque for yourself. I know you don't often touch it, but you have been working so of late that I think you want it more than any of us."

"I cannot help feeling low-spirited, senor," she said. "I have so hoped that you would find the treasure you wanted, and marry this lady you love, and it would be such joy for us to have in some small way repaid the service you rendered us, that I felt quite broken down. I know I ought not to have been, when you and your brother bear the disappointment so bravely."

"'It is of no use crying over spilt milk', which is an English saying, Maria. Besides, it is possible that the milk may not be spilt yet, and until lately your good spirits have helped us greatly to keep ours up. If I were once convinced that we had failed, I have no doubt I should feel hard hit; but I am a long way from giving up hope yet. There is treasure here, and if I have to blow up the whole of the old place I will find it. I have got six months yet, and in six months one can do wonders. Anyhow, these brackets will pay us very well for our work. I certainly should not have earned half the sum in any other way in the same time. And even if I fail in my great object, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I have done all in my power to gain it. She will know that I have done my best. I have always told her, when I have written, how much I owe to you and Dias, how faithfully you have served me, and how you have always been so bright and pleasant. I have no doubt it has cheered her up as well as me."

Maria was wiping her eyes now. "You are too good, senor; it is so little I can do, or Dias either, to show our gratitude."

"Nonsense! You show it in every way, even in the matter-of-fact way of always giving us excellent food, which is by no means unimportant. Now we will all turn in, and make a fresh start to-morrow morning."

They were up at daybreak, and after taking their usual cup of coffee lit the torches and descended the stairs to the floor below.

As soon as they reached the right-hand wall, Harry exclaimed: "Why, this is built in the same way as the one we have left! The stones are squared and fitted together as closely as those in the drawing-room. Then why should that be, except in that one room? The side walls all the way up are roughly built. Why should they have taken the trouble on this floor to build these, which are only meant as store-rooms, when even in the rooms above, which were meant for the habitation of the chief and his family, the rough work was deemed sufficiently good? There must have been some motive for this, Dias."

"There must have been, senor; it is certainly strange."

"First of all, let us clear the wall and take a general view of it. Guessing won't help us; but I have the strongest hopes that behind one of these stones lies a cavern. By the way, Dias, take a torch and go into the next chamber and see if the stones are solid there."

"They are just the same as those here," Dias said when he returned.

"I would rather that it had been the other way," Harry said, "for then I should have been more sure that there was some special reason for their building them in this way here."

It took them all half an hour's work to move the spears and arrows to the other side.

"Do you think, Harry, if we were to tap the stones we should be able to find whether there is a hollow behind any of them?"

Harry shook his head.

"Not in the least. I have no doubt these stones are two or three feet thick, and there could be no difference in the sound they would make if struck, whether they were filled in solid behind or had no backing. To begin with, we will make a careful examination of the walls. Possibly we shall see some signs of a stone having been moved. It would be very much more difficult to take one of the great blocks out and put it in again than it would be to get up one of the paving-stones."

When they had gone about half-way along, examining each stone with the greatest care, Bertie, who was ahead of the rest, and passing the candle he held along the edge of every joint, said, "Look here! this stone projects nearly half an inch beyond the rest."

The others gathered round him. The stone was of unusual size, being fully two and a half feet wide and four feet long, the bottom joint being two feet above the floor.

Bertie moved along to let the others look at the edge. He was keeping his finger on the joint, and they had scarcely come up when he said, "The other end of the stone's sunk in about as much as this end projects."

"Something certainly occurred to shift this stone a little," Harry said, examining it carefully. "It is curious. If others had been displaced, one would have put it down to the shock of an earthquake -- a common enough occurrence here -- but both above and below it the stones are level with the others, and nowhere about the house have we seen such another displacement. Look! there is a heap of rubbish along the foot of the wall here. Stir it up, Dias, and let us see what it is."

"It is sand and small stones, and some chips that look like chips of rock."

"Yes, these bits look, as you say, as if they had been chipped off a rock, not like water-worn stones. Though how they got here, where everywhere else things are perfectly tidy, I cannot say. However, we can think that over afterwards. Now for the stone! Let us all put our weight against this projecting end. I don't in the least expect that we can move it, but at any rate we can try."

They all pushed together.

"I think it moved a little," Harry said, and looked at the edge.

"Yes, it is not above half as far out now as it was."

"That is curious, for if it is as thick as we took it to be, it would weigh at least a couple of tons. We won't try to push it in any farther. I am sorry we pushed it at all. Now, give me that heavy sledge, José, possibly there may be a hollow sound to it. I will hit at the other end, for I don't want this to go in any farther."

He went to the stone beyond it first and struck two or three blows with all his strength. Then he did the same with the stone that they were examining.

"I don't think it gives such a dead sound," he said.

The others were all of the same opinion.

"Good! This is another piece of luck," he said. "We have certainly hit on something out of the way."

"Your hammering has brought this end out again, Harry," Bertie said.

"So it has, and it has pushed this end in a little. Let us try again." But although all took turns with the sledges, they could make no further impression on the stone.

"Well, we will try the drills," Harry said. "In the first place, we will find out how thick it is."

They at once set to work with the drill. Progress was slower than it had been before, because, instead of striking down on the head of the drill, they had now to swing the hammer sideways and lost the advantage of its weight; and they were obliged to work very carefully, as a miss would have seriously damaged the one holding the drill. It took them four hours' steady work to get the hole in three inches. Ten minutes later, to their astonishment, the drill suddenly disappeared. Dias, who was striking, nearly fell, for instead of the resistance he had expected, the drill shot forward; the hammer hit José, who had this time been holding the drill, a heavy blow on the arm, causing him to utter a shout of pain.

Harry, who was sitting down having breakfast, having just handed his hammer to Bertie, jumped to his feet.

"How did you manage that, Dias? I suppose it slipped off the head. You must have hit José a very heavy blow."

"I have hit him a heavy blow, senor, and nearly tumbled down myself; but I struck the drill fairly enough, and it has gone."

"Gone where, Dias?"

"I think it must have gone right through the hole, senor."

"Then there is an empty space behind!" Harry shouted joyfully. "However," he went on in changed tones, "we must see to José first. That blow may have fractured his arm. Let me look, José. No, I don't think anything is broken, but there is a nasty cut on the wrist. It is fortunate that you were not striking straight down, Dias, for I am sure we have not put anything approaching the strength into our blows, now we are hitting sideways, that we exerted before. You had better go up to Maria, José, and get her to bathe your wrist with cold water, and put on a bandage."

"Now, senor, what shall we do next?"

"Well, now that we know that its weight cannot be anything very great, and that certainly to some extent it can be moved, we will try hammering again at that end. Do you stand three or four feet beyond it, so as to be able to bring your sledge down with all your strength just on the lower corner. I will face you and strike six or eight inches above where you hit. Of course we must both bring our hammers down at the same instant. We shall be able to do that after two or three trials. Stand at the other end of the stone, Bertie, and tell us if it moves at all."

After one or two attempts the two men got to swing their hammers so as to strike precisely at the same moment, and when half a dozen blows had fallen, Bertie said: "It comes out a little at each blow. It is not much, but it comes."

Three or four minutes later he reported, "It is an inch and a half out now, and there is room to get the end of a crowbar in here."

"That is curious," Harry said as he lowered his sledgehammer, and, taking up the candle, examined the end where he had been striking.

"This is sunk about the same distance, Bertie. The stone must work somehow on a pivot."

They now put a crowbar into the end Bertie had been watching, and all three threw their weight on the lever. Slowly the stone yielded to the pressure, and moved farther and farther out. It was pushed open until the crowbar could act no longer as a lever, but they could now get a hold of the inside edge. It was only very slowly and with repeated efforts that they could turn the stone round, and at last it stood fairly at right angles to the wall, dividing the opening into equal parts about two feet four each.

"There is a pivot under it; that is quite evident. It may be a copper ball in the stone below, or it may be that a knob of the upper stone projects into a hole in the lower. However, it does not matter how it works. Here is an opening into something. Dias, will you go upstairs and tell your wife and José to come down? They had better bring half a dozen more torches. Our stock here is getting low, and we shall want as much light as possible. It is only fair that we should all share in the discovery."

Dias went off.

"Now, Bertie, we must not let our hopes grow too high. I think it is more likely than not that we shall find nothing here."

"Why do you think so, Harry? I made sure we had as good as got the treasure."

"I think, if there had been treasure," Harry went on, "that this stone would have been closed with the greatest care. They would hardly have left it so carelessly closed that anyone who examined the wall would have noticed it, just as we did. We found the other places most carefully closed, though there was nothing in them."

"Perhaps there was something that prevented them from shutting -- a little stone or something."

"But we know that that wasn't so, Bertie, because the stone yielded to our weight; and if it did so now, it could have been shut with the greatest ease originally, when no doubt the pivot was kept oiled, and the whole worked perfectly smoothly. It is almost certain that they were able in some way to fasten it securely when it was shut. What is that piece of square stone lying there?"

"It fell down from above just as the slab opened."

Harry took it up. It was about six inches long by two inches square.

"It is a very hard stone," he said -- "granite, I should say. I expect you will find that it fits into a hole in the stone above."

"Yes, there is a hole here," Bertie said, feeling it; "the stone goes right in."

"Well, I think, Bertie, you will find a hole in that end of the stone we moved that it will fit."

Bertie crept in, and felt along the top of the stone.

"Yes, there is a hole here about the same size as the stone, but it is not more than three inches deep."

"Then, that stone was the bolt, Bertie. You see it was pushed up, and the door then closed; and when the stone was exactly in its place, it would drop into the hole and keep it from moving, and nothing short of breaking up the bolt would give an entrance. It is lucky that we did not push it quite to; another quarter of an inch and that bolt would have fallen, and we could not have moved it unless by smashing the whole thing into bits. That was why they did not quite close the stone; they wanted to get in again."

"Here come the others!"

Maria had been washing some clothes in the stream, and they had therefore been longer in coming than if she had been in the room. They all looked greatly excited.

"So you have found it, senor!" Dias exclaimed in delight.

"We have found an entrance into somewhere, but I am afraid it will be as empty as the other chambers."

"Why do you think so, senor?" Dias asked in dismay.

Harry repeated the reasons he had given Bertie for his belief that the stone must have been left in such a position as to be easily opened when required.

"Why should it have been left so?"

"Because the treasure they expected had never arrived. It is possible that when the Incas discovered the treasure in that chamber we searched, they may also have found this entrance. It may have been shown to them by one of the prisoners, and they may have broken the stone here into pieces as they broke that over the chamber afterwards. Seeing what a splendid hiding-place it was, they may have, when the Spaniards first arrived, made another stone to fit, with the intention of using it for a hiding-place themselves. The fact that the stone was left so that it could be at once opened is conclusive proof to my mind that the treasure never came. That heap of sand, small stones, and chips of rock is another proof that they were ready to receive treasure, and it was probably swept out of the chamber that is behind here, and would, of course, have been removed when the treasure was put in and the door closed; but as the treasure never did come, it was left where it lay. However, we will now go and see. I have only kept you waiting because I did not want you to be disappointed."

One by one they crept through the opening. For four feet in, the passage was the same width as the stone, but two feet deeper; then it at once opened into a large cavern.

"This wall was four feet thick, you see, Dias. Apparently squared stone was only used for the facing, as the stones are of irregular shape on the back. This would be a natural cavern, and a splendid hiding-place it makes. No doubt its existence was one of the reasons for building this castle."

The cavern was some twelve feet wide and thirty feet high at the mouth; the floor sloped up sharply, and the sides contracted, and met forty feet from the mouth. The floor had been cut into steps two feet wide, running across the cave and extending to the back. These steps were faced with a perfectly flat slab of stone. The cave was empty.

The natives uttered loud exclamations of disappointment and regret.

Harry had so thoroughly made up his mind that nothing would be found there that he surveyed the place calmly and in silence. Bertie imitated his example with some difficulty, for he too was bitterly disappointed.

"You see, Dias," Harry went on quietly, "this place was prepared to receive treasure. The steps have all been swept perfectly clean. You see, the gold could be piled up, and no doubt the steps were cut and faced with stone to prevent any gold-dust that might fall from the bags, in which, no doubt, it would be brought, and small nuggets, from falling into the cracks and crevices of the rock. I should say that in all probability they expected that treasure ship that was lost, and had everything in readiness for hiding the cargo here directly it came. It never did come. The door was shut as far as it could be without the bolt falling down and fastening it; then they waited for the ship; and if it did not arrive, other treasure might be brought by land. Well, it cannot be helped. So far we have failed. There may still be treasure hidden somewhere. We cannot say that we have searched the place thoroughly yet."

For another six weeks they worked hard. The wall was broken through in several places, but no signs of the existence of any other cavern or hiding-place was discovered.

"I should give it up," Harry said, when at the end of that time they were sitting gloomily round the fire, "but for one thing: I can see no possible explanation why a party of men should have been left here, and a guard kept, for perhaps a hundred years, perhaps more, and the stories about demons been circulated, and people who ventured to approach been murdered, unless there had been some good reason for it. That reason could only have been, as far as I can see, that there was a treasure hidden here. I have turned it over and over in my mind a thousand times, and I can think of no other reason. Can you, Bertie, or you, Dias?"

"No," Bertie replied. "I have often thought about it; but, as you say, there must have been some good reason, for no people in their senses would have spent their lives in this old place, and starved here, unless they had some cause for it."

Dias made no reply beyond shaking his head.

"You see," Harry went on, "they kept up their watch to the end. There were those two skeletons of men who had died at their post at that curious window where nothing could be seen. I hate to give up the search, and yet we seem to have tried every point where there was a possibility of a hiding-place existing."



Chapter XIX

The Treasure


The next morning Harry said:

"I will go upstairs to that look-out place again. I have been up there pretty nearly every day, and stared down. I can't get it out of my mind that the key of the mystery lies there, and that that hole was made for some other purpose than merely throwing stones out on to any of those who might go in behind the rocks. I have puzzled and worried over it."

"Shall I come up with you, Harry?"

"No, I would rather you didn't. I will go up by myself and spend the morning there; some idea may occur to me. You may as well all have a quiet day of it."

He lit his pipe and went upstairs. José went off to the mules, and Bertie descended the ladder, and strolled round what they called the courtyard, looking for eggs among the rocks and in the tufts of grass growing higher up. Dias scattered a few handfuls of maize to the chickens and then assisted Maria to catch two of them; after which he descended the ladder and sat down gloomily upon a stone. He had become more and more depressed in spirits as the search became daily more hopeless; and although he worked as hard as anyone, he seldom spoke, while Harry and his brother often joked, and showed no outward signs of disappointment. An hour passed, and then Harry appeared suddenly at the window.

"Bertie, Dias, come up at once, I have an idea!"

They ran to the ladder and climbed up. The excitement with which he spoke showed that the idea was an important one. "Now, Dias," he broke out as they joined him, "we know, don't we, that a part of the Incas' treasure was sent off by boat, and the belief of the Indians was that it was never heard of again."

"That is so, senor. There was certainly a storm the day after it started, and, as I have told you, it was never heard of again. Had it been, a report of it would surely have come down."

"I believe, Dias, that the boat was dashed to pieces against that line of rocks outside the entrance to the passage. We have reason to believe that the people here were expecting the treasure to arrive, and had the entrance to the cave in readiness to receive it. Certainly no better place could have been chosen for concealment. The boat may have been coming here when the storm broke and drove them towards the shore. They probably attempted to gain the mouth of the cove, but missed it, and were dashed to pieces against the rocks. The Indians on guard here no doubt saw it, and would be sure that the heavy sacks or boxes containing the gold would sink to the bottom. They would lie perfectly secure there, even more secure than if they had been removed and placed in the cave, and could always be recovered when the Spaniards left, so they were content to leave them there. Still, they obeyed the orders they had received to keep watch for ever over the treasure, and to do so knocked that strange hole through the wall and always kept two men on guard there.

"So it must have gone on. They and those who succeeded them never wavered. Doubtless they received food from their friends outside, or some of them went out, as you have done, to fetch it in. Then came a time when, for some reason or other -- doubtless, as I supposed before, when the Spaniards swept pretty nearly all the natives up to work in the mines, and they themselves dared not issue out -- the attempt to get food was made, when too late, by the men whose skeletons we found on the steps when we first came here; and the rest were all too feeble to repeat the experiment, and died -- the two sentinels at their post, the rest in the room where we found them."

"Hurrah!" Bertie shouted, "I have no doubt you have hit it, Harry. I believe, after all, that we are going to find it. That is splendid! I shall dance at your wedding, Harry, which I had begun to think I never should do."

"Don't be a young ass, Bertie. It is only an idea, and we have had several ideas before, but nothing has come of them."

"Something is going to come of this, I am convinced; I would bet any money on it. Well, shall we go and have a trial at once?"

"What do you think, Dias?" Harry said, paying no attention to Bertie's last remark.

"I think it is quite possible, senor. Certainly, if the Indians had been told to guard the treasure, they would do so always. You know how they kept the secrets entrusted to them whatever tortures they were put to. If the gold had been, as you say, lost amongst the rocks, I do think they would have still watched the place. I thought it strange that they should have made that hole, but when you said that they might have made it to throw stones down it seemed to me to be likely enough; but the other suggestion is more probable. Well, senor, I am ready to try it, but I am not a very good swimmer."

"My brother and I are both good swimmers, and we will do that part of the work. The hardest part will be getting it up, and you will be able to give us your help at that."

"Well, let us be off," Bertie said; "I am all on thorns to begin. We shall soon find it out. If it is there, it is almost certain to be at the foot of the rocks, though, of course, it is possible that the boat sank before striking them. At any rate, I feel sure she went down somewhere within the area that can be seen through that hole. It won't take many days' diving to search every yard of the bottom."

They hastily descended the ladder, and, divesting themselves of their clothes, swam out through the opening. Dias climbed up on the rocks, the others swam round by the ends of the barrier. The water was so warm that they would be able to remain in it for any time without inconvenience.

"We need not begin here, Bertie; we are outside the line of sight. From that hole I could not see the end of these rocks. We will start at the middle, and work in opposite directions."

On arriving off the centre of the wall both dived. The depth was about twelve feet, and as the water was perfectly clear, Harry could see four or five feet round him. He was obliged to swim carefully, for the bottom was covered with rocks, for the most part rounded by the action of the sea. For an hour he continued his search, by which time he had reached nearly the end of the line of rocks. Then he landed on a ledge of rock and sat down, calling to Bertie to join him.

"We will rest for a quarter of an hour," he said, "and then begin again. This time we will keep twenty or thirty feet farther out; it is more likely to be there than close in. If the boat struck, the next wave would sweep over her, and she would probably go down stern first, and her cargo would fall out that way."

After their rest they started again, swam out a few strokes, and then dived. Harry had gone down five or six times, when, on his coming to the surface, he heard a shout, and saw Bertie swimming towards him.

"I have found them, Harry! There are a number of ingots, but they were so heavy that I could not bring one of them to the surface."

As Harry reached him the lad turned round and swam back. "There they are, just opposite that cleft in the rock! I looked directly I came up so as to know the exact spot."

Harry trod water for half a minute, then took a long breath and dived.

It was as Bertie had said. Scattered among the rocks were a score of ingots. They had lost their brilliancy, but shone with a dull copperish hue, with bright gleams here and there where rocks had grated against them. Putting one hand on a block of rock he lifted one of them with the other.

"About twenty pounds," he said to himself. "Thank God, Hilda is as good as won!" Then he rose to the surface. "Shake hands, Bertie; there is enough there to make us all rich for life. Now we will get back again. We have to think matters over, and see how they are to be got ashore. There is no hurry; they have lain there for three hundred years, and would lie there as much longer if we did not take them. We have found them, Dias!" he shouted; and the latter gave a yell of delight. "Swim ashore, and we will join you there."

Not another word was spoken until they had dressed and walked out.

"I am too excited even to think," Harry broke out. "It is time for dinner. When we have had that and smoked a pipe I shall be able to talk calmly over it."

Maria was wild with delight at the news, and laughed and cried by turns. Even José, who was accustomed to take all things quietly, was almost as excited. The woman was only called to herself when Harry said, laughing, "Maria, for the first time since we started from Lima, you are letting the dinner burn."

"To think of it!" she cried. "It is your fault, senor; you should not have told me about it till we sat down."

"You won't have to cook much longer, Maria. You will be able now to have a servant, and a house as big as you like, and a beautiful garden."

"I should not like that, senor; what should I do all day with myself?"

"I am glad, senor, glad for your sake," Dias said gravely. "To us it will make no difference. You said there was enough there to make us rich. Assuredly that is so; but not one peso of it will we touch. No man with Indian blood in his veins, not even the poorest in Peru, would have aught to do with an ounce of the Incas' treasures. When they were buried, a curse was laid upon any who betrayed their hiding-place or who ever touched the gold. It has brought a curse upon Spain. At the time the Spaniards landed here they were a great nation. Now their glory has departed; they no longer own the land they tyrannized over for three hundred years, and we have heard that their power in Europe has altogether gone. It must be the curse of the gold, or they would never have allowed your great Englishman, Cochrane, with but two or three ships, to conquer them here. My mind is easy as to the finding of the treasure. You came here in spite of my prayers that you would not do so. It is you who have made the discovery, not me. But I will take no share in the gold. From the day I took it I should be a cursed man; my flesh would melt away, I should suffer tortures, and should die a miserable death."

"Well, Dias, I will not try to persuade you. I know that, Christian though you be, your native belief still clings to you, and I will not argue against it; but I have money of my own, and from that I will give you enough to make you comfortable for life, and that you can take without feeling that you have incurred any curse from the finding of this treasure."

"I thank you heartily," Dias said gratefully; "I thank you with all my heart. I have ever been a wanderer, and now I will gladly settle down. I do not desire wealth, but enough to live on in comfort with my wife, and only to travel when it pleases me."

"You shall have enough for that and more, Dias."

After some more meat had been cooked and eaten, and he had smoked a pipe, Harry said: "A boat would, of course, be the best thing, but there are difficulties connected with it. There is no spot, as far as I know, where we could land for fifteen miles on either side, and there would only be small villages where everything we did would be seen and talked about. There is no place where we could keep a boat here, for if even a slight breeze sprang up the swell coming in round the passage between the rocks and the cliff would smash her up in no time."

"That is so, senor."

Harry was silent again for some time, and then said: "The only plan I can think of is to get some strong leather bags. Then we could take one down with us when we dive, with a strong cord tied to it, put a couple of the ingots into it, and you could haul it up on to the rocks, and so on until we have finished a day's work. Then we could carry them to this side of the rocks; there you could put them, three or four at a time, into the bag, and drop them down in the water. We would swim up the tunnel and haul them in, and then bring the bag back again. We sha'n't be able to get anything approaching all the ingots, for a great many of them must have gone in between the crevices of the rocks, and unless we broke it up with powder, which would be next to impossible without a diving-dress and air-pumps and all sorts of things, which cannot be bought in this country, we could not get at them. However, we have only just begun to look for them yet; we may come across a pile. Heavy as the sea must be on this coast in a gale, I hardly think it would much affect a pile of ingots; their weight would keep them steady even were big rocks rolled about.

"I think the best thing, Dias, would be for you to go off with two or three mules. We shall soon be running short of provisions, and you had better get enough flour and dried meat to last us for a month. I don't suppose we shall be as long as that, but it is as well to have a good store so as not to have to make the journey again. Then you had better get twenty leather bags, such as those in which they bring the ore down from the mountains. We have plenty of stout rope, but we shall want some thin cord for tying the necks of the bags. You may as well bring another keg of spirits, brandy if you can get it, a bag of coffee, and some sugar, and anything else you think of. Now I am a millionaire we can afford to be comfortable. By the way, we might as well this afternoon get the rest of those silver brackets out. These are not a part of the Incas' treasure, and you can take them as your share without fear of the curse. It would be best for you to smelt them down; I know all of you natives can do that."

"Do you think that they are not part of the Incas' treasure, senor?" Dias said doubtfully.

"Certainly not; they were undoubtedly here before the Incas' time. But even had they been put there by Incas, you could not call them hidden treasure. They might be part of the Incas' property, but certainly not part of the treasures they hid."

"But it is altogether too much, senor; it is noble of you to offer it me."

"Not at all; we owe everything we find to you, and it would be only fair that you should have at least a third of the gold. But still, if you won't touch that, you must take the silver."

"But I heard you say that it was worth four thousand pounds."

"Well, if we are lucky we shall get twenty times as much, Dias."

"Certainly we will take it, senor, and grateful we shall both be to you," Maria said; "and so will José, who will inherit it all some day, as he is the only relative we have. I agree with Dias about the gold. I have heard so often about the curse on it that I should be afraid."

"Well, Maria, you see there is a lot of nonsense in all your superstitions. You know it was one of them that this place was guarded by demons. Now you have seen for yourself that it was all humbug. If you are afraid about the silver, I will take it to England and sell it there and send you the money it fetches; but that would give a great deal of trouble. It will be difficult to get the gold safely away, without being bothered with all this silver.

"You had better buy some bags of charcoal, Dias. I suppose you will use that small hearth we have?"

"No, senor, it would take an immense time to do it in that. I will load one of the mules with hard bricks."

"You will want two mules to carry a hundred, Dias -- I think they weigh about four pounds and a half each. Will that be enough?"

"Plenty, senor; but I shall want another bellows. José and I can work the two of them, and that will make a great heat. We can melt two or three hundred pounds a day. I have helped to make many a furnace up in the mountains, and I know very well all about the way to build and work them."

"Very well, then, that is settled. You had better start to-morrow morning with José, and we will spend the day in finding out a little more about the gold."

Dias started the next morning, and the two brothers were in the water most of the day. Harry found, as he had expected, that a great deal of the treasure had sunk out of reach between the rocks; but he came upon one pile, which had apparently been originally packed in sacks or skins, lying in a heap a little farther out than they had before searched. He had no doubt that this was the point where the stern of the boat had sunk, and a considerable portion of the contents had been shot out, while the rest had been scattered about as the boat broke up, and as the skins rotted their contents had fallen between the rocks. There were, as nearly as he could calculate, two hundred and fifty to three hundred ingots in the pile.

"I need not trouble about the rest," he laughed to himself. "Each ingot, if it weighs twenty pounds, is worth a thousand. Two hundred of them would make me as rich as any man can want to be. I can hardly believe in my luck; it is stupendous. Fancy a half-pay lieutenant with two hundred thousand pounds! Old Fortescue will become one of the most complaisant of fathers-in-law."

The evening before Dias left, Harry had written a letter for him to post at Callao, telling Hilda to keep up a brave heart, for that he hoped to be at home before the end of the second year with money enough to satisfy her father.

"I should not tell you so unless I felt certain of what I am saying. I told you before I left that it was almost a forlorn hope that I was undertaking, and that the chances were ten thousand to one against me. I think now that the one chance has turned up, and I hope to be home within two months of the time that you receive this letter."

He did not say more; but even now he could scarcely believe that the good fortune had befallen him, and feared that some unlucky fate might interfere between him and the fulfilment of his hopes. When Dias returned after two days' absence the work began. Each morning they worked together at bringing up the gold and piling the ingots on the rock. It was slower work than Harry had expected, for on hauling the bag to the rocks it was often caught by the boulders, and he and Bertie sometimes had to dive four or five times before they could free it and get it ashore. The gold was piled in the tunnel just beyond the water. In a fortnight the last ingot they could get at was stored with its fellows -- two hundred and eighty-two in all.

They had repeatedly talked over the best plan of getting the gold away, and finally concluded that it would be risking too much to take it into a town, and that the best plan would be for Harry to buy a boat at Callao, which, as a naval officer, would be natural enough. They decided to procure three times as many bags as the ingots would really require, and that they should put in each bag three ingots only, filling it up with pieces of stone, so that the weight should not exceed what it would have been were the contents heavy ore. Harry arranged that he would go down to Callao, buy a large boat, and after having made several excursions, to accustom the officials at Callao to seeing him going about, he would make a bargain with the captains of two ships about to sail to England, to carry about two tons each of ore, which he could put on board them after dark, so as to avoid the extortion he would have to submit to before the port officials and others would allow him to ship it. The question that puzzled them most was the best way of taking the bags into the boat. Dias was in favour of their being carried on the mules to a point lower down the coast, at which they could be loaded into the boat.

"It would be only necessary to carry the gold," he said, "the stones to fill the bags could be put in there."

The objection to this was that they might be observed at work, and that at most points it would be difficult both to run the boat up and to get her off again through the rollers. If the boat were brought round into the inlet she could be loaded there comfortably. The only fear was of being caught in a gale. But as gales were by no means frequent the risk was small; and should a sudden storm come on when she was lying there, and she were broken up, it would be easy to recover the gold from the shallow water behind the rocks. This was therefore settled. Only half the treasure was to be taken away at once, and not till this had been got on board a ship and the vessel had sailed would the boat come back for the rest of their treasure.

Dias was at once to start with the mules and carry the silver, in two journeys, to a safe place among the mountains. There he could bury it in three or four hiding-places, to be fetched out as he might require it, only taking some fifty pounds to Lima. Here he was to dispose of a portion of it to one of the dealers who made it his business to buy up silver from the natives. As many of these worked small mines, and sent down the produce once a month to Lima, there would be nothing suspicious in its being offered for sale, especially as it would be known that Dias had been away for a very long time among the mountains. It was necessary that the sale should be effected at once, because Harry's stock of money was running very low, and he would have to pay for the passages of Bertie and himself to England, and for the freight of the gold. Dias was to dispose later on of all the remaining stores, the powder and tools, and the three riding mules.

Two days later the last of the silver brackets had been melted, and Dias and Harry started with the eight mules, six of them being laden with the silver. They struck back at once into the hills, and after travelling for two days, ascended a wild gorge. "It is not once a year that anyone would come up here, senor. There is no way out of it. We can bury the silver here with a certainty that it will be safe from disturbance."

"Yes, it will be safe here; and as you want it you have only to make a journey with a couple of mules to fetch as much as you require, carry it home, and bury it in your garden or under the house; then you could from time to time take a few ingots into the town and dispose of them. But to begin with, I will borrow fifty pounds weight of it, and get you to dispose of it for me at Lima. My money is beginning to run short. I shall have to pay for the freight of the gold and my own passage home, and to buy a boat large enough to carry half the treasure. It is not likely that there will be two vessels sailing at the same time, in which case I shall make two trips. As I should not put it on board until the night before the ship sailed, of course I could go home with the second lot."

"I shall never know what to do with a tenth part of this silver, senor. It would never do for me to make a show of being rich; the authorities would seize me, and perhaps torture me to make me reveal the source of my wealth."

"Well, there are thousands of your countrymen in the deepest poverty, Dias; you could secretly help those in distress; a single ingot, ten pounds in weight, would be a fortune to them. And when you die you might get a respectable lawyer to make out a will, leaving your treasure to some charity for the benefit of Indians, giving, of course, instructions where the treasure is to be found."

"That is good," Dias said. "Thank you, senor! that will make me very happy."

They had brought a pick and shovel with them, and, dividing the bags, buried them at some distance apart, rolling stones to cover up the hiding-places, and obliterating any signs of the ground having been disturbed. A hundred pounds were left out, and with this in their saddle-bags they arrived at Lima two days later.

Harry went on alone into Callao. He had no difficulty in purchasing a ship's boat in fair condition. She carried two lug-sails, and was amply large enough for the purpose for which she was required, being nearly thirty feet long with a beam of six feet. He got her cheaply, for the ship to which she belonged had been wrecked some distance along the coast, and a portion of the crew had launched her and made their way to Callao; the mate, who was the sole surviving officer, was glad to accept the ten pounds Harry offered for her, as this would enable the crew to exist until they could obtain a passage home, or ship on board some British vessel short of hands. The boat was too large to be worked by one man, and seeing that the mate was an honest and intelligent fellow, Harry arranged with him to aid him to sail the boat, and each day they went out for some hours. After spending a week in apparent idleness, and getting to know more of the man, Harry told him that he had really bought the boat for the purpose of getting some ore he had discovered on board a ship homeward-bound.

"You know what these Peruvians are," he said, "and how jealous they are of our getting hold of mines, so I have got to do the thing quietly, and the only way will be to take the ore off by night. It is on a spot some eighty miles along the coast. I am going off tomorrow to get it ready for embarkation, and I shall be away about a week. I find that the London will leave in ten days, and I shall get it put on board the night before she sails. While I am away, look after the boat. The Nancy will sail five days later. I am going to put half on board each ship, as I am anxious to ensure that some at least of the ore shall reach home, so as to be analysed, and see if it is as rich as I hope. But be sure not to mention a word of this to a soul. I should have immense trouble with the authorities if it got about that I had discovered a mine."

"I understand, sir. You may be quite sure I shall say nothing about it."

"How are your men getting on?"

"Four are shipped on board the Esmerelda, which sailed yesterday, the others are hanging on till they can get berths. I hope a few will be able to go in the two ships you name, but they haven't applied at present. Some of the crew may desert before the time for sailing comes, and of course they would get better paid if they went as part of the crew than if they merely worked their passage home."

"I am sorry for them," Harry said. "Here is another five pounds to help them to hold on. As an old naval officer I can feel for men in such a place."

Dias, after selling the silver, had, a week before, returned with the mules to the castle, and on his arrival there had sent José to join Harry and bring news to them of the day on which the boat would arrive. Dias and Bertie were packing half the bags, of which the former took with him an ample supply, to get the gold out on the rocks facing the entrance, so that they could be shipped without delay. Great pains were taken in packing the bags so that the three ingots placed in each should be completely surrounded by stones. Anyone who might take a fancy to feel them, in order to ascertain their contents, would have no reason to suppose that they carried anything beyond the ore they were stated to contain.

Harry had had no difficulty in arranging with the captain of the London to take from a ton and a half to two tons of ore the night before he sailed, and three days before this Harry started with the mate. There was but a light breeze, and it was daylight next morning before they arrived. A pole had been stuck up at the edge of the cliff just above the cavern, and as it became dark a lantern was also placed there, so they had no trouble in finding the entrance of the little cove.

"It is a rum-looking place, sir," the man said. "As far as I can see there is no break in the cliffs."

"It is a curious place, but you will find the bags with the ore on the rocks inside here ready for us, and my brother and one of my men waiting there. They will have made us out an hour ago, so we can load up at once and get out of this tiny creek. I don't want to stay in there any longer than is necessary, for if there is anything of a swell we could not get out again."

As they approached the place Harry gave a shout, which was at once answered. The sails were lowered, and the boat passed round the edge of the rocks.

"It is a rum place," the mate repeated. "Why, one might have rowed past here fifty times without thinking there was water inside the rocks. Of course you must have lowered the sacks down from the top?"

"It was a difficult job," Harry said carelessly; "but we were anxious to get the things away quietly. If we had taken them down to the port we should have had no end of bother, and a hundred men would have set off at once to try and find out where we got the ore."

Bertie and Dias had everything ready, and as the boat drew up alongside the rocks on which they were standing the former said, "Everything all right, Harry?"

"Yes, I hope so. We are to put the ore on board the London to-morrow after dark; she will get up her anchor at daylight. You have got all the bags ready, I hope?"

"Everything; the others will be ready for you when you come back for them."

"The next ship sails in about a week. Now, let us get them on board at once, I don't want to stop in here a minute longer than is necessary. There is scarcely a breath of wind now; if it doesn't blow up a bit in the morning, we shall have a long row before us to get there in time. This is my brother, Owen; the other is a mule-driver, who has been my guide and companion for the past year, and whom I am proud to call my friend."

"You don't want anything in the way of food, do you?" Bertie asked.

"We have got some here," Harry laughed. "I am too old a sailor to put to sea without having provisions in my craft. Now, let us get the bags on board."

It did not take them long to transfer the sacks into the boat.

"They are pretty heavy," the mate said, "I should say a hundredweight each."

"About that," Harry said carelessly. "This ore stuff is very heavy."

As soon as all was on board Harry said: "Now we can put out at any moment, but I don't want to leave till dark. We may as well begin to get the rest of the bags out here at once. We might finish that job before we start. Then you could come down with us, Bertie, and Dias could pack up the remaining stores to-morrow and start for Lima with the mules, and his wife and José.

"Very well, Harry. I think we can leave the sacks here safely."

"Just as safely as if they were ashore. So far as we know no one has been in here for the past two hundred years, and no one is likely to come in the next week."

By evening all the work was done. The mate had been greatly surprised at the manner in which the bags had been brought on board, but had helped in the work and asked no questions. As soon as it was dark they rowed out from the cove. There was not a breath of wind. Bertie volunteered to take the first watch, the mate was to take the next.

Harry was not sorry to turn in. He had had but little sleep for the past week. Everything had seemed to be going well, but at any moment there might be some hitch in the arrangements, and he had been anxious and excited. Wrapping himself in his poncho he lay down in the stern of the boat and slept soundly until morning.

"I have had a sleep," he said on waking. "I have slept longer to-night than I have done for the past fortnight. Now I will take the helm. How fast have we been moving?"

"We have not gone many miles, and if what tide there is hadn't been with us we should not have moved at all, for the sails have not been full all night. A breeze only sprang up an hour ago, and we are not moving through the water now at more than a knot and a half; but I think it is freshening."

"I hope it is," Harry said. "It is not often that we have a dead calm; but if it doesn't spring up we shall have to row. With two tons and a half of stuff on board it is as much as we can do to move two knots an hour through the water."

"All right, sir! when you think it is time to begin, stir me up."

In half an hour the breeze had increased so much that the boat was running along three knots an hour. By eight o'clock she was doing a knot better. So she ran along till, at four o'clock in the afternoon, the wind died away again, and they could just see the masts of the ships at Callao in the distance.

"I should think that we are about fifteen miles off," Harry said.

"About that," Bertie replied. "We had better get our oars and help her along, she is not going much more than a knot through the water an hour."

They got out the oars and set to work. Occasionally a puff of wind gave them a little assistance, but it was one o'clock before they arrived alongside the London.

A lamp was alight at the gangway as arranged, and two sailors were on watch.

"The captain turned in an hour ago, sir," one of them said. "He left orders that the mate was to call him if you arrived. We will soon have him up."

In five minutes the mate and four other sailors were on deck.

"We have got a whip rigged in readiness," the officer said. "How much do the packages weigh, sir?"

"They are leathern bags, and weigh about a hundredweight each."

"How many are there?"

"Forty-six."

"We have got the fore-hatch open, and can hand them down in no time. If you will pass the boat along to the chains forward we shall be ready for you. Shall I send a couple of hands down into the boat to hook them on?"

"No, you needn't do that."

As soon as the boat reached her station a rope with a couple of small chains attached descended. One of the chains was fastened round a bag, and this was at once run up. By the time the rope came down again the other chain was passed round another bag, and in a quarter of an hour the whole were on board and down in the hold. The captain had now come out.

"So you have got them off all right, Mr. Prendergast?"

"Yes. There are forty-six bags. We will say, roughly, two ton and a half; though I doubt whether there is as much as that. At any rate, I will pay you for the freight agreed upon at once. They have all got labels on them, and on your arrival, after being handed into store, are to remain till called for. I am coming on in the Nancy. I do not know whether she is faster than you are or not. At any rate, she is not likely to be long behind you."

"I think that possibly you will be home first, sir; the Nancy made the voyage out here a fortnight quicker than we did; but it depends, of course, on what weather we meet with. I was on board her this afternoon, and her captain and I made a bet of five pounds each as to which would be in the port of London first. I shall have the anchor up by daylight. Now, gentlemen, will you come down into the cabin and we will take a glass together."

Harry did so, and after emptying a tumbler and wishing the captain a quick and pleasant voyage, he got into the boat and rowed two or three miles along the shore, as a landing at that time of night might cause questions to be asked; and then they lay down and slept by turns until morning broke. A light breeze then sprang up, and hoisting sail they returned to Callao. The London was already far out at sea.



Chapter XX

Home


Two days later, Dias, José, and Maria arrived at Callao, having left the mules at Lima.

"Was it got off all right, senor?" Dias asked.

"Yes. It was a pretty near touch, for we had to row nine hours, and only saved our time by an hour."

"And when will you start again?"

"The Nancy sails in four days, so I shall go down tomorrow morning. I don't want to run the risk again of losing the boat."

"Well, we shall be stronger handed," Bertie said. "Of course I shall go down with you; Dias says he will too; so we will be able to man four oars, if necessary."

"What have you done with the goods?" Harry asked.

"I sold them all at Lima, senor, to the man I got them from. He took off a third of the price, and said he could not have taken them if it had not been that he had just got an order down from the Cerro mines, and was short of some of the things they had ordered."

"That is all right, Dias."

Harry secured two rooms at the hotel, and they all sat talking far into the night. "I hope you will get your silver down as comfortably as we have got the gold."

"I have no fear about doing that, senor. The difficulty will be for me to know what to do with it. I can never spend so much."

"Oh, nonsense, Dias!"

"I mean it, senor. Maria and I are quite agreed that we don't want any larger house than we have got; and I know that if we did want a big one, there would be all sorts of questions as to where I had got the money from."

"There would be no difficulty in answering that, Dias. You told me how your friend found five mule-loads of silver in the bats' cave. You have only got to say that you found yours hidden away, which would be the truth. José is nineteen now, and you will want to provide him with some good mules, and to put by some money for him when he wants to marry and settle. I know you spoke very highly of an institution at Lima for the orphans of natives. You can hand them over some, and when you and Maria don't want it any longer you can leave them the rest."

Maria cried bitterly in the morning when they said goodbye. "I shall love you and pray for you always, senors," she sobbed. "I shall never forget all your kindness."

"We owe you more than you owe us," Harry said. "You have always been ready to do everything, and you have kept us alive with your merry talk and good spirits. You may be very sure that we shall never forget you."

José was almost equally affected. "You will never come back, senor," he said, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I may some day, José. I think it likely that I shall some day get up a company to drain that lake in the golden valley. The gold will be more useful as money than lying there. It must depend partly upon whether the country is settled. People will not put money into Peru as long as you are always fighting here."

Maria and José would have accompanied them down to the boat the next morning, but Dias pointed out to them that they were apparently only going out for a day's sail, and that if there were any partings on the shore it would at once attract the suspicions of the customs-house officials there.

Accordingly, after a painful farewell, Dias and the two brothers went down to the boat, where the mate was already awaiting them. The voyage was as successful as the previous one had been. On the return journey the wind held, and they arrived alongside of the Nancy by eleven o'clock; the bags were all safely in the hold by midnight. The first mate of the ship had two days before been taken with fever and sent ashore, and the captain had gladly accepted the offer of Harry's assistant to take the berth of second mate, that officer having succeeded to the post of the first. Harry had told him that he could sell the boat, and he had, before starting on the trip, done so, on the understanding that it would be found on the beach in charge of Dias when the Nancy had sailed.

Harry had given him another ten pounds to provide himself with an outfit, and had also asked him to distribute twenty among his former shipmates for the same purpose, as these had lost all their clothing except what they stood in. The ship's dinghy, with a couple of hands, towed the boat, with Dias in it, to the shore. The muleteer was greatly affected at parting with Harry and his brother.

"It has been a fortunate journey for us both," Dias said, "and I shall always look back to the time we spent together with the greatest pleasure."

"Here is a piece of paper with my address in London. I know that you will have no difficulty in getting letters written for you. Let me hear from you once every six months or so, telling me how you are getting on, and I will write to you. Good-bye! We shall always remember you, and be thankful that we had so faithful a guide here, and, I may say, so faithful a friend."

The voyage home was an uneventful one, save that they met with a heavy storm while rounding the Horn, and for some days the vessel was in great danger. However, she weathered it safely, and when she arrived in the Thames she found that the London had come up on the previous tide.

"If it hadn't been for that storm we should have beaten her easily," the captain said. "But I don't mind losing that fiver, considering that we have gained four days on her."

On landing, Harry went straight to the Bank of England and informed the managers that he had two hundred and eighty-two ingots of gold, weighing about twenty pounds each, which he wished to deposit in their vaults until they could weigh them and place their value to his credit, and he requested them to send down one of their waggons to the docks the next day to receive them. On the following evening he had the satisfaction of knowing that the whole of the treasure was at last in safe-keeping. Then he took a hackney-coach and drove to Jermyn Street, where he had taken rooms, having the night before carried there the trunks which he had stored before he left England. He smiled as he spread out suit after suit.

"I don't know anything about the fashions now," he said, "and for aught I can tell they may have changed altogether. However, I don't suppose there will be such an alteration that I shall look as if I had come out of the ark. Certainly I am not going to wait till I get a new outfit.

"It did not seem to me," he said to himself, "that I left a ridiculously large wardrobe before I went. But after knocking about for two years with a single change, it really does seem absurd that I should ever have thought I absolutely required all these things. Now, I suppose I had better write to the old man and say that I have returned, and shall call upon him to-morrow. The chances are ten to one against my catching him in now, and as this is rather a formal sort of business, I had better give him due notice; but I cannot keep Hilda in suspense. I wonder whether she has the same maid as she had before I went away. I have given the girl more than one half-guinea, and to do her justice I believe that she was so attached to her mistress that she would have done anything for her without them. Still, I can't very well knock at the door and ask for Miss Fortescue's maid; I expect I must trust the note to a footman. If she does not get it, there is no harm done; if he hands it to her father, no doubt it would put him in a towering rage, but he will cool down by the time I see him in the morning."

He sat down and wrote two notes. The first was to Mr. Fortescue; it only said: -- 

"Dear Sir, -- I have returned from abroad, and shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon you at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning to discuss with you a matter of much importance to myself."

The note to Hilda was still shorter: -- 

"My darling, -- I am home and am going to call on your father at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. I am two months within the two years. -- Yours devotedly,

"Harry Prendergast."

Having sealed both letters, he walked to Bedford Square. When the door opened, he saw that the footman was one of those who had been in Mr. Fortescue's service before he left.

"You have not forgotten me, Edward, have you?"

"Why, it is Mr. Prendergast! Well, sir, it is a long time since we saw you."

"Yes, I have been abroad. Will you hand this letter to Mr. Fortescue. Is he in at present?"

"No, sir; he and Mrs. Fortescue are both out. Miss Fortescue is out too."

"Well now, Edward, will you hand this letter quietly to Miss Fortescue when she comes in?" and he held out the note and a guinea with it.

The man hesitated.

"You need not be afraid of giving it to her," Harry went on. "It is only to tell her what I have told your master in my letter to him, that I am going to call tomorrow."

"Then I shall be glad to do it," the man said -- for, as usual, the servants were pretty well acquainted with the state of affairs, and when Harry went away, and their young mistress was evidently in disgrace with her father, they guessed pretty accurately what had happened, and their sympathies were with the lovers. Harry returned to Jermyn Street confident that Hilda would get his note that evening. He had no feeling of animosity against her father, It was natural that, as a large land-owner, and belonging to an old family, and closely connected with more than one peer of the realm, he should offer strong opposition to the marriage of his daughter to a half-pay lieutenant, and he had been quite prepared for the burst of anger with which his request for her hand had been received. He had felt that it was a forlorn hope; but he and Hilda hoped that in time the old man would soften, especially as they had an ally in her mother. Hilda had three brothers, and as the estates and the bulk of Mr. Fortescue's fortune would go to them, she was not a great heiress, though undoubtedly she would be well dowered.

On arriving the next morning Harry was shown into the library. Mr. Fortescue rose from his chair and bowed coldly.

"To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit, Mr. Prendergast? I had hoped that the emphatic way in which I rejected your -- you will excuse my saying -- presumptuous request for the hand of my daughter, would have settled the matter once and for all; and I trust that your request for an interview to-day does not imply that you intend to renew that proposal, which I may say at once would receive, and will receive as long as I live, the same answer as I before gave you."

"It has that object, sir," Harry said quietly, "but under somewhat changed conditions. I asked you at that time to give me two years, in which time possibly my circumstances might change. You refused to give me a single week; but your daughter was more kind, and promised to wait for the two years, which will not be up for two more months."

"She has behaved like a froward and obstinate girl," her father said angrily. "She has refused several most eligible offers, and I have to thank you for it. Well, sir, I hope at least that you have the grace to feel that it is preposterous that you should any longer stand in the way of this misguided girl."

"I have come to say that if it is her wish and yours that I should stand aside, as you say, I will do so, and in my letters I told her that unless circumstances should be changed before the two years have expired I would disappear altogether from her path."

"That is something at least, sir," Mr. Fortescue said with more courtesy than he had hitherto shown. "I need not say that there is no prospect of your obtaining my consent, and may inform you that my daughter promised not to withstand my commands as far as you are concerned beyond the expiration of the two years. I do not know that there is anything more to say."

"I should not have come here, sir, had there not been more to say, but should simply have addressed a letter to you saying that I withdrew all pretensions to your daughter's hand. But I have a good deal more to say. I have during the time that I have been away succeeded in improving my condition to a certain extent."

"Pooh, pooh, sir!" the other said angrily. "Suppose you made a thousand or two, what possible difference could it make?"

"I am not foolish enough to suppose that it would do so; but at least this receipt from the Bank of England, for gold deposited in their hands, will show you that the sums you mention have been somewhat exceeded."

"Tut, tut, I don't wish to see it! it can make no possible difference in the matter."

"At least, sir, you will do me the courtesy to read it, or if you prefer not to do so I will read it myself."

"Give it me," Mr. Fortescue said, holding out his hand. "Let us get through this farce as soon as possible; it is painful to us both."

He put on his spectacles, glanced at the paper, and gave a sudden start, read it again, carefully this time, and then said slowly:

"Do you mean that the two hundred and eighty-two ingots, containing in all five thousand six hundred and forty pounds weight of gold, are your property? That is to say, that you are the sole owner of them, and not only the representative of some mining company?"

"It is the sole property, Mr. Fortescue, of my brother and myself. I own two-thirds of it. It is lost treasure recovered by us from the sea, where it has been lying ever since the conquest of Peru by Pizarro."

"There is no mistake about this? The word pounds is not a mistake for ounces? -- although even that would represent a very large sum."

"The bank would not be likely to make such a mistake as that, sir. The ingots weigh about twenty pounds each. I had a small piece of the gold assayed at Callao, and its value was estimated at four pounds per ounce. Roughly, then, the value of the sum deposited at the bank is two hundred and seventy thousand pounds."

"Prodigious!" Mr. Fortescue murmured.

"Well, Mr. Prendergast, I own that you have astounded me. It would be absurd to deny that this altogether alters the position. Against you personally I have never had anything to say. You were always a welcome visitor to my house till I saw how matters were tending. Your family, like my own, is an old one, and your position as an officer in the King's Naval Service is an honourable one. However, I must ask you to give me a day to reflect over the matter, to consult with my wife, and to ascertain that my daughter's disposition in the matter is unchanged."

"Thank you, sir! But I trust that you will allow me to have an interview with Miss Fortescue now. It is two years since we parted, and she has suffered great anxiety on my account, and on the matter of my safety at least I would not keep her a moment longer in suspense."

"I think that after the turn the matter has taken your request is a reasonable one. You are sure to find her in the drawing-room with her mother at present. I think it is desirable that you should not see her alone until the matter is formally arranged."

Prendergast bowed.

"I am content to wait," he said with a slight smile.

"I will take you up myself," the other said.

Harry could have done without the guidance, for he knew the house well. However, he only bowed again, and followed the old man upstairs.

The latter opened the door and said to his wife: "My dear, I have brought an old friend up to see you;" and as Harry entered he closed the door and went down to the library again.

"Nearly two hundred thousand pounds!" he said. "A splendid fortune! Nearly twice as much as I put by before I left the bar. How in the world could he have got it? 'Got it up out of the sea,' he said; a curious story. However, with that acknowledgment from the bank there can be no mistake about it. Well, well, it might be worse. I always liked the young fellow till he was fool enough to fall in love with Hilda, and worse still, she with him. The silly girl might have had a coronet. However, there is no accounting for these things, and I am glad that the battle between us is at an end. I was only acting for her good, and I should have been mad to let her throw herself away on a penniless officer on half-pay."

Mrs. Fortescue waved her hand as Harry, on entering, was about to speak to her.

"Go to her first," she said; "she has waited long enough for you."

And he turned to Hilda.

He made a step towards her and held out his arms, and with a little cry of joy she ran into them.

"And is it all right?" she said a minute later. "Can it really be all right?"

"You may be quite sure that it is all right, Hilda," Mrs. Fortescue said. "Do you think your father would have brought him up here if it hadn't been? Now you can come to me, Harry."

"I am glad," she said heartily. "We have had a very bad time. Now, thank God, it is all over. You see she has only had me to stand by her, for her brothers, although they have not taken open part against her, have been disposed to think that it was madness her wasting two years on the chance of your making a fortune. Of course you have done so, or you would not be in this drawing-room at present."

"I have done very well, Mrs. Fortescue. I was able to show Mr. Fortescue a receipt for gold amounting to nearly three hundred thousand pounds, of which two-thirds belong to me, the rest to my brother."

Mrs. Fortescue uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"What have you been doing, Harry?" she asked -- "plundering a Nabob?"

"Nabobs do not dwell in Peru," he laughed. "No, I have discovered a long-lost treasure, which, beyond any doubt, was part of the wealth of Atahualpa, the unfortunate monarch whom Pizarro first plundered and then slew. It had been sent off by sea, and the vessel was lost. It is too long a story to tell now."

"And Papa has quite consented, Harry?"

Harry smiled.

"Virtually so, as you might suppose by his bringing me up here. Actually he has deferred the matter, pending a consultation with you and Mrs. Fortescue, and will give me his formal answer to-morrow."

The two ladies both smiled.

"If he said that, the matter is settled," the elder said; "he has never asked my opinion before on the subject, and I have never volunteered it. But I am sure he has not the slightest doubt as to what I thought of it. So we can consider it as happily settled after all. If I had thought that there was the slightest chance of your making a fortune quickly I should have spoken out; but as I thought it absolutely hopeless, I have done what I could privately to support Hilda, always saying, however, that if at the end of the two years nothing came of it, I could not in any way countenance her throwing away the chances of her life."

"You were quite right, Mrs. Fortescue. I had fully intended to write to Hilda at the end of that time releasing her from all promises that she had made to me, and saying that I felt that I had no right to trouble her further; but from what she wrote to me, I doubt whether her father would have found her altogether amenable to his wishes even at the end of the two years."

A month later there was a wedding in Bedford Square. Among those present no one was more gratified than Mr. Barnett, whose surprise and satisfaction were great when Harry told him in confidence the result of his advice, and especially of his introduction to the Indian guide.

It had been arranged that nothing should be said as to the source from which Harry had obtained his wealth, as it was possible that the Peruvian government might set up some claim to it, and it was in Mr. Fortescue's opinion very doubtful what the result would be, as it had been discovered so close to the shore.

Harry never took any steps with reference to the gold valley, for the constant troubles in Peru were sufficient to deter any wealthy men from investing money there.

The correspondence between him and Dias and his wife was maintained until they died full of years and greatly lamented by numbers of their countrymen to whom they had been benefactors.

Bertie never went to sea again except in his own yacht, but when he came of age, bought an estate near Southampton, and six years later brought home a mistress for it.

<eob>

Wilton School

Or

Harry Campbell's Revenge: A Tale

By

Fred. E. Weatherly



Chapter I.

A Long Good-Bye.

Gathering shadows -- Harry's wonder -- Ambiguous -- A long good-bye -- The anchor's weighed.


It was a sad evening in the little farm by the church of Wilton, yet very sweet and summer-like without. Very sad it was in the low, dim, oak-panelled parlour, whose diamonded window looked across the quiet churchyard, with its swinging wicket, its gravel-path beneath green aisles of lindens, and all the countless

"Grassy barrows of the happier dead."

Very sad were those three sitters in the summer twilight, there, at the farm; for a good-bye had to be said -- a long, long farewell between that weeping pale woman, and the stout sailor, her husband. And Harry, their blue-eyed, sunny-haired boy, did not understand what it all meant; -- why papa did not cheer mamma with hopes of soon coming home again -- why mamma did not try to console herself by saying, over and over, that he would soon come back, as she always used in the old days when papa had to go to sea. She had never cried so bitterly before, although these good-byes had come so often. And now it made her cough; she seemed scarcely to have strength to cry. And papa, who was always so brave and stern, why was it even he could not stop the tears from rolling down his bronzed cheeks? And so Harry sat in the window-seat, quite unable to understand the meaning of all the sorrow, and looked out of the window at the farmer's wife nursing her last baby in the orchard, and then at the old sexton in the churchyard throwing up the red earth, and wondered why he always whistled such a jovial tune, while he himself felt so sad.

And the evening drew on over the straggling village, weary with its long day's work. The last loaded waggon had passed down the lane by the farm; the last troop of tired hay-makers had trudged gaily homewards; and with the deepening dusk the winds grew cooler, blowing in fresh, along the valley, from the sea.

And, all this while, poor Harry sat with his face pressed closely against the window-pane; and his papa and mamma, apparently unheeding him, sat talking in the far dim corner of the room, while ever anon her great sobs broke the train of comforting words her husband strove to utter.

Presently, he got up, moved to the window, and without saying a word, took Harry's hand and led him across the room to his mother's side. Then his faltering lips said:

"Harry, my boy, mamma is going away soon -- before I come back; -- I shall not see her again."

"Not see her again, papa?" cried Harry in amazement. "And why is mamma going away, with her cough so bad, too?"

"Mamma's cough won't trouble her long, my boy. You'll take care of her for me, won't you, Harry? and see her safe off on her journey?"

He spoke very quietly now; but if he had not used those ambiguous sentences, he would have broken down, he knew.

And then the good-bye was said. He kissed Harry tenderly, and then gathered his weeping wife to his breast. And with an earnest "God guard you!" that well-nigh seemed to break the bursting heart from whence the words arose, he moved quickly from the room. So it was all over now! The long good-bye had been said.

"Take care of her and the boy, Mrs Valentine," he said to the farmer's wife, as she came hurrying up from the orchard to see him before he left, "and God will reward you. It will not be for long, I fancy. The boy must stay with you till I come back."

"I will, I will sir; bless her dear heart!" the farmer's wife cried, while the tears started to her eyes. "Poor soul, poor soul!" she murmured after him, as he passed bravely down the lane, villagewards.

And there, in the little farm by the church, sat the pale wife weeping over her wondering boy, while the shadows of the summer night stole ghost-like over the lands, till the window was but a faint dim square in the sad darkness that was within.

That night the Queen's good ship "Thunderer" weighed anchor from the roadstead where she had been lying off Wilton, and with canvass stretched, and engines at full speed, swung down the Bristol channel on the ebb tide, to join the flying squadron on a six months' cruise. And though many a heart, of seamen and officer alike, felt heavy at parting from sweetheart or wife, in none was there the dull, hopeless agony that dwelt behind the stern face of Chief-engineer Campbell, as he talked on deck with his fellow-officers, or issued his orders to his men below.



Chapter II.

Why The Sad Good-Bye Was Given.

In commission -- At home in Malta -- After long years -- Settled at Wilton -- Unwelcome tidings -- Unavailing skill.


Fourteen years ago, amid the mists of Scotland, there was a bonny wedding at a hill-side kirk; the bride, a sweet young English girl, who had left her southern home to pay a visit to her uncle, the old village-pastor; the bridegroom, a stout sailor, home from sea for a short while at his native village. And after a six weeks' happy wooing, a happy wedding took the two away, far from the heathery hills and the mountain lochs; far from the moors and fells of Scotland.

A brief honeymoon of quiet, unmarred happiness, and Alan Campbell received instructions to join his ship, ordered to Malta for three years. His wife, of course, could not sail with him, so he took a berth for her in one of the ordinary passenger steamers that run from Southampton to the island. And after seeing her safe on board one rainy April afternoon, her tearful face itself like April weather, he took the evening mail-train to Plymouth, and the following morning was on board his ship. It was not long before his impatience was gratified, and the "Thunderer" steamed out into the English Channel.

Thus over the great waves, through time of sun and stars, through storm and shine, sailed the two parted many miles of heaving sea; Minnie, pale and trembling in her little cabin, with the noise of the waters ever sounding in her sleepless ears; Alan pacing to and fro in the heat and throbbing of the engines of the "Thunderer."

It was a joyful meeting at the island-fortress in the blue Mediterranean. Alan obtained leave to sleep on shore, and took a little white cottage that overlooked the bay, where the good ship "Thunderer" lay at anchor; and there, at her outhanging window, every evening Minnie would sit, looking so anxiously across the bay towards the great black hull of the vessel, till a gig would put off that brought Alan home to her.

So the days and weeks went on. The spring died into the summer's flowery lap; the summer ripened and mellowed unto the golden autumn; and when the year's late last months were come, there was another inmate in the little cottage by the bay; another pair of eyes, blue as the mother's, to greet Alan as he came home at night; another pair of hands to hold and call his own.

The time ran as quickly as it ran happily. The three years passed, and again Alan had to put his wife on board a passenger steamer bound for England -- this time with her boy Harry to bear her company, a sturdy young gentleman of somewhat over two years; while he himself sailed for Plymouth in the "Thunderer." And so it came to pass, that after many such changes of abode, and many voyages over the dangerous waters, twelve years from the date of their marriage, they came to Wilton. They found lodgings at Mrs Valentine's farm, near the old church -- a strange contrast after the home on the blue waters of the Mediterranean, but a very nice contrast withal. And it seemed, at last, as if poor Mrs Campbell had found a climate that suited her, and that put new life and strength into her failing, fragile form. For those happy and treacherous nights, spent in looking over the bay at Malta for her husband's home-coming, had sown the seeds of a consumption, that each month now seemed to be increasing its wasting, rapid strides.

Yet at Wilton she seemed revived and better than she had been for long; and Alan grew more cheerful and hopeful that, if God pleased, her life, with care and watching, might be spared. So he took rooms at the farm for a length of time; sent his boy, now grown into a young image of his stout father, to a grammar-school in the village, and determined that, as the place agreed with her so well, Minnie should make it her home, even when he went to sea.

And once more their happiness lost the cloud of doubt and anxiety that for long had been hanging over it. But the dream was soon to be snapt.

One evening Alan came home to find his wife much worse than she had ever been. He learnt the cause. She had been sitting with a sick person, and from the hot, sickroom had passed out into the damp evening air. And this was the result.

The village-doctor was sent for at once; and when, on the next morning, Alan anxiously, tremblingly, asked him the candid truth, it was with an open letter in his hand, with which his fingers nervously played. It was marked "On Her Majesty's Service." He must hold himself in readiness to sail within a fortnight. And the doctor's answer was a fearful crowning to this unexpected tidings.

"She may linger on for a month," he said, "six weeks at most. You will have to bid her good-bye for ever when you go. No skill can make her live till you come home."

Alan never uttered a word, but his face was very pale, and a great shudder passed over his frame.

"It is very, very sad for you," said the little doctor, "I pity you from my heart." And then he jolted away down the lane in his shaky trap, drawn by his broken-winded pony.

And Alan turned into the farm, and was soon by his wife's side.

So the fortnight passed, and the good-bye was said; and this is why that good-bye was so unutterably sad; and this is all that Harry could not understand.



Chapter III.

Sad Information.

Mother and son -- Returning fortitude -- Self-devoted.


It was drawing close upon the half-yearly examination at the Grammar School, and Harry was beginning to grow very frightened and nervous, for a new boy had been put into his class since the last examination, and he feared the newcomer would supplant him, and get to the head.

So, as soon as the sad good-bye, told of in the first chapter of this little tale, was said, and Harry had tried in vain to comfort his mother, he got his books and set to work. And the clock ticked, and Harry pored over his delectus; and in the corner Mrs Campbell sat and wept.

Presently she called Harry to her.

"Harry, dear, I am better now; I won't cry any more. Come and sit by me."

And so Harry went. And then she talked quietly to him about his work at school, and how she hoped that one day he would be able to go to Oxford. It was well for her, poor thing, she had these little makeshifts for conversation. That which lay nearest her heart, was now too much well-nigh for words to express.

"You are young now, dear boy, but still old enough to know that your after-life depends on yourself; and if you work steadily on, you can win a scholarship."

"What is a scholarship, mamma?"

"A sum of money, dear, which is allowed you every year while you are at Oxford, to help to pay your expenses. Because, you know, papa couldn't afford to pay all the money it would cost while you were there."

"And why couldn't you pay it, mamma?"

"I shall not be here then, dear boy," said Mrs Campbell, very softly.

"But you will be wherever I am, mamma."

"I shall be sleeping in the churchyard, darling boy; over yonder, under the tall, grey tower."

Harry burst out impetuously:

"No, you shan't die, mamma! Why should you die? I won't let you go!"

And Harry sobbed as though his heart would break. For his sake, Mrs Campbell seemed to win strength and quietness. And taking him gently by the hand she led him upstairs to bed, sat by him till he was heavily asleep, his face all stained with tears, and then went wearily downstairs again, took her writing desk, and began a letter to her husband.



Chapter IV.

Wilton School.

The examination -- Wilton school -- Harry's class-room -- Absorbed -- Prized possessions -- Too busy -- Cribbing -- Misplaced sympathy -- Harry blushes.


The morning sun shone brightly over Wilton as Harry started to school; brightly over the dancing waters of the roadstead; and the seawind sang gaily through the wave-washed piles of the pier. The school-bell was ringing lustily as Harry passed through the iron gates into the playground. Everything was in bustle and confusion. Bats and balls were laid aside; jackets thrust on hastily; rough heads smoothed by hot hands. From their different house-doors the masters were emerging, putting on, as they came, gowns, some brand-new, some rusty and worn. The whole stream was setting in one and the same direction, towards the doors of the school-buildings. And by the time the bell's last clang had ceased, masters and boys were duly assembled in their respective places in the big school-room. Prayers over, Dr Palmer announced, amid breathless silence, the regulations respecting the examination, which was unexpectedly to begin, in part, that morning. Who does not remember those anxious, nervous days, before the examination; the anticipation worse, if possible, than the actual realisation; the visions of questions unanswered, translations sent up full of mistakes, sums that never would come out right, problems that never would be proved?

For the first few days questions, to be answered on paper, would be set to the whole school according to their respective work and classes. On the fifth day the examiner would arrive; he would commence at the bottom of the school, and, taking two classes each day, examine them vivâ voce.

This was the substance of Dr Palmer's speech; and then the business of the morning began.

The different classes and their masters filed away into their particular rooms, Dr Palmer and the senior form being left alone in the big school-room.

The greater portion of the school-buildings, it should be stated, had been converted some years ago from the remains of an old monastery. Standing on a slight eminence, and backed by a deep belt of firs, broad meadows sloped from it, straight down to a grey shingly beach, where the boys used to bathe. Three sides only had left their ruins behind; and these were accordingly rebuilt, as closely after the original style as was possible. There was the shadowy row of cool cloisters, edging the square smooth-shaven plot of grass, which no boy was allowed to cross. Then all round the building above the cloisters were various class-rooms; and at the end of one wing stood the chapel, and at the other, the big school-room.

Harry's class-room was in one corner, and consequently was darker than most of the others; but this the boys liked in the summer; it was such a contrast after the glaring sun that streamed in through the windows of the big school-room. And Harry's place, too, in the room, he specially liked; close to the window, he could look out, through its ivied frame, across the smooth green lawn, away down the meadows to the distant sea. And who can wonder that the sight of the heaving billows brought thoughts of his father to him many a time and oft? But many a time, too, those dreams were snapt by the voice of Mr Prichard, his master -- 

"Campbell, attend to your work;" or, "Campbell, don't look out of the window;" or, when in a facetious mood, "Campbell, you cannot learn your delectus by the light of nature."

But this morning, Harry was far too occupied to stare about. Not that he was thinking specially of what his mother had told him the night before, that she would soon be gone away from him; childlike, he had almost forgotten that, or at any rate the examination, for the time being, absorbed his whole attention. And like us all, he could not realise the sorrow his mother's words conveyed. Who of us, indeed, does not feel, even when standing over the grave of some dear one dead, even when decking the green mound with flowers -- feel it is well-nigh impossible fully to realise that those hands, now laid white beneath the mould, will never again be clasped in ours on earth. So it is no wonder that Harry was in his usual good spirits; with this only difference, that the examination into whose depths he had now plunged, was filling him with nervous excitement and terrified interest.

Each boy had a desk and stool to himself, and to the little boys the desk-key was a proud possession. The sixteen desks were ranged in even rows, Mr Prichard's being at the opposite end, it so happened, to Harry's place. By Harry sat Egerton the new boy, the dreaded rival; and as they bent, side by side, over their desks, their pens and inky fingers scrambling as hard as possible over their papers, many eyes were turned upon them, to see which appeared to be getting on best.

Harry himself was too busy to take any notice of Egerton; and the morning was half-gone, and he had scarcely looked from his desk. But a sudden impulse or wish to rest awhile, made him pause and lay down his pen. And this is what met his eyes. Mr Prichard was standing with his back to the boys, writing some directions on the class notice-board, not hurrying himself, and quite lost in what he was doing. He was an absent man, was Mr Prichard. All the boys were busy writing, or scratching their heads (a process commonly supposed to assist meditation), save one, and that was Egerton. But he was not idle. He was busy, a great deal too much so.

In his lap lay an open book. His desk, of course, concealed this from Mr Prichard, and from the rest of the room, except Harry; who, as he sat in the same row with him, alone could see; for Egerton's jacket, carefully pulled forward, screened his proceedings from the boy on his other side. His eyes were greedily fixed on the book; then he would write a little, then look again, then write again. He was cribbing.

Harry was so thunderstruck that he stared open-mouthed at him. Just then he heard Mr Prichard's voice, sterner than usual: "Campbell, what are you looking at, sir?" Poor Harry's heart sank within him. He could not, would not, tell; that would be sneaking. And yet he knew from the way in which Mr Prichard spoke that he suspected him of looking over Egerton's paper. The fact was, Mr Prichard had turned round suddenly, and catching Harry's eyes strained eagerly in the direction of Egerton's desk, had naturally imagined that he, and not Egerton, was taking an unfair advantage. Those few words of his sowed a crop of prejudice among the boys against Harry. "Campbell's been caught cribbing off Egerton," was what rose to the mind and lips of all; and a sort of sympathy grew up in favour of the true culprit, because it appeared that he had been the sufferer.

Naturally enough, there was a slight commotion in the room, and this gave Egerton ample opportunity to hide his book by sitting on it, or -- but we must not anticipate.

Soon after, Harry finished his paper, folded it, and walked to Mr Prichard's desk; in his hurry, leaving his own open at the time. As he handed in his work he said, stammering: "I wasn't looking at Egerton's paper, sir; indeed I wasn't," and then blushed crimson. Mr Prichard said nothing, but looked very hard at him, and this made Harry blush the more. Then he went back to his desk (which he never noticed was now closed), locked it, and sat quietly till the class was dismissed; and shortly after was running home to his mother.



Chapter V.

Mother And Son.

Very miserable -- Past hope -- Mother and son -- Breaking down -- Resignation -- "It is well."


The doctor's carriage with the broken-winded pony was standing at the door of the farm. Mrs Valentine had just come out, and was talking to the doctor's little boy, who sat holding the reins.

"Hallo, Harry," he cried, "home from school?"

"Hush, Master Bromley, don't make such a noise!" interposed Mrs Valentine.

Without taking any notice of Master Bromley, Harry exclaimed nervously to Mrs Valentine -- 

"Is mamma worse, Mrs Valentine?"

"Yes, dear," the good farmer's wife answered; "you mustn't go in now. She's very bad, indeed. Mr Bromley is with her."

So Harry ran into the orchard, and sitting down under a tree, felt very miserable. His mamma was worse -- was she really dying now? The terrible examination -- he remembered her words about his work, and going to Oxford. What was he to do? Was he to get leave from school, and give up the chance of getting the prize, and stay at home with mamma instead? But wouldn't that vex her, and perhaps make her worse? Besides, what use could he be at home? Ah! but if she were to die when he was away? No, no; he could not go away and leave her. He must stay with her now! The examination was nothing!

Such were the thoughts that coursed through Harry's brain; for though only thirteen years old, he was, in point of mind, far beyond his years, not in his school work, but in his ideas and feelings on general subjects of every-day life; and the reason of this was his having had, for so long, his mother as his only companion.

Presently Mrs Valentine came out to him. Her eyes were very red, for she had been crying.

"You can come in now, Master Harry."

"Mrs Valentine, is mamma dying? What can I do? She mustn't die. Can't Mr Bromley do anything for her?" cried Harry.

"No, dear boy. Mr Bromley can't do anything for her, poor dear; nor any one else either, for the matter of that. He can only make her easier for the time, like."

"But will mamma die before papa comes home?"

"She may die very -- very soon," sobbed Mrs Valentine.

By this time they were at the door, and Mrs Valentine left Harry to run quietly upstairs to his mother's room. He found her in bed, looking fearfully white, saving two red hectic spots glowing in her wasted cheeks. Her hands were dry and hot; and when she began to speak, a fit of coughing made utterance impossible. Harry sat by the bedside, and burst out crying. After a few minutes, Mrs Campbell said in a low voice, but so cheerfully -- 

"Well, Harry dear, how did the examination go off?"

"It's not over, mamma; and, please, don't talk about that. Are you really going to die, mamma? Tell me, is it really true?"

"Yes, darling boy, I am really going away from you now, and soon, too -- very soon."

"What shall I do when you are gone, mamma? How shall I --  -- " and here Harry fairly broke down; he could speak no more.

"Don't cry, Harry; it makes me so sad. Don't you know I am going to heaven, and there will be no pain there. I shall not cough any more. You mustn't cry so. Tell me about school; I like to hear it all. I am not going to die to-day, darling boy. We shall have a little longer together. Tell me about the examination."

How Harry longed to pour his story out to her, of Egerton and Mr Prichard. But he wouldn't do so now. He would bear it by himself. He had run home so quickly, meaning to tell her all, and knowing she would believe and pity him, and tell him what to do. But how could he distress her now? So he only answered very quietly -- 

"I did the paper pretty well, mamma; I think; the examiner doesn't come for two or three days; but -- but -- you won't be here -- then," and back came the memory of the fateful message, back came the fears at the thought that he would be alone in the world then.

"How hot the room is," sighed Mrs Campbell. "It makes me feel so weak."

"Ah! the air isn't like it was at Malta; is it, mamma? You told me it was so cool and sweet there; didn't you, mamma?"

"Yes, dear boy; but those cool winds have made me like this. It was sitting out, in the evenings there, that first gave me my cough. But it was God's will," she said half to herself, "and why should one look to second causes?"

"Go and have your dinner, Harry dear or you will be late for school," she said to him.

"Must I go to school, mamma, and leave you?"

"Yes, dear," she answered, "it is far better for you to go, as usual. They shall send for you if -- if --  Go down now, dear," she added, falteringly.

And when Harry hesitatingly left the room, Mrs Campbell turned her face to the wall, and prayed to God, to guard the motherless child; to guard the toilers on the sea; and then she thought of her girlhood, of her bright, strong, healthy days; and then of her marriage in the ominous Scotch mists, of the sojourning at Malta, of the journeyings to and fro; and chiefly of her husband's love, and of her happy life; and from the depths of her heart she thanked God for it all, and confessed that it had indeed "been well."



Chapter VI.

Injured Innocence.

A surprise -- Public opinion -- Questioned -- Circumstantial evidence -- Inexorable.


With a heavy heart Harry set out for school; but it was a walk of a mile, and his spirits were very elastic; so that by the time he had settled to his afternoon's work, all his old interest and excitement in the examination had returned. Again the class sat writing in their corner-classroom, with busy fingers and hushed voices.

At half-past four Mr Prichard rose, contrary to his ordinary custom, to collect the papers. Harry had just opened his desk hastily for some blotting paper, and as he took the piece from its wonted corner, what was his astonishment to see Egerton's crib lying there. As he was making assurance doubly sure, that it really was the delectus-crib, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and starting suddenly, found Mr Prichard standing, looking over him into his desk.

"Give me your paper, Campbell," said Mr Prichard; "and that book!" he added, sternly.

Harry's heart seemed to rise into his mouth. He was too frightened to utter a word, but gave up the book immediately with his paper. The whole affair had so astonished him that he scarcely knew whether he stood on his head or his heels.

"Stay after school-prayers, Campbell," said Mr Prichard, as he passed on, collecting the papers as he went.

Shortly after, the whole class rose, and many were the murmurs, "Sneak! cribber!" that greeted Harry's burning ears as they all hurried along towards the big schoolroom.

Poor boy! he felt in a sad strait, for he well knew how hard it would be to clear himself. However, the consciousness of his innocence gave him a brave heart. His mother had always told him that, no matter what the consequences were, so long as his conscience told him he was in the right, it was all well; and that seeming misfortunes would but work to his final good.

Prayers over, Harry took up his position at Mr Prichard's desk. It so happened no boys were kept in that evening, so the rest of the masters were soon gone; but somehow or other the room did not clear so speedily as usual. Harry's class especially was among the lingerers. The report had soon spread through the school. And the boys (the younger ones chiefly), always glad of a row when not themselves concerned, stood peeping through the open doors.

"Leave the room at once, all of you," shouted Mr Prichard, "unless you want an imposition?"

Waiting calmly and deliberately till the room was clear, and the doors shut, while Harry longed, and yet dreaded for him to begin, Mr Prichard turned and said -- 

"Well, Campbell, what have you to say for yourself? This morning, I catch you in the act of copying, or attempting to copy, from Egerton's paper; and, now, this afternoon, I find you with a book in your possession, which, you know, you have no business whatever to have. I suppose this will account for the correctness of your work during the past half-year? Do you feel very proud of your performance," he added, sneeringly, "when none of it was your own labour or cleverness?"

Meek-hearted Harry was in tears long before this oration was concluded; and the streaming face and crimson blushes only tended to confirm Mr Prichard's conviction of his guilt.

"Please, sir, I wasn't copying off Egerton this morning," sobbed Harry; "I wasn't copying off him; and it isn't my book. It's -- it's -- it isn't mine, sir!"

"It isn't yours, sir?" cried Mr Prichard, indignantly. "Have you the face to contradict me flatly, sir, and say the book does not belong to you? Whose name is that?" he cried, holding the delectus-translation, open at its fly-leaf, to Harry.

And there plain enough it was -- Harry Campbell.

"No, sir, no; it isn't mine," persisted Harry, through his tears. "It isn't mine. I never saw it till this morning."

"You are only adding to your wrong conduct, Campbell," said Mr Prichard very gravely. "It is bad enough for you to take unfair advantage of your school-fellows; but you make the whole matter ten times worse by telling a deliberate falsehood. The book is yours. Your name is in it."

In vain Harry protested his innocence; Mr Prichard remained inexorable.

"You will come with me to Dr Palmer to-morrow," and putting the book into his pocket, he stalked from the room.



Chapter VII.

A Boy Fight At School.

Lynch law -- At bay -- Bully Warburton -- Single combat -- The deciding round -- Harry is victorious.


If Harry felt heavy-hearted when he started for home that afternoon, what must he have felt now? Deeper than ever he was plunged in the trouble from which he knew not how to extricate himself. His thoughts, however, soon flew to his mother. He knew that there he would find comfort, that there, at least, he would be believed. So carefully wiping away all traces of his tears, and putting on as brave a face as he could, he strapped his books together, and ran down the broad stone stairs into the lobby.

For some time, however, he could not find his cap. It did not need much reflection to tell him what this meant or foreboded. It was the beginning of persecution. But after rumaging about among the boxes kept in the lobby, his patience was at length rewarded. There, in a corner, was the missing cap; but torn and dirty and much injured. Nothing daunted, he cleaned it as well as he could, and, putting it on, emerged into the play-ground.

Just as he was fairly in the open, walking quickly towards the gates, and not looking about him, he heard a burst of voices that bore no pleasant meaning; and then a body of tennis-balls flew all round him -- some hitting him smartly, some whizzing within an ace of him.

As soon as he had recovered from the first shock of his astonishment, stung and bruised, he looked to see who were his assailants, and there he saw about twenty boys, mostly of his own age and size, in fact, belonging to his form; though several of the crowd stood out from the rest, as older and bigger.

Harry's weakness was now turned to indignation.

"You beastly cowards!" he cried, "what have I done to you?"

"Thought to get the prize by cribbing, did you, you sneak?"

"I did not crib," shouted Harry, who had not stirred from where he was first hit by the balls.

"You little liar, you did. Give it him again," cried one of the bigger boys; and then another shower of balls fell thick about him.

"I'm not a liar. It's you're the liars, and the cowards too," he cried, coming nearer the crowd; and then the boys, too, crowded nearer to him.

"Do you mean to call me a liar? Do you mean to call me a coward?" cried one after the other -- the bigger boys now being louder and more threatening in their tones.

"Yes, I do," answered Harry, "if you say I cribbed, when I didn't. And you are cowards to all set on one."

"Leave him to me," said Warburton, a tall, ungainly boy of fourteen, as boy after boy was eager to take the quarrel to himself. "I'll teach him. Now, you young brute," he cried, advancing to Harry. "Do you mean to call me a liar and a coward?"

"'Leave him to me,' said Warburton, a tall ungainly boy of fourteen, as boy after boy was eager to take the quarrel to himself." -- WILTON SCHOOL, page 52.

"Yes, I do," persisted Harry, as Warburton came nearer, and shook his fist in his face. "It wasn't my crib; and you'd better not hit me!"

"Better not hit you," jeered Warburton; while the group echoed, "Better not hit him, indeed! Give him a good licking for his cheek, Warburton; I would if I were you!"

Warburton's jeer was very forced, but the voices of the rest gave him courage. So he rushed at Harry. The latter, however, seeing what to expect, threw away his books, and then flew at Warburton, who, from sheer astonishment at having actually to fight when he thought to administer an easy licking, began the combat at rather a disadvantage. Both hit very wildly at first, and not much damage was done. Of the two, Warburton was most out of breath, for he had been hitting furiously at Harry, who, not being strong enough to ward off the blows with his arms, had been forced to dodge and duck his head.

Presently they got into a corner close to the lobby-door, and Harry was beginning to flag. Not a word all this time had been uttered by the on-lookers. They would not back Harry; and to cheer on Warburton would be ridiculous. "Of course he would lick him all to pieces in a minute," they said.

But the minute had been a good long one, and all in their hearts were somewhat surprised. Just then Egerton came up; and Harry could scarcely believe his ears, when one voice alone came out of the crowd, cheering him on, and saying, "Go it, Campbell! Well fought! I'll back you, after all." And the voice was Egerton's.

At that moment Warburton was making a furious charge at him, when Harry stepped sharply aside, and gathering all his remaining force into one blow, hit his foe on the jaw: at the same instant Warburton slipped, and the blow and the false step terminated the fight, for he fell violently through the open lobby-door upon the stone floor.

"Well fought, Campbell! well fought!" cried Egerton.

No one else uttered a word.

Waiting till Warburton was on his feet again, his mouth bleeding, his face very crestfallen, Harry picked up his books, and shaking off Egerton's congratulations and friendly words, for he felt he was far more his enemy than Warburton, started home.

A good bathe in the lavatory set the mouth to rights; but Warburton was utterly cowed, and had learnt a lesson, which the rest had learnt too, that meek-hearted boys may bear a good deal of bullying, but that even to their endurance there is a certain limit.



Chapter VIII.

Friends In Misfortune.

Ominous words -- A visitor -- Harry breaks down -- A confused story -- What is to be done? -- In good keeping.


Harry reached the farm about six o'clock -- later than his usual time, and he knew his mother would be sure to inquire the reason; and, besides, his hair was very rough, and there was a suspicious-looking red mark on his left cheekbone. However, he was no sooner inside the house than he ran straight up-stairs to his mother. Her bedroom door was just ajar, and hearing a strange voice proceeding from the room. Harry knew some one was with her; so he sat down on the stairs, hoping that it would not be long before he might go in to see her. His heart was bursting to tell her all. He could keep it a secret no longer. To-morrow was the dreaded day when he was to be taken before Dr Palmer, and what the punishment might be, he dared not think. Expulsion, perhaps: certainly the loss of his place in his class, and nothing scarcely could be worse than that. Poor boy, he was in ignorance (and happily so) of the extent of the fault of cribbing. Most boys would have said: "I shall get a good caning, but I can get my crib again soon enough."

It was a lady who was with Mrs Campbell; so Harry knew from the voice, which was soft and sweet. She was talking quietly to his mother about her death; and as the words fell upon the silence. Harry listened eagerly for every syllable, nervous and trembling, and grew more miserable as each minute stole wearily by.

"It wouldn't have been so hard to die," Mrs Campbell was saying, "if he could only have been with me till the last. Dear Alan! I wonder where he is now?"

"Yet think, dear Mrs Campbell, how he is spared the pain of seeing you suffer," said the doctor's wife, for it was she. "You love him well enough, I know, to enable you to think this, don't you?"

"Oh, yes! yes!" answered the dying wife. "God knows what is for our good. It may have saved him much pain and sorrow. Dear Alan!" and her voice grew very low. She was talking half to herself. Then, as the new thought flashed across, she said again aloud, "But what will become of Harry when I am gone, and Alan out at sea?"

And Harry, where he sat on the stairs in the deepening dusk, burst into tears. His mother's quick ears caught the sound of his sobs, and she exclaimed:

"Why, there is Harry crying on the stairs? Tell him to come in, will you, Mrs Bromley?"

Harry needed no telling. He was soon in the room, at his mother's bedside, and clasped in her arms.

"Don't cry, Harry, darling," the weak voice said. "Don't cry so!"

"You aren't really going to die, mamma? What shall I do without you? -- all alone -- and -- and Dr Palmer won't believe me. I know he won't," sobbed Harry.

"Dr Palmer won't believe you? What is it, dear? and what is the matter with your face? Oh, Harry, you haven't been fighting, have you?" she added, and her voice bore shadow of reproach in it.

"Yes, mamma, I have," answered Harry, "but I didn't begin; they all set on me, and shied balls at me, and said I cribbed, and called me a liar and a coward, and I fought Warburton, and licked him," and then came the English schoolboy's triumphant glance, through his tearful eyes.

"Said you cribbed? When, dear? How?" asked Mrs Campbell. "Tell me all about it."

And, then, when the two had at length succeeded in quieting Harry, he began his story. Through excitement, it was naturally very confused at first, but, by degrees, he had made everything plain.

"But why don't you tell Dr Palmer that it was Egerton's crib? and all that you saw in morning school?" said Mrs Campbell.

"Yes," chimed in the doctor's wife, "you can tell him you distinctly saw Egerton using the book."

"That's no good, mamma," answered Harry, despondingly. "He wouldn't believe me. He'd say I put it off on Egerton, because he was next me in class."

"What is to be done?" said Mrs Bromley. "I quite see what the poor boy means."

"Never mind, Harry, dear, tell the truth, as I know you will," said Mrs Campbell, "and it will all go well with you. Egerton will be found out sooner or later, and Dr Palmer will be sorry if he has punished you for nothing."

"I shall tell Mr Bromley to go and speak to Dr Palmer. That horrid boy, Egerton! I could give him a good shaking!" said Mrs Bromley, excitedly. "And now, dear Mrs Campbell, I must go. I will try and send you round some grapes in the morning. They will be so good for your thirst. I shall come and see you again soon. Keep up," she added, in a whisper. "Think of what we have been saying. God is but calling you to a better country, and He will guard your motherless boy!"

"He will! He will, I know! Good-bye. You are so good and kind to me. Come again soon, won't you?"

"Come, Harry," said the doctor's wife, turning to him, "come down with me, and Mrs Valentine will give you your tea."

"And ask her to bathe your face, dear boy," added Mrs Campbell, "and put a vinegar pad on it."

And then Mrs Bromley, kissing her affectionately, led Harry from the room, looking wistfully at his mother as he went.

"Ah, Alan, darling Alan!" she sighed, when she was alone in the silent twilight of the room, "if you were only here, it would be so much easier to die! Just to say good-bye once more. And you'll only see my grave when you come home. Oh, God," she prayed, "forgive me, and take me to Thyself." And then her words grew wandering. "Scotland with uncle Robert -- how rough the waves are! -- when shall we get to Malta -- Alan! Alan! when will Alan come? -- Alan, darling, don't be long! -- I am so tired!" and so she fell into a broken slumber.



Chapter IX.

Harry Put On Trial.

The geography paper -- Before Dr Palmer -- The accusation -- Sentenced -- The doctor's study -- William's reminiscences -- The doctor -- Enter Egerton -- Punishment -- A hasty summons -- Heart-stricken.


Not a single word greeted Harry on his entering the playground the following morning; neither was there any symptom of the persecution of the previous evening. No murmured words flung at him; no hissing; but only a few stares of wonder, almost, at his recent achievement. He was treated as a mere cypher, -- sent to Coventry in fact. But this he did not mind; it certainly was preferable to positive persecution; and as he wished to keep calm for his coming ordeal, he was glad that nothing ensued to cause another fight -- a contingency he had been fully prepared to expect. Warburton scowled at him. Egerton turned his face away as they passed. This, however, did not make the slightest impression on Harry; he felt proud of his victory over the former, and despised the meanness of the latter.

He was allowed to proceed with the examination; but his place had been changed, and he now sat close to Mr Prichard. The reason was evident, and he asked himself wearily, as he bent over his paper, when would he ever be set clear in the eyes of the masters and his schoolfellows?

Strangely enough, one of the questions (it was a geography paper) was, "What do you know of Malta?" Harry here felt at an advantage. He remembered, of course, nothing from his own experience; but he had heard his mother's description, and as his pen ran quickly, echoing in boyish language her words whom he loved so well, it is not much to be wondered that his interest almost banished from his mind the memory of his sorry plight.

But "like a dream, when one awaketh," he came back suddenly to a recollection of how he was situated. He was going to be put, as it were, on trial, and the charge against him was a difficult one to disprove.

Being a half-holiday, prayers were read at the end of morning-school. And now the time was come. Harry walked to Mr Prichard's desk, who conducted him at once across the room to Dr Palmer. The latter looked over his spectacles, surprised. Indeed, Harry had always been one of the "model boys."

"What is the matter, Mr Prichard?" he inquired. "Has Campbell been misbehaving himself?"

"Yesterday morning, sir," answered Mr Prichard, "during the examination, I detected Campbell deliberately looking over Egerton's paper, who you know at present stands next to him in class."

"No, sir, indeed I wasn't," burst in Harry.

"Silence, sir!" sharply said Dr Palmer.

"Had this been all," resumed Mr Prichard, "I should have punished him myself, severely, without troubling you; but, in the afternoon, as I was collecting the papers, and passing close by Campbell's desk, which was open at the time, I found this book in it," and he handed the delectus-crib. "And Campbell says -- "

"It isn't mine, sir!" pleaded Harry. "Some one must have put it there!"

"Silence, sir!" said Dr Palmer, sharply again. "You will have to answer presently. Well, Mr Prichard?"

"Campbell makes the matter, as I told him, far worse by persistently denying that he is the owner of the book. And yet his name is in it."

"Campbell," said Dr Palmer, gravely, "this is a most serious charge against you. I had always thought you were an honourable boy. You always have been very industrious, and your work has been well done, as I hear; but this matter alters the whole case. It shows how one can be deceived in a boy."

As he paused a moment, Harry broke in with the same denials he had used before. He could not yet bring himself to try his last resource of affirming who was the rightful owner of the book, and he feared even that would but make his case worse.

"Go into my study, and wait till I come," added Dr Palmer.

And Harry, knowing what that meant, went away trembling; for no boy on the eve, or in the midst of, a caning, feels much consolation in a consciousness of his innocence.

How he got to Dr Palmer's study he knew not. The playground seemed so very long, and the boys who crowded to watch him pass, to have doubled or trebled their number. And he was almost glad, if such a feeling is compatible with his position, when he reached the room of horrors, as the Doctor's sanctum really was to the boys; for none set foot therein save those who were "in for a row."

Crossing the hall he met Dr Palmer's butler, an old man, most familiar to everybody, who never even said "Sir" to his master; but then he had known him from a boy. So it is no wonder his greeting to Harry was so blunt.

"What? 's that you, Campbell? Well, to be sure! In for a caning, I s'pose. What have you been and done now?"

"Nothing, William. I haven't done nothing," sobbed Harry, regardless of grammar. "I'm going to be caned for nothing."

"Oh no! nothing at all. That's what they all say, the young rascals," ejaculated William, half aloud, as he hurried away, partly about his business, but chiefly because he didn't like the sight of the boy's tears.

It made him think of the time when he used to steal apples (he would tell them in the kitchen), and his mother used to hold him up by his ears while his father thrashed him.

Harry had scarcely taken his seat upon the edge of one of Dr Palmer's crimson-morocco-covered chairs when he heard the fatal footstep in the hall, and the next moment the Doctor entered.

The first thing he did was to take down one of the canes that lay on the top of the bookshelves, Harry narrowly watching him the while, and then he said -- 

"Campbell, I am exceedingly sorry to be obliged to punish you."

Harry shivered; the doctor was a powerful man; and the cane looked very lithe and lissome.

"But I cannot pass over such a serious fault, even though you have always hitherto, so far as I have seen, conducted yourself well. There can be not the slightest doubt that the book is yours. It was found in your desk, and has your name in it."

"It isn't mine, sir. I declare it isn't. Some one must have put it there; and I saw," -- and here Harry paused.

Dr Palmer looked at him narrowly.

"Some one must have put it there? And do you mean to say, then, that you accuse one of your schoolfellows, not only of putting it there, but also of -- "

Harry could endure no longer, and with excited and stammering tones, he told the whole tale.

"This is a most serious charge for you to bring," said Dr Palmer, laying down the cane and ringing the bell. "Send Master Egerton here," he said, when William appeared.

After a pause of about three minutes, which seemed like an hour to Harry, and during which not a word was uttered, Egerton entered, cool and collected, and said respectfully to Dr Palmer:

"William said I was wanted, sir."

"Campbell tells me he saw you using this book," -- holding out the delectus-crib -- "in yesterday-morning school. The conclusion, therefore is, that it is yours, and that you put it into his desk. What have you to say to this, Egerton?"

"No, sir, I declare the book isn't mine," answered Egerton, positively, and still quite coolly. "I suppose Campbell's tried to put it off on me, because I'm next him in class."

"Oh, Egerton, how can you say so!" ejaculated Harry. "You know you were using it."

"Ask Evans, sir; he sat on the other side of me," said Egerton.

Evans was sent for.

"No, he never saw Egerton using the book. He sat close to him, and couldn't have helped seeing if he was cribbing."

Egerton again positively and solemnly declaring he knew nothing whatever of the matter, and Evans' evidence so far bearing him out, Dr Palmer dismissed them both, and then turned to Harry.

"Campbell, you have now had every chance. You have been detected in a most dishonourable act, and you have added to your fault by telling a lie. Bend down," he concluded, taking his cane.

In vain Harry protested his innocence. In vain he begged Dr Palmer to believe him. Twenty times the strong arm rose, twenty times the cane whished through the air, and twenty times Harry felt the sting. By the time it was all over, he was perfectly numbed and stiff with pain. But the bodily suffering was nothing when compared with the mental agony he felt at thus being punished when innocent. His whole frame was convulsed with sobs, and Dr Palmer was giving him a few words of concluding rebuke, when a hasty knock came at the door; and William, without waiting for the customary "Come in," hurried into the room, and said in his blunt way:

"Campbell's wanted home. His mother's bad."

Doctor Palmer's sternness and severity vanished in a moment. So it was always with him. Strict as he was, severe as he was, directly the punishment had been duly administered, he was kind-hearted and genial to the culprit long before he had recovered the effects of his punishment.

"Campbell, your mother is ill." He knew nothing more than that Mrs Campbell was a confirmed invalid. "Go and get your cap; I will come with you. Perhaps I can be of some use."

But Harry's heart was too stricken to accept those well-meant words; and the sudden change in the Doctor made Harry say what at another time he would never have dared to say.

"No," he sobbed. "I'll go alone. She doesn't want you. She believes me, and you don't. She won't speak to you." And he rushed from the room, leaving the doctor far too affected and moved to attempt to stop him or call him back.



Chapter X.

Sunlight.

Ministering friends -- Watching -- Past all tears -- Taken home -- The dark valley.


The summer sunlight lay thick about the room where Mrs Campbell was dying. There was a square of deep blue sky, edged by the window frame, glistening before her eyes -- eyes that now were lighted up with the fervour of a holy death -- eyes that glowed in sweet anticipation of that pure light which shines forever on the hills of heaven.

The silence of the room was only broken now and then by the few soothing words the doctor's wife would say or read. Mrs Valentine sat on the farther side of the bed, her eyes red with weeping; and, from time to time, tried to get some nourishment into the poor weak lips, though she knew well the while that all these tender ministerings were in vain. It was a lonely death for the dying one, even though she had these two good friends with her. He who had loved, and loved her still, so well, could not be there to hear her last words on earth. She must lay her head in other arms than his, and give up her soul to God, without a farewell word from him, without one prayer together uttered, that God would hasten the time of their meeting in that land where partings are unknown. No! She must die without the presence of her nearest, dearest one on earth, while he was beating out upon the great waters of the ocean.

In the morning after Harry had started for school, Mrs Campbell, in a violent fit of coughing, had broken a blood-vessel. In her present state this meant speedy and certain death. And Dr Bromley, when he returned home, after having seen her, had told his wife that Mrs Campbell could not last more than two or three hours. So, sending at once to the Grammar-School to request Doctor Palmer to allow Harry to go home immediately, the tender-hearted Mrs Bromley started for the farm.

And there she sat reading and speaking words of comfort to the dying wife, watching and fearing each moment would be the last. She was Mrs Campbell's only friend save Mrs Valentine. It is true the vicar had been to visit her several times, but under such painful circumstances the absence of one so near and dear as her husband made her almost inconsolable. Her parents had both been dead some years, and she was their only child. And as it often happens, while so many people have relations in numbers almost too abundant, she had none. Her only great friends were in Malta, friends whom she had known in the dear old days, when all seemed so bright and hopeful before her. It was therefore but natural that she should cling to the doctor's good wife; and thus their friendship, born as it was of a time of sorrow and suffering, was one of pure and holy comfort to them both.

And the morning crept on, with words of heaven softly uttered by the living, and drunk in with eager ears by the dying; and outside the birds sang, and the green trees whispered, stretching out their tiny leaf-hands to the caressant breezes, and all was summery there without, -- all was sunshine and gladness. And through the heedless village ran Harry, heart-broken and afraid, and entered, from the brightness, his mother's peaceful room of death. He was past all crying now. The tears seemed dried up in one great burning spot within his brain. He stood quietly by the bed, longing to hear that well-known voice, but not daring to speak; she lay so still he scarcely knew whether she were alive or really dead.

"Here is Harry, dear Mrs Campbell," said the doctor's wife; "he has come from school. Don't you know him? Here he is."

She turned her large grey eyes upon her boy for some time without recognising him. Then, at last, opening her arms, said:

"Harry, darling, is that you? I'm going away now -- going to heaven. You'll always be a good boy, won't you?"

"Mamma, mamma, you do believe I'm innocent, don't you?" said Harry. He could not let her die without hearing once more from own lips her trustful confidence in him.

"Yes, darling boy, I know you have spoken the truth. Kiss me now," she whispered, her voice growing weaker. "Good-bye, darling Harry; God bless you! Good-bye, dear Mrs Bromley. Good-bye, Mrs Valentine. God will reward you!" And then her voice was hardly audible as she murmured to herself, "Buried at Wilton, and Alan will come and see my grave. Alan, darling Alan, God is taking me home." And then as a heavenly light shone through her eyes, her voice regained its strength. "Into thy hand, O Lord I commend my spirit!" and so she died.

Harry's face was pressed close to hers, and his burning tears now fell thick upon the lifeless cheek.

"Oh! mamma, mamma," he sobbed, "what shall I do? what shall I do?"

And, sinking on the floor, he wept as though his heart would break. Mrs Bromley and the farmer's wife were too much wrapt in their own grief to stir to comfort him. So the three wept there together, in the quiet little farm beside old Wilton church; while she, for whom they wept, now henceforth knew no more sorrow, no more pain, nor any tears; and still outside the birds sang on unwitting, and, from without, the summer brightness mocked the darkness that was within -- the darkness of the valley of the shadow of death.



Chapter XI.

Moving Home.

School again -- Leaving the farm -- Like father, like son -- Tea for two -- The doctor retires -- Miss Parker's oration.


Clouds and sunshine, sunshine and clouds. So runs the world away. Equally necessary, sorrow and gladness are as the rains and sunbeams for the fruits of the earth. Were it all sadness the world would grow morose and torpid; were it all gladness men would be selfish and hard-hearted.

Four days had now elapsed since Mrs Campbell died; and it was the evening of the funeral-day, a sad, rainy evening, and Harry was waiting while Mrs Valentine packed his things, for that night he was to go to the Grammar-School to sleep; to be there as a boarder, at any rate till his father returned. He scarcely spoke a word, and what he did say seemed to choke him. His mother dead; his father away at sea; himself sent back to the school he had left but a few days since, smarting with the pain of his undeserved punishment and accusation; his plight was indeed a sad one. Mrs Valentine tried to cheer him as well as she might, but she felt the blow that left Harry motherless too bitterly herself to be of much comfort to him.

At half-past seven William appeared with a light cart of Dr Palmer's, to take Harry and his luggage to school. Perhaps the bluntness of the old butler was more opportune now than ever. It prevented the lengthening of a parting that could not be otherwise than utterly sad and wretched to Harry. There was the good kind Mrs Valentine to leave; and the dear old farm, where he had spent so many joyous days in happy ignorance of the blow which now had stricken him. And there was the churchyard to say good-bye to, which now he could see but seldom, and when he was near her grave, his mother did not seem to him to be so far away.

But William was not unkindly blunt. Yet the sight of him brought back to Harry's mind the recollection of all that had occurred at school on the last occasion he had seen William's obese person. The crib found in his desk, the fight, the caning, and then -- then, back came the recollection that he was indeed alone.

"Good-bye, my dear, good-bye," said Mrs Valentine; "be sure you come and see me when you can. Papa'll be home soon, maybe," though she feared she was but holding out false hopes in this.

"There, that'll do, missis," said William, interrupting the moist embraces of the good farmer's wife; and he flicked the fat pony across his sleek shoulder; and, with Harry and his boxes, was soon away down the lane, Mrs Valentine gazing after them, her long print apron at her eyes.

"Just like his father, dear boy, as brave and composed like. But 'tis harder a'most for all that." And who would say that her moralising was wrong?

As a special favour, and "in consideration of his late deplorable affliction," as Miss Parker, the matron, phrased it, Harry was to have his tea in Doctor Palmer's study that night, a favour Harry by no means saw in the light intended. He would far rather have had his tea with the rest; though, for the matter of that, he didn't want any tea at all. He was too miserable to eat. But his face was quiet and composed when he reached Doctor Palmer's hall, and was ushered into the study.

The tea was all ready, -- two cups, two saucers, two plates, -- so Harry was prepared for a tête-à-tête with the Doctor. Everything looked very nice and tempting, at least, it would have looked so on any other occasion; but now there was that numerical horror staring him in the face; those two cups, those two saucers, those two plates! It must be for Doctor Palmer and himself that all the preparations were made. But he was not left long in doubt, for, at that moment, the Doctor entered. He greeted Harry most kindly, and told him to take a seat at the table, which Harry did in silence; and then the Doctor poured out a cup of tea for him, and helped him to some cold meat. Harry watching every motion the while; and then, taking a cup for himself, drank it standing.

Harry hated all this kindness. He would almost have preferred angry words; but he ate what he had, and enjoyed it, though he said nothing more than "yes," or "no, thank you," or "please," to the Doctor's various remarks.

It was becoming unbearable, and he longed for the distant etiquette which school-life sets between boys and masters. He was in no mood for a master to try to play the parent, especially when now the contrast seemed so great, and lying, as he was, under false imputations.

But he was soon relieved, for Doctor Palmer said:

"I have to go out now, Campbell. Don't hurry over your tea, but when you have quite finished you can go to bed. You need not wait up for prayers."

"Thank you, sir," answered Harry, brighter for the first time. Relief was come at last, and the study-door closing over the Doctor's portly form was the welcomest sight Harry had seen for many days.

Once alone, he lingered over his tea. He knew he wouldn't be interrupted, and the contents of the table seemed doubly good now. He even looked at some books, and at last became so absorbed in one, that he went on reading, regardless of time, till he heard the boarders' prayer-bell ringing, at the sound of which he hurried off to bed. On the stairs he met the matron.

"Oh, Master Campbell, I was looking for you. You're changed into No. 7 dormitory. I put your box by your bed, so you'll know where you're to sleep. How are you now, dear," she added, kindly, "have you heard from your papa? when's he coming home? You'll try and be a good boy, won't you? You must think how it would vex your dear ma; and you won't give Doctor Palmer cause to cane you again, I know," and Miss Parker smoothed her apron, and took breath after her long-winded oration.

There it was at last. Harry feared it would come sooner or later, this allusion to the crib. He burst out indignantly, -- 

"Mamma believed me, Miss Parker, if nobody else did. She knew I didn't crib; but I won't bear it, I won't," he cried passionately, as he ran up-stairs to his new destination.



Chapter XII.

Bullying.

"Gas out." -- The new boy's turn -- "To err is human" -- Resistance -- Persecution -- I'll run away.


"Well, there now," ejaculated Miss Parker, "I never! That boy's not a bit brought down by his mother's death. He sticks to it, just as indignant as ever."

But Harry was out of hearing, and was sitting on his bed, staring into his box which he had just opened. Presently, there was a sound of footsteps scurrying up-stairs and along the passages, and the door of No. 7 dormitory burst open, and its sixteen boys rushed in one after another, huddling together like a flock of sheep.

The first thing that met their eyes was Harry, who didn't quite know whether they would speak to him or not. So he waited till one or two greeted him with a shake of the hand, and a "how-de-do, Campbell?" two or three more with a cold "hallo, Campbell!" and the rest with only a stare.

Amongst the latter were Egerton and Warburton. In about five minutes a step was heard on the landing-place below.

"Gas out," cried Egerton, "there's Lea coming."

"Lea" was a house-master.

No one moved to obey the order.

"Now, then," cried Warburton, "who's new boy?" Harry, where he knelt at his bedside saying his prayers, knew he was meant; but he had not jumped up from his knees to obey the order, when a slipper came hard at him. He, however, first put out the gas, and was on his knees again, finishing his prayers, when Mr Lea entered. All being quiet, and the light out, he retired. As soon as his last step was heard below, one or two voices exclaimed -- 

"I say, Jackson, go on with your story, where you left off last night."

"Oh, no," answered Jackson, the boy appealed to, "I ain't new boy now. I've done my turn."

The majority of the boys did not quite like to tell Harry plainly it was his turn to provide the usual nightly amusement of a story, for they felt some sort of compunction towards him, because of his mother's death, even though they had not spoken to him; but they did not hesitate to talk pointedly about its being the new boy's turn; that Jackson had done his turn; he was the last new boy, and so on.

But as Harry took no notice of these remarks, Egerton solved the difficulty by saying curtly, -- 

"Campbell, it's your turn to tell a story, so look sharp, and begin."

"I haven't got one to tell," answered Harry, as he sat, still undressed, on his bed, unlacing his boots.

"Can't help that," said Egerton, "you must make up one. You're a good hand at that, aren't you?" he sneered, brutally.

Those few words clenched the feeling of hatred that had been gradually growing in Harry's breast towards Egerton. Then first sprang up within him a great desire of revenge, which in after years increased with Harry's growth -- of revenge on one who had thus blasted his reputation, it seemed for ever. It is true, he had but shortly risen from his knees. But do not call his prayers hypocritical, because these angry, revengeful thoughts had taken such root in him so soon. If we had not these passions we should be divine. The only strange thing is, he was so young; for "vengeance" is usually only the cry of those of mature age. But a consideration of the circumstances in which he was placed, and the advanced temperament of his mind, will make the wonder vanish.

Harry took no notice of Egerton's speech as far as an answer was concerned. He went on unlacing his boots in silence; but he felt his face burn white with anger.

"Now then, Campbell," cried Egerton, "none of your sulks; it won't do. Are you going to tell a story or not?"

"No," answered Harry, bluntly and firmly.

"But it's your turn, Campbell," expostulated some of the others, wanting the story, but yet not wanting a row.

"I'd have tried to, if Egerton hadn't said that," answered Harry to the last speakers, whose tone seemed somewhat consolatory to him.

"Hadn't said what?" they asked.

"Why, said that I knew how to tell stories. You know what he meant, and it's beastly bullying, it is," went on Harry, impetuously and indignantly, "and he knows he's the liar, and not me," waxing bold from the apparent sympathy the silence of the room seemed to augur. But in that silence the anger of Egerton, and of a number of his special friends, was gathering; and the words were scarcely out of Harry's mouth, when a boot came through the darkness, hitting him on the shoulder, and then another, and another.

Harry sat on his bed, boiling with rage. He did not feel in the mood for fighting, and besides, in the dark it was impossible.

Then came another ominous silence; and suddenly a scuffle of feet sounded near his bed, and before he knew where he was, his bed was suddenly dragged out into the middle of the room, turned over, and clothes, boots, sponges, wet towels, and pillows heaped upon him.

Harry was maddened: he longed to find some one to hit, but the darkness prevented that. He heard suppressed voices laughing at him, but could see not a sign of any one; the bedclothes entangled his movements; he was wet with the sponges and bruised from the boots. What could he do? Where could he find help? "Not at school, not at school," he said to himself. "If I tell, I shan't be believed;" and then the idea came across him -- "I'll run away." The thought was no sooner in his head, than his mind was firmly resolved. Yes, he would run away from this horrid place; anywhere, anywhere, rather than stay here.



Chapter XIII.

Flight.

In the passage -- Past the last door -- Somebody coming -- Across the lawn -- A footstep -- The doctor!


As luck would have it, Harry's bed was near the door. If he could but get out of the dormitory unobserved by the boys, that would be at least one rung mounted on the ladder of escape. He was fully dressed, his boots only being unlaced. So taking them off, he crept towards the door, and waiting cautiously, hidden by the now-welcome darkness, till a fresh noisy onset was made by his assailants on the bed where they supposed him to be, he stealthily lifted the latch and stood on the stairs. He was not long creeping down to the first landing -- a narrow carpeted passage, full of numerous doors, and terminating in a window which looked over a shed where the boots and knives, etc., were cleaned. The stairs which led below, joined those of No. 7 dormitory at one end of the passage, exactly opposite to the window, the distance from the window to the stairs being about ten yards. When Harry left his room he had not the least notion how he was going to accomplish his purpose. He had only a vague idea that he was running away; and it was not till he alighted at the end of the passage mentioned, and saw from the other end the moonlight streaming in through the curtainless window, that it entered his head that there he might find means of escape.

So he stole cautiously along the passage, nervous, excited, fearing lest he should disturb any of the sleepers in the various rooms he passed. The whole place was so still, he could almost hear his heart thumping. The only thing besides that stirred the silence was the subdued monotonous snoring from the rooms. A waft of fresh summer night-air made his heart leap with delight and eagerness. The window was open. The rest seemed easy.

The last door was passed, and he stood at the ledge looking out into the moonlight. How quiet everything was! Far off, across the playground, he saw a few lights burning in the different masters' houses; but the Doctor's, in a wing of which he was, was quite dark. Of course, he remembered, the Doctor was out. How fortunate! and the kitchen-windows looked the other way. The roof of the boot-house was about six feet below the window-ledge. At the corner stood a water-butt, and, against that, a large empty box turned up on end. Everything appeared to be put there to further his escape. The boot-house stood in a yard, which opened into Dr Palmer's garden, and from that he knew escape would be easy enough.

He had just tied his boots together, and by the aid of his pocket-handkerchief dropped them on the roof. His hands were already on the window-ledge, and one leg over, when he heard a footstep on the stairs below. What should he do? To stay as he was, motionless, would be fatal. He was full in the moonlight. To crouch down in the corner, where the moonlight did not shine, might possibly screen him. Not a second was to be lost. His resolution was formed. Over went the other leg; and, hanging with his fingers to the outside of the window-ledge, afraid to drop to the roof lest the noise should be heard, he clung trembling, while he heard the step ascending to the top dormitory. He must be off, -- right away, in a few minutes; for it would not now be long before he was missed. Down he dropped the remaining distance, picked up his boots, scrambled down the water-butt, on to the box, and there he was safe on the ground at last. The gate from the yard into the doctor's garden was always open. He ran noiselessly through, on his bootless feet, into the garden, and across the lawn; and, skirting along where the laurels cast a dark pathway of shadow over the moonlit grass, he made for a corner of the garden-wall, near which the high road ran, and which some few days ago he had noticed was either lower than elsewhere, or somewhat tumbled down. Into the laurels he darted, and soon found the spot he wished; and, then knowing he was quite hidden, and, moreover, in a place where no one would dream of searching for him, he sat down to regain his breath; and, as he put on his boots, listened eagerly to catch the slightest sound that might warn him that his absence was discovered. Nor was it more than two or three minutes before he heard voices in the playground, and the unlocking of various doors, and lights shone suddenly in several windows.

"There he was, safe on the ground at last." -- WILTON SCHOOL, page 98

No more waiting was to be thought of. He must go on, if he meant really to escape; or be caught, and so have all the trouble and fright for nothing, or at least not for nothing. He knew if he were caught, his stay at school would only be a very short one; and better anything than be caned, and afterwards expelled.

So he scrambled up the garden-wall, and his eyes brightened as he saw the hard, highroad that would lead him away from this place of torture.

To right the road ran down towards the village: to left it led to the school, and to the entrance of Doctor Palmer's house; and, further on, to the neighbouring town.

He was preparing to jump down, when again the sound of a footstep checked and terrified him. If it were coming up from the village, the passer-by would of course see him. If it were coming from the school, the same result would be fatal to him. The only hope was, that it was a retreating step of some one who had passed while his attention was drawn off by the noise of those who were searching for him.

He stretched out his head and looked down the road. No one there. So far he was safe. He looked up the road; and there was a well-known figure, magnified and looking very gaunt in the moonlight. It was the Doctor. But -- and Harry could scarcely believe his eyes for joy -- he was going away from where his runaway pupil crouched trembling on the wall. He must have passed just before he climbed up. The Doctor seemed to be walking so perversely slow, actually strolling, Harry thought. When would he turn the corner?

Fainter, however, grew the footsteps, and at length the portly figure disappeared. And then, jumping hastily from the wall, with a slip on to the road, and scrambling to pick himself up, Harry ran as hard as his legs would carry him down towards Wilton village.



Chapter XIV.

At Sleep At Last.

Mingled feelings -- Sore perplexity -- Cherishing vengeance -- 'Ware the dog -- Want of reflection -- In the churchyard -- Footsteps -- A strange bed.


He did not stop running till he had put nearly three-quarters of a mile between him and the school. And then two considerations brought him to a standstill. Firstly, he was out of breath; he could scarcely run a step farther; and secondly, he was now close into the heart of the village, and the groups of lounging figures he espied in the distance warned him he must be careful how he proceeded. About two hundred yards in advance was a public house -- "The Blue Anchor;" and here, of course, was a goodly knot of men, some inside drinking, some outside smoking, and all making a most disreputable noise. There were also one or two women in amongst the crowd, evidently searching for truant sons or husbands, and Harry feared their inquisitive eyes even more than he feared the men. For he remembered he was covered with dust and dirt from his scramble; his hair all rough; hatless, and generally untidy. Besides, what business had a boy of his age and station in life to be wandering about a village, alone, at half-past nine?

So he retraced his steps a short distance, until he came to a stile leading to a lane which skirted the village; and which, running past the farm and the church, as before-mentioned, joined the highroad at the further end of the village.

Once in the lane, and safe from sight, he slackened his pace; and then, with the feeling of comparative safety, came very mingled feelings of exultation, loneliness, and fear -- each striving to have the uppermost in the poor boy's heart.

Hitherto the excitement of achieving that vague performance of running away from school had pre-occupied him, and kept away all thoughts of the future. But the dangers of the escape were now all overcome, or at least Harry thought they were. What, then, was the next thing to be done? Should he go to Mrs Valentine? If he went there, perhaps she would send him back to school. And besides, the farm would be shut up, and every one gone to bed. How should he attract Mrs Valentine's attention; and make her come down and let him in? The dog was always loose at night, to keep intruders off. He would be sure to fly at him, if he attempted to go near the place.

So Harry was very sore perplexed, and began to think that running away was not such an easy thing after all. And he remembered that Egerton was the cause of all this trouble. Had it not been for him, he would have been at school; motherless, it is true, but not in disgrace as he was; sad at heart, but not hated and suspected by boys and masters. Egerton! Egerton had caused it all! And Harry longed for revenge. He would treasure up his hatred, his thirst for vengeance, and some day, perhaps, he would meet the one who had done him this wrong, and then the debt should be paid off. This feeling of revenge was already firmly rooted in his heart, already beginning to be the one purpose of his life.

He would go on towards the farm, at any rate, and see how things stood. Perhaps the dog was not loose that night, or if it were, might recognise him.

So, plucking up his spirits, he ran along the lane towards the little farm, where he had been so happy with his dear dead mother, and towards the quiet churchyard, whose coverlet of green was over her.

He was not long reaching the farm, and went cautiously up to the gate. Not a sound! not a light in any window! There was the great silver moon making everything as bright almost as day, and there was the slow munching of the cows in the adjoining orchard. Harry's heart rose higher. No dog! not a sign of him! He put his hand to open the gate. The latch stuck. He pushed harder; it flew open with a sharp click, and he had not time to listen whether the sound had been heard or no, when a dog's low growl solved the question.

He started back from the gate, which fell to with a loud crash. It was all up now. Out rushed the dog, barking fiercely, and off rushed Harry simultaneously. And naturally enough, too. It is not pleasant to be mauled by a huge mastiff.

Had the idea struck him, he would have kept at a respectful distance, and there waited in hopes that the baying of the dog would disturb the inmates of the house, and that on their coming out to discover the reason, he would gain his object of being let in.

But it is very doubtful whether a much older and, therefore, more thoughtful person than Harry would have considered anything but the fierceness of the dog, and the desirability of getting away as quickly, and as far, as possible.

So Harry bolted down the lane at headlong speed, while the dog, seeing the intruder depart, only uttered a few self-satisfied growls, and returned to his mat in the porch, conscious that he had done his duty. At the same moment, Mrs Valentine opened her window and put out a night-capped head into the moonlight, and craning it all round, to see what was the matter, and seeing nothing extraordinary, put it in again, with a slight shiver.

Good soul! how little she dreamt of the apparently-trifling episode enacted underneath her window! How gladly would she have welcomed the runaway frightened boy! And how different that boy's after life would have been had she but wakened sooner.

Meanwhile, Harry was stopping at the churchyard-gate. He longed to go in. He hesitated. On another occasion, and in his mother's lifetime, he would not have dared to go inside the wicket after dark. But now, now he was going away, he knew not where! Out into the world, and that seemed a very long way off to Harry. It was like another country. Besides, what would hurt him while she was there, he asked himself?

So, without more ado, he passed through the creaking gate, up the lime-tree avenue, heedless of the ghost-like shadows of the tombstones, and the rustle of the fragrant leaves.

It was soon found, that little grassy mound in the corner by the ivy-covered porch. And then he could bear up no longer. He burst into tears, and throwing himself on the dewy moonlit sward, wept bitterly.

"Oh, mamma, mamma, why did you die? why did you die? What shall I do?" he sobbed in a low, excited tone, "I'm so lonely, mamma! mamma!"

And the quiet night stole on, and the soft winds of June whispered over the motherless boy, weeping there alone in the churchyard.

The sound of footsteps! Harry jumped up and listened, eager, and frightened. The churchyard wicket was opened and shut again, and then he heard a steady measured tread of persons slowly approaching. He was riveted to the spot, and a cold perspiration broke upon his forehead. The steps were nearing, and then, rounding the corner of the tower, the new comers came into sight.

One look was enough, and Harry was off down the other path that led from the churchyard to the further end of the village.

It was only a funeral of a drowned man who had been picked up the previous night upon the shore of Wilton. But the dark, slow-moving figures of the bearers, and the flickering gleam of the lanthorns, made dim by the moonshine, froze his heart with terror, and drove him away from his mother's grave without one word of parting. Perhaps it was better so. It saved him the difficulty and sorrow of having to decide to say good-bye for ever to that grassy sleeping-place where slept the one so dear to him.

Away he ran, heedless, frightened, through the straggling remainder of the village. Not a light was burning, not a person stirring, which was fortunate, though he never paused to see; or think, but hastened on till he fancied he had gone miles; and then, seeing an inviting barn close by the roadside, turned in, and, worn out with fatigue and excitement, soon slept heavily in a low, broken manger full of hay -- a strange but welcome bed.



Chapter XV.

The Biters Bit.

Excitement in school -- Expecting a row -- The doctor speaks -- Deliberate falsehood -- The truth comes out -- The two culprits -- Manly confession -- Mr Franklyn speaks -- Honest shame -- Egerton convicted -- The doctor's speech -- Warburton caned -- Egerton birched -- Justification.


The bright fresh summer hour of seven, the following morning, was very different in the barn where Harry had taken up his abode to what it was at the grammar-school. In the former, it saw the tired lonely boy sleeping heavily, his face stained with tears; in the latter, a great stir and confusion. Campbell had run away. The search in the night had been fruitless; and to add to the general excitement, that morning the Examiner was to commence the viva voce part of the examination. The hour of preparation, from seven to eight, was not a very industrious one. Boys were too full of surmises, and Mr Prichard, who happened that morning to be in charge of the school-room, was too much disturbed about Harry's disappearance to pay much attention to the whispers which were spreading through the room. Breakfast, too, was by no means the usual ordinarily quiet meal.

The only boys who betrayed any symptoms of nervousness or uneasiness (all were excited, of course) were those who had joined Egerton and Warburton in their assault on Harry the previous night.

These looked guilty; but their ringleaders preserved the utmost coolness and indifference; and a casual observer, if asked, would have said, "Well, if there are two boys more than any others who certainly have nothing to do with the whole affair, those two are Egerton and Warburton."

So much for guilt, and the mask it can so well assume.

Before the nine o'clock bell had ceased ringing, every boy was in his place in the big school-room -- a rare occurrence, indeed -- waiting eagerly for the appearance of the Doctor. For boys like nothing better than a "row" when they themselves are not implicated. And remember, those who were so implicated were but an exceedingly small fraction of the whole number. What the guilty ones felt will best be known by those who have been in a similar position.

Dr Palmer entered with the Examiner, a fresh-coloured young man, in a very new gown, and a very new hood, thrown jauntily over his shoulders. The doctor was grave and stern, and looked at nobody. The Examiner played with his watch-chain, and looked at everybody, running his eyes rapidly along the different desks and forms. And the other masters followed in due order. And, when all were in their respective places, prayers were said, and Dr Palmer, amid breathless silence, spoke as follows:

"You are most of you, if not all, aware of what occurred last night. One of your number, Campbell, has, in a fit of rashness and haste, run away, and as yet has not been found. There must be some special reason for this;" and the Doctor paused and looked round the room. "I left him in my study at half-past seven last night, having his tea, and as happy as he could be under the sad circumstances of his mother's death." And his voice trembled; "On reaching home a few minutes after nine I find he has disappeared. The dormitory, in which he slept, is discovered in a disgraceful state of disorder and confusion. The boys who sleep there must have an explanation to give. On another matter with regard to Campbell, I shall have to speak presently." And again the dignified voice was broken with ill-concealed emotion. "Sit down, all of you, except those who sleep in No. 7 dormitory."

The order was obeyed, and the sixteen stood in their places, the observed of all eyes.

"Egerton, you are eldest in the dormitory. Did you do anything, or see anything done, that might provoke Campbell to this rash act?"

"No, sir; nothing at all," answered Egerton, fearlessly.

"You did not interfere with him in any way?"

Egerton hesitated. "No, sir, I didn't. I didn't even speak to him. It wasn't likely after what he said of me to you."

"That will do," said Doctor Palmer, in a strange tone. "You may sit down. Warburton!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Did you interfere with Campbell in any way last night?"

"No, sir, not at all," answered Warburton.

"Sit down!" again said the Doctor.

Two deliberate liars out of sixteen is a large proportion, and it is not to be supposed that there would be more such. The rest would either maintain a frightened silence or tell the truth. Fortunately, the boy next questioned was one of the latter class. And his fearless answer gave courage to the rest.

"Yes, sir, I did. I pulled his bed out into the room and upset it," answered Williams, when the same question was put to him. And before the Doctor could say a word, the remaining three implicated with Egerton, Warburton, and Williams, confessed their share in the matter. The rest denied, with truth, having done anything to Campbell, and were told to sit down.

Those who had confessed were then called into the centre of the room and further questioned as to who commenced the attack on Campbell, and what was the cause of it.

Williams looked at the other three who stood with him, and the three looked at Williams; and all got very red, and said nothing.

The Doctor repeated his question.

The boys hesitated, and looked doubtfully towards Egerton and Warburton, to see if they would come forward; but no! the two preserved the same stolid demeanour. So at length Williams told the whole story, not exculpating himself in the least degree, but only saying how sorry he was; and the others confirmed his statement.

"Egerton and Warburton, stand out. Do you hear what Williams says? Do you still deny the charge brought against you?"

The room was breathless. The two culprits turned deadly pale, and began to stammer out what was partially denial, partially excuse. And then in an abject tone implored forgiveness.

Doctor Palmer took no notice of their entreaties, but mentioned to them to stand by his desk. The other four he dismissed to their seats.

He then addressed the whole assemblage of boys and masters:

"I have now another matter of very serious moment to speak to you about. A great injustice has been done to Campbell -- an injustice which has in a measure contributed, I fear, to his reasons for running away. To set you an example of the manliness of confession, I tell you openly, and Mr Prichard wishes me to say the same for him, that we -- he and I -- have made a great mistake, and judged and punished Campbell unjustly. You will understand that I am referring to the book found in his possession during the examination. At the same time, I wish you all fully to understand that appearances went decidedly against Campbell, and evidence proved his guilt. And it was acting upon these appearances and this evidence that we punished him. Mr Franklyn, however, will kindly explain the matter to you;" and the Doctor sat down overcome by excitement and emotion.

And then Mr Franklyn (the Examiner), after a preliminary "ahem!" spoke to the boys in a clear ringing voice, going straight to the point without any introductory remarks.

"On Tuesday last I received the papers done by you on Monday morning. With those of the Lower Third Form came a note from Mr Prichard, saying that he had sent with the papers a book -- a Delectus translation ('Crib' as you would call it) -- which he had found in Campbell's possession during the examination. And he requested me, and very properly, too, to take the necessary steps respecting Campbell's place in his class. Here, however, Mr Prichard begs me to plainly state the mistake he made. He did not compare the papers sent in, with the translation of the book. This would at once have acquitted Campbell. For I at once emphatically say that, even if the book were his, he never used it during the examination. His work was correct, but boyish in style. The rendering of the book is the work of a man. So much, then, is clear, that of the charge of using the book during the examination, Campbell is perfectly innocent; and I only wish he were here to hear me say so."

At these words all reverence for masters was thrown aside, and the vehement clapping of hands soon showed that Harry's good name was once more firmly established, and not only established, but that his clearance gave joy to the school.

"But," resumed Mr Franklyn, when the noise had abated, "to make assurance doubly sure, I will go a step further, and tell you who did use the book during the examination."

With a sort of presentiment of what was coming, all eyes were turned upon Egerton; while in the hearts of many a feeling of shame -- honest, good-producing shame -- sprang up for the unkind part they had played to Harry.

"On turning to Egerton's papers," continued Mr Franklyn, "I at once detected a strong similarity to the translation I had just examined; and on a close comparison found his translation coincided word for word with the book found in Campbell's possession, and which he was accused of using. Whether the book belongs to Egerton or not, I do not know; but this is evident, that it was he, and not Campbell, who was guilty of taking unfair advantage of his companions. How the book came into Campbell's desk I know not. But as Egerton has been, in these two matters, convicted of telling a wilful untruth, I am ready to believe him capable of any further deceitful conduct to screen himself. It rests with Doctor Palmer to conclude this most painful affair."

As Mr Franklyn ended, and resumed his seat, there was a mixed murmur, partly from pleasure at Harry's innocence, partly from an impulse, which seemed to take possession of all, of snatching the punishment of Egerton out of the lawful hands.

The noise, however, instantly ceased when Doctor Palmer rose.

"None of you can be more glad than I am," he said, "that Campbell's innocence has been fully proved, and none of you more sorry than I, that he has been punished unjustly. At the same time, you must clearly understand that the mistake, which Mr Prichard and I made, does not in the least degree exonerate Egerton. He has done that for which I punished Campbell; removing as he thought all traces of his guilt, and throwing them on another's shoulders. And then, not merely to screen himself, but to ruin that other, he tells one deliberate lie after another. Not content even with that, he provokes the innocent boy whose reputation he had blasted, and the result you all know. Those who joined in bullying Campbell last night, I forgive. They have confessed. Warburton has not done so. For his lie, I punish him."

And then, calling Warburton, he caned him severely before the whole school, a punishment but rarely adopted, and once only remembered to have taken place by the elder boys.

"With regard to Egerton," he resumed, "there is but one course for me to adopt." And he rang a bell which communicated with his house, and, after a breathless pause of about three minutes, William entered, bearing a birch, with an expression of mock gravity on his countenance. Egerton's appearance was one of abject meanness; his indifference was all gone; he was the picture of trembling, tearful cowardice.

The birch had never been used in the recollection of any of the boys. It had only existed -- a shadowy terror. But now that it appeared in all its stern dignity, Egerton, the destined recipient, fell on his knees, and, with streaming eyes -- coward as he was -- begged imploringly for forgiveness.

It was not likely his cries would be of any avail. Nor, indeed, were they. Nor would the Doctor prolong the sickening scene. The birch did its duty, and well.

In five minutes Egerton had been birched in such a manner that every one thought he would certainly never forget it till his dying day. Egerton himself was too "personally affected" to think of anything, but contented himself with howling lustily. And finally he heard the Doctor's voice, telling him he was expelled, and would leave the school in two hours.

"There will be no more work to-day," said Doctor Palmer, when he had recovered breath from his exertions. "Besides the pleasure of proclaiming Campbell's innocence, I have to add that Mr Franklyn tells me his papers were far superior to those of the rest of his class; and that, judging from them, he would have easily maintained his position as head boy, had he not left us of his own accord, provoked and ill-treated, I cordially allow. I only trust we may be able to discover him, and have him once more among us. You see, boys," he added affectionately, "truth and innocence will always right themselves sooner or later."

And then, as the masters left the room, there rose the loud ringing cheers that English boys know so well to give. The innocent was justified; the guilty punished! Was not that enough to make all hearts glad?

But meantime, he, whom all this most chiefly concerned, still slept in the barn on his bed of hay, a dreamless sleep, unconscious alike of sorrow and of that which might have changed the whole colour of his life -- the removing of the burden of guilt which had weighed him down. But it had come too late. Was it better so? Maybe it was.



Chapter XVI.

Blewcome's Royal Menagerie.

A well-matched pair -- Harry awakes -- New characters -- Introduction -- Breakfast -- A trifle happier -- His new life.


Mr Blewcome and his wife, Mrs Blewcome, were great travellers. There were few places, large and small, in England, where the forms of Mr and Mrs Blewcome were unknown.

Mr Blewcome was the proprietor of a travelling menagerie, and was a very distinguished personage in his own way, a man with a mind far above your ordinary proprietors of "wild beastesses," as Mrs Blewcome informed all whom she met. A man who had adopted that profession with the noble object of raising it to its proper level. Noble and enthusiastic Blewcome!

Mr Blewcome was tall and thin; Mrs B. was short and stout. The face of the manager and proprietor of Blewcome's Royal Menagerie was sallow and cadaverous. The face of his spouse was rubicund to a degree. In fact, in everything, the pair were admirably suited, according to the principle, that the more unlike two people are, the better they will agree; and they led a very prosperous "Jack Sprat and his wife" sort of life, roaming from place to place, with their caravans of wild beasts and yellow chariot of unhealthy-looking musicians, whose performance consisted of a very small quantity of trumpet, and a very great deal of drum. First-rate things in bands, drums are; they make so much noise, and hide such a multitude of mistakes. Besides, one tune will last so much longer with a judicious intermixture of drum. So Mr and Mrs Blewcome went about England, and Mr Blewcome gave incorrect lectures about impossible wild beasts, and Mrs Blewcome took the money at the door; while outside, the band played to delighted audiences, who always came to hear the music because they had not to pay anything for that pleasure.

Now it so happened that Blewcome's Royal Menagerie had made a most successful sojourn in Wilton, and was now on its way to the neighbouring town of Newbury; and, having reached the third milestone from Wilton, was passing the barn where Harry slept, fancying himself miles away from the hated grammar-school. Like most boys, he had not much idea of distance, and, besides, the night had deceived him.

The rumbling of the vans, and the growling of the beasts, who were making a great deal of very unnecessary noise, startled Harry from his sleep; and he ran out of his strange sleeping-chamber to see what it all meant, and stood staring open-mouthed at the curious divers-coloured caravans as they rolled along. The yellow chariot led the way. But the musicians were silent, and the drum swung from the back of the vehicle unbeaten and at peace. Last of all came Mr and Mrs Blewcome in the gaudiest of the caravans, drawn by two piebald steeds with very long manes and very thin tails, and who seemed to have seen their best days.

The eagle eye of Timothy Blewcome caught sight of Harry, and, turning to his wife, he remarked, in a tragic tone (he was a bit of an orator, was Blewcome; at least, he thought so):

"Jemimar, he'll do!"

And their conveyance came to a standstill, and Harry saw the portly form of the said Jemima Blewcome descending the caravan-steps and coming towards him.

He was not the least afraid, she looked so kind and good-natured.

"My dear!" said Mrs Blewcome, courteously, with the blandest of smiles.

"Yes," answered Harry, vacantly.

"My dear!" repeated Mrs Blewcome, "come along with me!"

Harry wanted his breakfast. He was ravenously hungry.

"Give me something to eat, then," he said stolidly, "and I'll come."

"Get up into the van, my dear, and I will. Here, Tim, help the boy up."

And Harry, nothing daunted, reached out his hand, and Timothy Blewcome gravely assisted him up the steps.

Gazing admiringly at the gorgeous colouring of the door and sides of the strange habitation on wheels, Harry sat himself down in one corner of the van, and, somehow or other, soon began to feel quite at home. Mrs Blewcome then ascended, the word was given, and the whole cavalcade moved on.

It was the work of a moment; and there was Harry, not the least realising his position, a member of a travelling menagerie. It was a change from the previous day, certainly.

The space of the apartment was somewhat confined, and the springs seemed to be very bad, for the caravan jolted along in such a manner that he could scarcely help upsetting the cup of bread and milk the motherly hands of Mrs Blewcome had given him.

He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly, thinking it far nicer than all the good things he had had in the Doctor's study on the previous night. Last night! Could it really be last night? It seemed such a long, long while ago.

"He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly." -- WILTON SCHOOL, page 131.

Meanwhile, Mr and Mrs Blewcome were conversing confidentially together at the other end of the van; and, from what Harry could gather, this appeared to be the state of the case:

The labours and responsibilities of the menagerie were becoming a little too much for the proprietor and his wife. They could not afford to pay a man to help, nor did they care to enter into partnership with any one. They must pick up some lad who would do all sorts of odd jobs, and require nothing more than his keep. Plenty of old clothes were always to be found. And when Harry heard them congratulating themselves on their "find," he knew they alluded to him, and that they had marked out his future for him as a member of their enterprising profession.

Shortly afterwards, they told him their plans, and what they wanted him to do, and what they would do for him in return; and they spoke so kindly, that poor, friendless, homeless Harry was thankful he had fallen in with them, and began to feel a trifle happier.

When his father came home, he would be sure to search for him and find him, of course. Harry flattered himself. Till then, what better could he do than stay where he thought he should find kindness. And in this last supposition he was right. First impressions go a long way. Harry took to his patrons at once, and did everything they told him willingly and obediently, though at times the drudgery lay very hard upon him. But the excitement and freshness of his strange new life kept him up; and, moreover, he had a home, and food, and clothes, such as they were; and when he ran away from school, he never knew, or even dreamt, how he should get these. So he must not mind the drudgery.

And Mr and Mrs Blewcome, in their turn, soon came to treat him quite as a child of their own; so that one day, as they were rumbling along, Harry (it is true, after numerous questionings) opened his heart to the motherly Mrs Blewcome, and told her all his story.

But often at night he would lie awake for hours; realising then in the quiet, when there was no stir to attract his thoughts, how utterly lonely he was in the world, and his lips would send out his one sad burthen:

"Mamma, mamma, why did you die? why did you die?"



Chapter XVII.

The Lost Found.

Egerton expelled -- Harry lost -- Settling to work -- Two years after -- A triumphal entry -- The halt -- Pre-occupied -- A stranger -- Found at last.


There was a great stir in Wilton on Harry's disappearance. The single policeman the village boasted was sent for and vigorously interrogated.

Had he seen any traces of a young gentleman answering to Harry's description?

"No! he hadn't seen nothing!"

Was he on his beat that night? Had he passed the school buildings?

He had stood talking for half-an-hour in one spot of the village, and then had gone to bed.

"He hadn't thought there was any call for him to go round the village."

No wonder "he hadn't seen nothing!"

All other inquiries met with pretty much the same answer. It was in vain. Harry was quite beyond all discovery.

So Doctor Palmer wrote at last to H.M.S. "Fervid," telling Chief-engineer Campbell, honestly and openly, the whole proceeding; concluding his letter with some kind and tender words of sympathy for him in his sorrow.

Egerton was promptly packed off to his guardian, a stern, sour-faced London lawyer (his parents were both dead), with an explicit account of his conduct, and his consequent expulsion.

In a very short time things went on much as usual at the school, to all external appearances. The excitement had died the usual death.

It is not, however, to be wondered that both Doctor Palmer and Mr Prichard felt very uneasy at the total failure of the attempts to discover Harry's whereabouts.

Mrs Valentine's distress could know no bounds, and both she and Mrs Bromley were full of indignation, woman-like, with everybody at the school. Boys and masters alike came in for blame from them.

But it was all of no avail. Each day Harry was getting farther away from Wilton; more lost than ever; settling down deeper and deeper into that strange and motley mass of wanderers on the face of the earth, whose individuality nobody recognises, or cares to recognise.

He had plenty to do. And work is the one grand thing that keeps us from too near communion with any sorrow it may be our lot to bear. Yet often and often, as they halted at different towns, Harry's heart would grow very heavy, as he saw among the spectators, numerous boys of his own age, well-dressed and cared-for, with happy faces full of astonishment and wondering admiration.

And he thought of what might have been his lot, had it not been -- for whom? -- had it not been for Egerton, he might, like them, have been in his proper place, instead of the outcast that he was; and the old feeling of revenge grew firmer and stronger with his growing years.

He must, he would, meet Egerton some day, and then, then he would settle the account that was between them.

So time flew on, and Harry had been two years with Mr and Mrs Blewcome; and these years of "roughing it" had physically done him good. He had grown fast, and happily proportionally strong with his height; and you would not have recognised the Harry of fifteen in his common clothes, as being the same fragile boy of thirteen whom you saw that night in June weeping over his mother's grave in the moonlight.

Still, in spite of his dress, you could see he was a gentleman, every inch his father's son. For it is not to be supposed, as some might hastily and ignorantly suppose, that Alan Campbell was not a gentleman, because he was an engineer.

A chief-engineer on board one of Her Majesty's ships-of-war, and an engine-driver of a locomotive, are two very different personages. This new branch of sea-service is of course to be traced to the change in the Royal Navy from the old sailing vessels to the iron-clad steamships. And the post of chief-engineer, though not necessarily requiring a gentleman by birth, yet often attracted those who, having changed their plans in life, wished to join the service, when it was too late to join as midshipmen.

*   *   *   *   *   *

It was a bright June morning, nearly two years to the very day since Harry had fallen in with Blewcome's Royal Menagerie; and after a long journey through the greater part of the night, the cavalcade was wearily entering a seaport town in the south of England. Mr and Mrs Blewcome were both asleep, snoring in unison within their gorgeously painted caravan, and Harry was sitting astride one of the identical old piebald steeds that had drawn Mr and Mrs B. for the last ten years.

On reaching a turnpike at the outskirts of the town, the proprietor and proprietress of the Royal Menagerie arose from their slumbers. And this was a general signal for a "wake-up." The whips were plied lustily over the jaded horses, to give them a lively, not to say frisky appearance. The trumpets rose to the lips of the musicians, and the drumsticks flew into the hands of the energetic drummer, and with an elevating strain of discordant music, Blewcome's Royal Menagerie majestically entered the town.

It did the hearts good of Blewcome and his spouse to see the street-doors flung open, and the gaping faces of the suburban inhabitants; and from the ever-increasing number of dirty little boys who brought up the rear of the cavalcade, Mrs Blewcome began reckoning on an unprecedented harvest of good luck. And the trumpeters trumpeted, and the drummer drummed; but as usual the latter had a long way the best of it.

The morning was spent, as it always was on such occasions, in arranging the caravans in the wonted horse-shoe shape. At the square end of the horse-shoe, so to speak, stretched the imposing canvas screen, painted in a most elaborate style, by the hand of some artist whose name unhappily has not been preserved for the benefit of posterity. There you might see the sheep-like lion, and the pig-like bear; leopards like short-legged zebras, and monkeys most unpleasantly like human beings. Indeed, ill-natured persons had been heard to declare one picture of a very lean ancient ourang-outang bore a strong resemblance to Mr Blewcome. But, then, some people see such strange likenesses!

And there were painted on the screen sundry other impossible animals, intended to attract the outside spectators, and induce them to enter and behold the wondrous originals within that magic circle of caravans. And while all these preparations were being hurried on, the yellow chariot and the band paraded the town at various periods of the day.

The first night at a new place was always a sort of refreshment to the jaded show-people. They had not much novelty, in good truth. But on these occasions they had the slight excitement of seeing new faces, and speculating how their arrival would "draw" the populace.

Harry, of course, young as he was to the business of his present life, quite naturally looked forward to the new places and new people.

At eight o'clock the band ascended the platform ranged in front of the painted screen before alluded to, and set about making a great deal of noise, and a goodly assemblage began to flock towards the show, and carried quite away by the life-like pictorial representations of the animals, first hesitated, then put their hands in their pockets, hesitated again, and finally paid their sixpences and went in.

Mrs Blewcome was in high glee at the rapid way in which her exchequer was filling. Mr Blewcome was in the midst of a most instructive harangue upon the nature and habits of that sportive animal, the elephant, and Harry sat on the steps of the platform, where the band was playing, and watched the people whom the show attracted, and those, too, who kept perpetually passing to and fro between the centre of the town and the docks. For the menagerie had taken up its position in an open space close by some wharves adjoining the docks.

By and by there appeared in the distance, coming from the docks, a figure which Harry seemed to know.

Impossible! It could not be! Whom should he be likely to meet with, here, miles and miles away from Wilton. He strained his eyes. The figure came nearer, was just passing with a half-careless look at the show. A brave, stern face, -- a sad, earnest face -- a stout, manly form. Harry looked again eagerly through the darkening shadows of the summer evening, and then running hastily through the wondering, jostling, bustling crowd, was at his father's side.

"Papa, papa!" he cried, "don't you know me?"

Alan Campbell turned suddenly and looked inquiringly at him, and then putting his arm round his boy's neck, round the poor, common clothes, kissed him with the fondness of one who had found what he had lost and yearned to find; and, in a voice scarcely audible with emotion, murmured repeatedly, "Thank God! thank God! found at last!"



Chapter XVIII.

Father And Son.

Boots' errand -- Mutual explanations -- Mrs Blewcome -- Questioned -- Astonished -- Overwhelmed -- The parting.


Half-an-hour afterwards Harry was sitting with his father in a private room of the best hotel in the town, his heart full of delight, and very much to the astonishment of the waiters, who could not understand why the gentleman had brought in this young ragamuffin to eat with him, and to be waited on by their dignified hands.

But the father was too reserved to enlighten them, and Harry too bewildered at the strange events of that evening, to say anything at supper which might betray the relationship to the attendant menials.

What was their surprise, however, when Mr Campbell gave directions for word to be sent to the Royal Menagerie that was "exhibiting" in the town, to request the proprietor or his wife, or both, to come at once to the hotel, as he wished to speak with them. There was quite a contention down stairs, as to who should go on the degrading errand.

"A nasty low place," said the head waiter. "He can't be good for much."

"Master had best look sharp after his bill," chimed in the under-waiter; while the bar-maid, who was much more liberally-minded, ejaculated to both -- 

"Law, there now, it's no odds to you! The gentleman can do what he likes, can't he? You won't have to go. It's Boots' place!"

So Boots went; and Boots was a very long time, too, for he took care to have a good look round the show before he delivered the message to Mr and Mrs Blewcome. Having done which, he volunteered to escort them to the hotel.

"Go, Jemimar!" said Mr Blewcome, tragically, as usual. "I must not quit my post!" and, with the air of a martyr, he motioned to Jemima to start on her mysterious errand. And so the obedient Mrs Blewcome followed Boots as fast as her breath would suffer her.

Meanwhile Harry had told his long story; incoherently, it is true; but Doctor Palmer in his letter had explained so much, that his father only wanted to know what had befallen him since the night he had run away from school; all of which Harry told him. And then he, in his turn, gladly and proudly related to his boy all that had taken place at school. How that he was proved innocent; how Doctor Palmer praised and spoke highly of him in every way; and how delighted the whole school had been when the guilty one had been detected, and he righted.

And you may be sure Harry's heart was very glad when he heard all this -- all this that he might have known two years ago. Two years ago, he could scarcely believe it. Two years is such a long while to the young.

Afterwards, they spoke of what was nearest to their hearts; the death that happened far back on that afternoon in June, far away in the little farm at Wilton by the sea. And Alan made his boy repeat over and over again all he could remember of those last days, and last words uttered by the lips that were so dear to them both, and that never were to touch theirs again. And they had for the time entirely forgotten about the message sent to the good people of the show; so that when there came a rap at the door, and Mrs Blewcome entered, Mr Campbell looked up, and said bluntly -- 

"Well, ma'am, who are you?"

This was too much for Mrs Blewcome. She had been sent for by "this man!" and he asked her who she was! She drew herself up, and answered with dignity:

"Mrs Blewcome! of Blewcome's Royal Menaggery!" and, catching sight of Harry, she exclaimed -- 

"So it's you as have taken our boy off, is it?"

"Sit down, my good woman, sit down, and I will explain my reason for sending for you."

Mrs Blewcome deposited the enormous umbrella which she invariably carried in the finest weather, upon the clean white tablecloth, and, seating herself with a bump upon a chair, clasped two very hot hands upon her lap, and waited.

"When, and where, did you find this little boy?" asked Mr Campbell.

Mrs Blewcome did not like this point-blank questioning. She fidgetted in her chair and said nothing. Mr Campbell repeated his question. Mrs Blewcome repeated her movements, expressive of unwillingness to reply.

"Very well," said Mr Campbell, good-humouredly; "as you won't tell me, I'll tell you. You found him, two years ago, about three miles outside Wilton, a small village on the Bristol Channel. He had run away from school. He told you a long tale about himself, and, among other things, that he had a father at sea. I am his father. I only landed here last night, and, by a mere chance, have thus stumbled across my boy. Had I hunted for him, I dare say I never should have found him."

Mrs Blewcome sat in astonishment. After she had somewhat recovered, she burst out -- 

"Well, there, to be sure, I am so glad; dear boy; but I don't know what I shall do without 'im. I don't know what I shall do, to be sure; and Blewcome getting that hindolentlike!"

This good-natured, believing speech, touched Alan's heart. There was no indignation at her prize being carried off by one who was a mere stranger to her. There was no doubting or disbelieving his reality as the boy's father, but only unselfish joy that Harry found his own again at last!

"You are a good soul," said Mr Campbell, quite affected. "I cannot thank you enough for all your care of my boy. It's been a strange home for him, but that's no fault of yours. I shall never forget you. Here is a card; and if you are ever in need, write to me, and I will do all I can for you."

"So I s'pose I must say good-bye to 'im, sir," asked Mrs Blewcome, with trembling voice.

"Well, yes," meditated Mr Campbell, "I suppose you must."

And the parting on both sides convinced him how truly kind the good woman had been to his boy, and how she had completely won his heart.

"Don't be offended, Mrs Blewcome," he added; "but here's a trifle for you, it'll help you to paint up your caravans. I dare say they'll be none the worse for a fresh bit of colour."

"Thank you, sir, thank you," said Mrs Blewcome, with open eyes and hands. "I'm not a-going to be proud;" and she didn't look as if she were, as she slipped Alan's ill-spared ten-pound note into her pocket.

"Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, my dear boy! Here's a ticket for the show, sir, if I may make so bold; we've got some werry fine beastesses, sir. Good-bye, dear!" And Mrs Blewcome curtsied herself from the room, with moist eyes and a heart genuinely saddened, for Harry had grown very dear to her during their two years' strange acquaintance.



Chapter XIX.

At Wilton Once More.

"Vengeance" still -- Driving to Wilton -- At the farm -- In the churchyard -- The grammar-school -- Wilton left again -- Life's business.


Shortly after the departure of Mrs Blewcome, a large parcel was brought into the room, containing clothes for Harry; and how glad he was when, in the course of about half-an-hour, he stood fully arrayed before the looking-glass in his father's bedroom at the hotel. Once more he was in his rightful position; he was with his father, an outcast no more; no longer dependent on the doubtful fortunes of two show-people. But the revengeful feeling had not been stricken down within him. On the contrary, he only thought to himself, that now more possible than ever was revenge; now more than ever would there be a chance of his meeting with Egerton. You see, he was such a mere child still, and knew so little of the world, that he thought everything was easy.

His father soon noticed the change in his tone whenever Egerton's name was mentioned -- the flushing cheeks, the eyes that lit up with anger; and though he himself was far, very far, from palliating Egerton's conduct, yet he felt obliged to speak seriously to his boy. But though Harry listened, and promised to try and crush out his passion, he could not rid himself of it; it still clung to him; and when once the chiding words of his father ceased, he again brooded over his purpose of revenge.

The following morning they left the hotel. The waiters were now abjectly admiring, and in the most mellifluous tones that signified their "great expectations," expressed to the heedless Mr Campbell their congratulations on the discovery of his son. They could scarcely believe their eyes at the sight of Harry, the fine handsome boy, with curling sunny hair and gentlemanly bearing, when they thought of the untidy, raggedly-clad lad, upon whom they had been obliged to wait, the previous night.

But then, these sort of people only estimate a gentleman by the grandeur of his dress, and in the present day it is reasonably to be expected they make many and serious mistakes.

It was not long before Harry and his father were both seated in the train that was to carry them to Wilton. A wearisome journey it was, that hot dusty day, and Harry was very tired, when, about half-past seven, they reached the nearest station to Wilton, a small town called Oldwell.

From this place they took a cab and drove to Wilton; and how familiar it was to them both as they bowled along the leafy summer lanes in the June twilight, and into the well-remembered village!

By Alan's direction, the cabman drove them to the farm; and there, having deposited them and their luggage, turned his horse's head, and departed.

The meeting may easily be imagined. Two years had not made much difference in the good Mrs Valentine, though that time had done so much for Harry. And the two years of doubt and anxiety for "her boy," as she called him, had only increased her affection. But it was a sad, sad pleasure, this meeting; a sad pleasure this, their return to the little farm where there had been so much of gladness and so much of sorrow for them all. And lips quivered, and eyes were red with starting tears, and scarcely a word was uttered.

While his father wandered from room to room, lingering over each spot that he associated with her, his dead, loved wife, Harry sat in the window-seat of the oak-panelled parlour, and, pressing his face against the glass, looked out across the churchyard, and remembered how he sat thus on that far-off evening when his father said good-bye for ever to her who slept yonder near the ivied church-porch.

Presently Alan entered the room, and taking Harry's hand, walked with him to the churchyard. And there, over the grave carefully, lovingly tended by Mrs Valentine, they stood, father and son, and not a word was said. Was not their sorrow too great for words? And, as of old, the twilight breezes crept in and out among the leaves of the lime-trees, and round the grey church tower.

The next morning was one of excitement to Harry. There was first a visit to Mr and Mrs Bromley, who were as delighted as they were surprised to see the two. And then came the visit to the school. Never, as long as he lived, did Harry forget that morning. How the Doctor's sternness all vanished; how he welcomed him and his father as if they had been his own flesh and blood; how he conducted them to the big school-room, and told the boys who it was (for Harry was so altered, scarcely any one knew him); how the room rung with deafening cheers; how the masters shook hands with them; and how he left, as the school's hero, he who, but two days since, had been roaming about the country with a travelling menagerie.

Yes! it was a grand time for Harry. Yet even this joy, even his sorrow and loneliness at his mother's grave, did not banish from his heart the wish for revenge. He had shut his ears to the words -- "Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord."

Mr Campbell had soon made up his mind with regard to Harry's future. The two years he had been away from school were, at his age, a most serious loss to him; and all idea of his going to Oxford must be abandoned. There was not time for him to make progress sufficient to enable him to do well there; and unless he could do well, and help himself by gaining a scholarship, his father could not afford to send him to the University.

So he arranged that he should remain four years with a well-to-do farmer of his acquaintance in Herefordshire, and learn farming; at the end of that time, he should go to Australia, and try his fortune there, where so many were filling their pockets and returning to England rich men.

Within a week of the visit to Wilton, Harry was at his new abode in Herefordshire, and his father once more had joined his vessel.

It had been a sad parting from Wilton. But they had work before them both; and though their hearts sorely ached at saying good-bye to that grassy mound in Wilton churchyard, Alan spoke to his boy (feeling, himself, the truth of what he spoke), in the words of the noble-hearted American poet:

"Life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal!"

And again,

"Let us then be up doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait."



Chapter XX.

Avenged At Last.

Homeward bound -- Man overboard -- Self-sacrifice -- Noble revenge.


Fifteen years since Harry Campbell landed in Australia, a fine, stalwart, young man of nineteen! Fifteen years of toil, crowned by success, and he was on his way to England; home to his father, a quiet, grey, old man of some three score years; home to Wilton, where the sailor had taken up his abode, near his loved one's grave, in the farm, still kept by Mrs Valentine!

Full of hope and eagerness was Harry (one must call him by his boyish name still, though he is now a man of thirty-four), on his homeward voyage, over the running waves.

He had not seen much of the other passengers; in fact, he had kept almost entirely to himself, only entering into conversation with the captain, or any of the ship's crew that took his fancy. And many were the eyes of disappointment that in vain sought the friendship of the reserved, wealthy, homeward-bound Englishman.

He was talking to the man at the helm, when his eye caught sight of some one sitting, carelessly smoking, in a dangerous position near an open part of the ship's bulwarks. He abruptly ended his conversation, and walking across the deck, said -- 

"Excuse me, sir, but you are not in a very safe place."

The man addressed started, and as he turned hastily, as if to see who had presumed to dictate to him, slipped, and, clutching fruitlessly at Harry's outstretched arms, fell headlong into the sea. It was the work of a second, but in that second Harry had recognised Egerton's face!

"Man overboard! man overboard!" was the cry.

The vessel was running at a rapid pace through the water, so that she had already left the struggler in the waves, far behind.

"'Bout ship!" came the word of command; but long before the vessel answered to the helm, Harry had flung off his coat and hat, and leapt from the stern, down into the roaring waves, and striking out vigorously, reached Egerton.

It was a hard battle he had there with the waters, and he thought the boat, that speedily left the ship, would never reach them. With one hand he held up Egerton's head, while with the other he kept himself afloat. But the seconds, that seemed like hours, went on, and the boat did not come.

He was growing weaker, he knew it; his arm was stiffening, and Egerton struggling in the water with all the agony of a drowning man, hampered his movements and well nigh bore him under.

Would the boat never come? He raised himself with an effort and sent his voice along the trough of the waves, "Boat ahoy!"

That shout was heard, but it had robbed him of his remaining strength. His eyes were dim; his brain swam; he was losing consciousness, his gallant arm fell from beneath the head it had supported, and he sank!

A few seconds afterwards the half-drowned body of Egerton was dragged into the boat that, guided by Harry's shout, had found and reached the spot. In the confusion of rescuing the one, the other had drifted away; and with heavy hearts the sailors rowed back to the ship. The life that had just been snatched from the waters must not be sacrificed by delay. Restoratives, care, and watching did their work, and Egerton's life was spared.

But where was he who rescued him? The drowned body was picked up the following day; for the captain tacked about, and would not leave till it was recovered. And one quiet evening the noble body that met death to save a foe, was lowered over the vessel's side, into its most fitting resting-place, the waves it had battled with, there to lie until the sea shall give up her dead.

And this was Harry Campbell's revenge!

<eob>

The Boys Of Bellwood School

Or

Frank Jordan's Triumph

By

Frank V. Webster



Chapter I

Frank Jordan's Home


"Where did you get that stickpin, Frank?"

"Bought it at Mace's jewelry store."

"You are getting extravagant."

"I hardly think so, aunt, and I don't believe you would think so, either, if you knew all the circumstances."

"Circumstances do not alter cases when a boy is a spendthrift."

"I won't argue with you, aunt. You have your ideas and I have mine. Of course, I bought the stickpin, but it was with money I had earned."

The aunt sniffed in a vague way. The boy left the house, looking irritated and unhappy.

Frank Jordan lived in the little town of Tipton with his aunt, Miss Tabitha Brown. His father was an invalid, and at the present time was in the South, seeking to recuperate his failing health, and Mrs. Jordan was with him as his nurse. They had left Frank in charge of the aunt, who was a miserly, fault-finding person, and for nearly a month the lad had not enjoyed life very greatly.

There were two thoughts that filled Frank's mind most of the time. The first was that he would give about all he had to leave his aunt's house. The other was a wish that his father would write to him soon, telling him, as he had promised to do, that he had decided that his son could leave Tipton and go to boarding-school.

What with the constant nagging of his sour-visaged relative, the worry over his sick father, and the suspense as to his own future movements, Frank did not have a very happy time of it. He felt a good deal like a boy shut up in a prison. His aunt used her authority severely. She kept him away from company, and allowed none of his friends to visit the house. From morning until night she pestered him and nagged at him, "all for his own good," she said, until life at the Jordan home, roomy and comfortable as it was, became a burden to the lad.

"It's too bad!" burst forth Frank as he crossed the garden, climbed a fence, and made toward the river through a little woods that was a favorite haunt of his. Reaching a fallen tree he drew from its side a splendid fishing-pole with all the attachments that a lover of the rod and line might envy. His eye grew brighter as he glanced fondly along the supple staff with its neat joints of metal, but he continued his complaint: "When she isn't scolding, she is lecturing me. I suppose if she ever hears of my fishing outfit here, she'll be at me for a week about my awful extravagance. Oh, dear!"

Frank had a good deal over which to grumble. His aunt certainly was a "tyro." She was making his life very gloomy with her stern, unloving ways. Frank had promised his parents, when they went away, that he would be obedient in all respects to his aunt. He was a boy of his word, and he felt that he had done exceedingly well so far, hard as the task had been. His aunt was very unreasonable in some things, however, and he had been at the point of rebellion several times.

"You'd think I was some kind of a beggar, to hear her talk," he grumbled to himself. "Father sends plenty of pocket money, but the way Aunt Tib doles it out to me makes a fellow sick. As to the stickpin -- heigh ho! I won't think about it at all. I've lots to be thankful for. I only care that father gets well and strong again. As to myself, he's sure to decide soon what school I will be sent away to. That means no Aunt Tib. I shall be happy. Hello! What's wrong now?"

From the direction of the river there had come two boyish screams in quick and alarming succession. Frank recognized a signal of pain and distress. He started on a run and reached the edge of the stream in a few moments. He leaned beyond a bush where the bank shelved down a little distance along the shore. His eyes lit upon quite an animated scene.

A strange-looking, boxed-in wagon, with an old white horse attached, stood stationary about forty rods distant. Just this side of it was a ragged, trampish-looking man. He had just picked up a piece of flat rock, and as he hurled it Frank discovered that he had aimed at a tree directly across the narrow stream, but had missed it.

"Why, there's a boy in that tree," said Frank. "That big bully must have hit him before I came, and that was the boy's cry I heard. The good-for-nothing loafer!"

Frank rounded the brush in an impetuous and indignant way. He was about to challenge the man, when the latter shouted something at the boy across the stream, and Frank stopped to listen.

"Are you going to come down out of that tree?" the man demanded in a bellowing tone.

There was no reply, and the man repeated the challenge. The boy addressed continued silent. Frank could see him crouching in a crotch, his face pale and distressed.

"See here," roared his persecutor, getting furious and shaking his fist at his victim, "I'm after you, Ned Foreman, and I'm going to get you! Why, you vagabond, you -- you ungrateful young runaway! Here I'm your only solitary living relative in the whole world, and you sit up in that tree with a big stone ready to smash me if I come near you."

"Yes, and I will -- I will, for a fact!" cried the lad, roused up. "You try it, and see. Relative? You're no kin of mine, Tim Brady. I'd be ashamed to own you."

"I hain't?" howled the man. "Who married your step-sister? Who gave you a home when you was a helpless kid, I'd like to know?"

"Huh, a healthy home!" retorted the boy. "It wasn't your home; it was my sister's, and you robbed her of it and squandered the money, and broke her heart, and she died, and you ought to be hung for it!" and the speaker choked down a sob. "Now you come across me and try to rob me."

"Say," roared Tim Brady, gritting his teeth and looking dreadfully cruel and hateful, "if I hang twice over I'll get you. Better give me some of your money."

"It isn't mine to give."

"Better give me some of it, all the same," continued the man, "or I'll take the whole of it. I'm desperate, Ned Foreman. I'm in a fix where I've got to get away from these diggings, and I've got to have money to go. Are you going to be reasonable and come down out of that tree?"

"No, I ain't."

"Then I'm coming after you. See that?" and the man held up a heavy stick and brandished it. Then he sat down on a rock and started to remove his shoes, with the idea of wading across the stream.

Frank felt that it was time for him to do something. He was not a bit afraid of a coward, but he realized that he and the boy in the tree together were no match for the big, vicious fellow just beyond him. The boy in the tree looked honest and decent; the man after him looked just what he was -- a tramp and perhaps worse. Frank thought of hurrying toward the village for help. Then a sudden idea came to his mind, and he acted upon it.

The man who was preparing to go after the boy who would not come to him, sat directly under a big bush. Right over his head among the branches Frank noticed a double hornets' nest. He knew all about hornets and their ways, as did he of all the interesting things in the woods. Frank drew his fishing-pole around and upward, until its willowy end rested against the straw-like strands by which the hornets' nest was attached to the limb.

Very gently he got a hold on the connecting strands of the double nest and detached it from the limb. Then he lowered it, carefully poising it with a swaying motion over the head of the stooping figure of the man.

"Now!" said Frank breathlessly.

Already the disturbed hornets were coming out of the cells in the nest, angrily fluttering about to learn what the matter was. Frank gave the fishing-pole a swing. He slammed its end and the hornets' nest right down on the head of the tramp.

Instantly a swarming myriad of the little insects made the air black about the man. The fellow gave a spring and a yell of pain. Then, his hands wildly beating the air, he darted down the river shore like a shot.



Chapter II

The Tinker Boy


"You had better hurry over here quick, if you want to get away from that man," said Frank, coming out from cover.

"Yes, I will," responded the boy up in the tree.

He threw to the ground a flat stone he had been resting in the crotch of the tree, his only weapon of defense, dropped nimbly down after it, and started for the water.

"Hold on," directed Frank; "there's a crossing plank a little way farther down the stream."

"I'm wet, anyway," explained the boy, dashing into the water, and he came up to Frank, dripping to the waist.

"Don't be scared," said Frank, as his companion looked in a worried way in the direction the tramp had taken. "That fellow will be too busy with those hornets for some time to come, I'm thinking, to mind us."

"Oh, I hope so," said the lad with a shudder. "He's a terrible man. I must get away from here at once."

As he spoke the boy ran to where the wagon stood and climbed upon its front seat. As Frank, keeping up with his pace, neared the vehicle, he noticed across its box top the words: "Saws, knives, scissors and tools sharpened scientifically."

"I wish you would stay with me until I get to town," remarked the boy, seizing the lines with many a timid look back of him.

"Oh, you want to get to town, do you?" observed Frank. "All right, I'll be glad to show you the road."

The boy started up the horse with a sharp snap of the lines. The animal was old and lazy, however, and could not go beyond a very slow trot.

"Turn at that point in the rise," directed Frank, pointing ahead a little distance, "and it will be a shorter cut to town."

"Yes, yes. I want to get away from here," said Ned Foreman anxiously. "Oh, there he is again!"

Frank followed the glance of his frightened companion to observe the tramp in among the brush. He was slapping his face and body as if he had not yet gotten rid of all the hornets, but he was certainly headed in the direction of the wagon.

"Your horse won't go fast enough to keep ahead of that fellow," remarked Frank. "Don't tremble so. He shan't bother you again if I can help it. Keep on driving."

Frank leaped to the road. Keeping up a running pace with the wagon, he stooped twice to pick up two pieces of wood of cudgel shape and size, and then regained his seat.

"Now, then," he said, "drive on as fast as you can. It's less than a quarter of a mile to houses. If that man overtakes us you must help me beat him off. If we can't make it together, I'll pester him and keep him back while you run ahead for help."

"I'd hate to leave you -- he's a cruel man," said the lad, "but I've got quite an amount of money, and it doesn't belong to me."

"Aha!" exclaimed Frank suddenly. "There's no need of our doing anything. I'll settle that tramp now."

From the cut in the road ahead they were making for, a light gig had just come into view. On its seat was a single passenger, with a silver badge on the breast of his coat and wearing a gold-braided cap.

"It's Mr. Houston, the town marshal," explained Frank, and his companion uttered a great sigh of relief. "Stop till he passes us. Oh, Mr. Houston," called out Frank to the approaching rig, "there's a man over yonder annoying this boy and trying to rob him."

"Is, eh?" cried the officer. "Whoa!" and he arose in the seat to get a good view of the spot toward which Frank pointed. "I reckon he's seen me, for he's making back his trail licketty-switch."

"Keep your eye on him so he won't follow us, will you, Mr. Houston?" pressed Frank.

"I'll do just that," assented the marshal pleasantly. "I'm after these tramps. There's a gang of them been hanging around Tipton the last day or two, begging, and stealing what they could get their hands on, and I'm bound to rout them out."

"There's your chance, then," said Frank, "for, from what this boy tells me, that fellow yonder is as bad as they make them."

The officer drove on slowly, keeping an eye out for the tramp. Frank's companion urged up his laggard horse. His face had cleared, and he acted pleased and relieved as they got within the limits of the town.

"Any place in particular you're bound for?" inquired Frank.

"Yes."

"Where is that?"

"I'm due at the town square."

"Then keep right on this road," said Frank, and within five minutes they arrived and halted on the shady side of a little park surrounded by the principal stores.

"I expect some one will be here to see me soon," said the lad. "I don't know how to thank you for all you've done for me. If that man had got hold of me he would have robbed me of every cent I had. I've been trying to keep away from him, fearing he might be looking for me and come across me accidentally. Now I'm safe."

"Won't he hang around and try it again when you leave town?" questioned Frank.

"But I'm not going to leave town," explained Ned Foreman, "that is, not on this wagon. I've been working for a man who runs half a dozen of these scissors grinders over the country. At Tipton here another employe will relieve me. I give him what I have taken in the last week, and he pays me my wages out of it. I'm going to give up this job now."

"Don't you like it, then?" asked the interested Frank.

"Well enough -- yes, it isn't unpleasant; but I've an ambition to get an education, and have been working to that end," said Ned in a serious way that won Frank's respect. "I want to go to school. I have saved up a little money, and I shall start in right away."

"That's good," said Frank. "I'm only hoping to get away to school myself soon. Say, what kind of a traveling caravan is this, anyway?"

"I'll show you," said Ned promptly, and as both got to the ground he touched a bolt and the back of the wagon came down, forming steps. Reaching in he moved a bracket, and a section of the side of the wagon slid back, letting light into the vehicle. Frank noticed a sort of a bench, a lathe, and some small pieces of machinery.

Ned Foreman got up the steps and touched something. There was a click and a spark of light. He pulled a wheel around and then there was a chug-chug-chug.

"Now, what's that?" asked the curious Frank.

"It's a little gasoline motor," explained Ned. "Step in and see what a famous tinkering shop on wheels we've got."

"Why, this is just grand!" declared Frank, as he glanced around the interior of the wagon in an admiring way.

"Yes, it's clean, attractive and made up to date," said Ned. "The man who owns these outfits is working up some good routes. If you have anything to sharpen, now, I'll show you the kind of work we do."

Frank whipped out his pocket knife in a jiffy. Ned touched a lever near the motor, and things went whirring. There was a busy hum that made the place delightful to Frank. He was astonished and pleased to observe how deftly his companion handled the knife, putting it through a dozen operations, from grinding to stropping and polishing. Then he adjusted a little drill to a handle and said:

"I'll put your name on the handle, if you like."

"All right," assented Frank with satisfaction. "It's Frank Jordan."

"There you are," said Ned a minute later, handing the knife back to Frank. "You'll find a blade there that will cut a hair."

"Yes, that's fine work," declared Frank, looking over the knife in a gratified way. "You've got quite a trade, haven't you?"

"Oh, sort of," answered Ned carelessly, "and the knack of doing things like this comes in handy for a fellow who has to work and wants to work. There's my man," he added suddenly, as there was a hail outside, and Frank observed a middle-aged man, with a tool-kit satchel extending from his shoulder, approaching the wagon.

"Well, good-by, and glad I met you," said Frank, shaking hands with Ned.

"Lucky for me I met you," retorted the tinker boy gratefully. "I hope I'll meet you again some time, but I don't suppose I'll ever be in this town again."

"If you ever do -- " Frank paused, and then added quickly: "why, hunt me up."

He had an impulse to invite his new acquaintance up to the house, but suddenly thought of his aunt and changed his mind. Nothing would have delighted him more than to have Ned Foreman tell him about his travels and adventures, for they must have been many.

Frank strolled homeward, trying his knife on a piece of willow and shaping out a whistle. As he came up the walk to the house he heard voices inside. His aunt was speaking in her sharp, strident tones, a little more excitedly than usual.

A gruff, masculine voice responded, and Frank, wondering who the owner might be, stepped into the hall and peered into the reception-room.

"Aha!" instantly greeted him, as a man there sprang to his feet. "Here is that precious nephew of yours, Miss Brown. I say, Frank Jordan, what have you done with my diamond bracelet?"



Chapter III

The Diamond Bracelet


Frank looked at the speaker in wonder. He knew Samuel Mace, the jeweler, perfectly well. The village tradesman was greatly excited, and he glided toward Frank in a threatening way, as if he would walk straight over him.

What made the occasion doubly puzzling to Frank was the fact that his aunt looked more severe, shocked and alarming than ever before. He did not move, drawing upright with boyish manliness, and the jeweler halted and then retreated a step or two.

"Your diamond bracelet, Mr. Mace?" repeated Frank in a perplexed tone; and then, with a faint smile, glancing at the wrist of the angry visitor: "I did not know you wore one."

"Don't you try to be funny!" stormed the jeweler, and he seized Frank by the arm. "You young rascal, where is that bracelet you took from my store?"

Frank got a glimmering of the facts now. He was dumfounded, and listened like one in a dream, while Mr. Mace continued his furious tirade:

"He took it. Can't you see from his actions that he took it, Miss Brown? Nobody else could have done it -- nobody else was in the store when he bought that stickpin he wears. After he left the shop the bracelet was missing."

"Frank, if you have the bracelet give it up," said his aunt coldly.

"See here, aunt," cried Frank, firing up instantly at this, "you don't mean to say that you imagine for one instant that I am a thief?"

"We are all sinful and tempted," returned Miss Brown in a tearful, whispering tone.

"Not me," dissented Frank -- "not in that mean way, anyhow. Why, you wretched old man!" he fairly shouted at Samuel Mace, "how dare you even so much as insinuate that I know anything about your missing bracelet -- if there is any missing bracelet."

"You was in my store -- it was gone after you left. You took it," stubbornly insisted the jeweler.

"I tell you I didn't take it!" cried Frank.

"You give it up, or I'll have you arrested," declared the jeweler.

"If you do, my folks will make it hot for you," declared Frank. "I am no thief."

He drew himself up proudly in his conscious innocence, and marched from the room all on fire with resentment and just indignation.

"Why, the old curmudgeon!" exclaimed the boy as he passed out into the open air again. "How dare he make such a charge. I won't even argue it with him; it's too ridiculous."

He had cooled down somewhat after walking aimlessly and excitedly about the garden a round or two. When he came again to the front of the house, Samuel Mace was departing from the scene. As he caught sight of Frank he waved his cane angrily at him with the words:

"I'll see about this, young man!"

Frank went into the house to find his aunt locking up the secretary in the library, just as she did when there was a burglar scare in town. Her very glance and manner accused Frank, and he could scarcely restrain himself from arguing with her. Then he remembered his promise to his absent parents and that Miss Brown was a credulous, suspicious old maid. He tried to forget his troubles by going after his fishing-rod. This he had left at the spot near the river where he had met Ned Foreman. Frank swung along whistling recklessly, but he did not feel at all pleasant or easy.

He had returned from his errand and was putting in a miserable enough time feeding some pet pigeons when a voice hailed him from the fence railings.

"Hey, Frank -- this way for a minute."

Frank recognized a friend and crony of Samuel Mace. This was pompous, red-faced Judge Roseberry. He had once been elected by mistake a justice of the peace, had never gotten a second term, but for some eight or ten years had traded on his past reputation. He managed to eke out a living by giving what he called legal advice at a cheap rate, and mixing in politics. Sometimes he collected bills for the tradesmen of the town, and in this way he had been useful to Mace. Most of the time, however, he hung around the village tavern. He looked now to Frank as if he had just come from that favorite resort of his. There was an unsteady gravity in the way that he poked an impressive finger at Frank as he spoke to the youth.

"What do you want?" demanded Frank, ungraciously enough, as he half guessed the mission of this bloated and untidy emissary of the law.

"Judicial, see?" observed Roseberry, gravely balancing against the picket fence.

"Go ahead," challenged Frank, keeping out of radius of the judge's breath.

"Come, come, young man," maundered Roseberry. "I'm too old a bird to have to circumlocate. You know your father has great confidence in me."

"I never heard of it before," retorted Frank.

"Oh, yes," insisted Roseberry with bland unction. "Had a case of his once."

"The only case I ever knew of," returned Frank, "was a collection he gave you to make. I heard him tell my mother that he never saw the creditor or the money, either, since."

"Ah -- er -- difficult case; yes, yes, decidedly complex, costs and commissions," stammered the judge, becoming more turkey-red than he naturally was. "We won't retrospect. To the case in hand."

"Well?" spoke Frank, looking so open-faced and steadily at Roseberry that the latter blinked.

"I -- that is -- I would suggest an intermediary, see? The law is very baffling, my friend. Once in its clutches a man is lost."

"But I'm not a man -- I'm only an innocent, misjudged boy," burst forth Frank. "See here, Judge Roseberry, I know why you come and who sent you."

"My client, Mr. Mace -- "

"Is a wicked, unjust man," flared out Frank, "and you are just as bad. Neither of you can possibly believe that I would steal. Why, I don't have to steal. I have what money I need, and more than that. I tell you, if my father was here I think you people would take back-water quick enough. When he does come, you shall suffer for this."

Judge Roseberry looked impressed. He stared at Frank in silence. Perhaps his muddled mind reflected that the accused lad had a good reputation generally. Anyhow, the open, resolute way in which Frank spoke daunted him. But he shook his head in an owl-like manner after a pause and remarked:

"My function's purely legal in the case -- must do my duty."

"Do it, then, and don't bother me," said Frank irritably, and started away from the spot.

"Hold on, hold on," called out the judge after him. "I've a compromise to offer."

"There is nothing to compromise," asserted Frank over his shoulder.

"Suggestion, then. Don't be foolish, young man."

"Well, what's your suggestion?" demanded Frank.

"We'll take a walk in the woods, see? I've got a ten-dollar bill in my pocket. I'll walk one way, you walk the other. No witnesses. I'll put the ten-dollar bill on the stump -- you'll do your part at another stump. We'll turn, pass each other. Backs to each other, see?"

"I don't know what you are driving at," declared Frank.

"As you pass my stump you take up the ten-dollar bill; it's yours. As I pass your stump -- backs to each other, mind you, no witnesses, matter pleasantly adjusted -- I'll pick up the diamond bracelet."

"All right -- that suits me," said Frank readily, but with a grim twinkle in his eye.

"You agree?" inquired the judge eagerly.

"Yes."

"Good."

"Provided you furnish the bracelet," went on the boy.

"Bah!" snorted the judge in high dudgeon, marching from the spot. "Young man, I've done my duty out of consideration for your respected family. You won't listen to reason, so you must take the consequences. I shall advise Mr. Mace to have you arrested at once."



Chapter IV

Gill Mace


About the middle of the afternoon Frank strolled down to the village. He had been worked up a good deal all morning, and when dinner time came he was made aware that his aunt was determined to treat him as a kind of culprit.

The cross-grained old maid did not speak to him during the entire meal. She sat prim and erect, barely glanced at him, and as Frank arose from the table, half choked with the unwelcome food he had eaten, he resolved to speak his mind.

"I'd like to say a word or two, Aunt Tib," he began.

"Say it," snapped his ungracious relative sharply.

"About this monstrous charge made against me by Mr. Mace," continued Frank.

"It is indeed a terrible charge," remarked Miss Brown, with a chilling, awesome groan.

"Of course it isn't true, and of course you can't believe it," went on Frank. "I am sure that a day or two will change things that look so black for me now. All that I am worrying about is that this affair may get to father and mother. It would simply worry them both to death, and it mustn't be. I hope you wouldn't be so cruel, so wicked, as to add to their troubles."

"I shall not write to them until you have confessed."

"Confessed!" cried Frank hotly. "There is nothing to confess. Don't I tell you that I never saw old man Mace's bracelet? Aunt Tib, I am ashamed of you. I tell you, I'm holding in a good deal. If I thought you believed that man's story I'd leave the house for good."

"You mustn't do that, Frank," she said quickly. "We must bear our crosses patiently."

"It's no use; I'm just fighting mad," declared Frank to himself as he left the house. "I just hope Mace and Roseberry will do something to bring affairs to a focus. If this thing gets around the village, it will be a nice, pleasant thing for me, won't it, now? I've half a mind to make a break and get out of it all."

Frank was in a decidedly disturbed state of mind. From being angry he got dejected, and for some time he allowed his thoughts to wander unrestrained. He actually envied Ned Foreman and his wandering career. If it had not been for his loyalty to his parents he would have hunted up the grinding wagon to ask the man who had relieved Ned to give him a job.

It would not have been so hard for Frank if he had had any close chum to whom he could have confided his troubles. But Miss Brown had spoiled all that. She kept the garden like a parlor, and scared away what few acquaintances Frank had with her severe looks and manner. The Jordans had lived at Tipton for only a year. The greater part of that time Frank had been absent at a boarding-school in a neighboring town. The lads with whom he had formerly associated in Tipton were away at various academies. Frank did not know the town schoolboys very well.

He went downtown and strolled about for a time. Defiantly he walked calmly past Mace's jewelry store, and even paused and looked through its front plate-glass show window. He passed the usual hangout of Judge Roseberry, and did not hasten his steps a bit when he saw that the judge, lounging on a bench, noticed him.

Frank fancied that after he had passed the tavern the judge said something to some of his fellow hangers on, and that they glanced after him with some curiosity. A little farther on two little schoolboys paused in their walk, stared hard at him and then scooted away, saying something about a "burglary."

"Mace is bluffing, and so is the judge," determined Frank. "They have no evidence against me, and they don't dare to arrest me. If they spread their false stories, all the same, they shall suffer for it."

Frank felt pretty lonesome and gloomy as he passed the schoolhouse. The boys were rushing out, free from the tasks of the day. It might have been imagination, but Frank fancied that one or two of them greeted him with a cool nod and hurried on. As he politely lifted his cap to a bevy of girls, he imagined that they were rather constrained in their return greeting and looked at him queerly.

Beyond the schoolhouse was Bolter's Hill, a famous place for coasting in the winter time. Just now it had a new power of attraction for the schoolboys. An old hermit-like fellow named Clay Dobbins had lived for years at the other side of the hill. He owned a little patch of ground and a dilapidated house. His wife had died recently, and all the village knew of his two chronic complaints.

The first was that "Sairey had died leaving a sight less money than he had expected," and old Dobbins had wondered if the lawyers or the speculators had got it.

The second was that the old man had got nervous and lonely living in the isolated spot. So he had rented a hut the other side of Bolter's Hill, near the schoolhouse. He planned to have his house moved there, and intended starting a little candy and notion store.

There had never been much house-moving in Tipton, and nobody in the village was equipped to undertake even the simple task of conveying the Dobbins dwelling uphill and then down again. A house-moving firm from Pentonville, however, had engaged to perform the work. They had jacked up the house on screws, chained it securely to a log frame, and, setting a portable windlass at the top of the hill, operated this by horse power.

An immense rope cable, thick as a man's arm, ran to a pulley under the house. It was a novelty to the school youngsters to watch the horse go round and round the windlass, and to see the house come up the hill a slow inch at a time.

Work on the moving had been suspended for the day, but the boys hung around the spot. They raced through the house, clambered over the moving frame, and knocked with the workmen's mallets on the rollers to make the hollow echo that was new to them and sounded like music.

The house movers had set the windlass locked, and the strain on the rope brought it taut. The house was anchored about half way up the hill, straining at the giant cable dangerously and on a sharp tilt.

A little urchin was trying to "walk the tightrope," as he called it, as Frank came up, shaping a willow stick with his pocket knife.

"Say, Frank Jordan," cried the lad, "won't you make me a whistle?"

"Of course I will," replied Frank accommodatingly, and got astride a moving timber and set at work. Only a few of the large boys were about the spot. Frank noticed that Gill Mace, the nephew of the village jeweler, was among their number.

Frank soon turned out a first-class whistle for the applicant, who went away tooting at a happy rate. A second urchin preferred a modest request, and Frank had just completed the second whistle when the boy he had sent away contented came back sniveling.

"Why, what's the matter?" inquired Frank sympathizingly.

Between sobs the little fellow related his troubles. Gill Mace had forcibly taken the whistle away from him, and when he had got through testing its merits had pocketed it and sent its owner away with a cuff on the ear.

"I'll give Gill Mace a piece of my mind, just now," declared Frank, hastily getting to the ground. The jeweler's nephew was up to just such mean, unmanly tricks all of the time. Frank felt that he deserved a lesson. Besides, at just the present moment he had no great love for the whole Mace family.

Frank hurried around to the side of the house, to come upon Gill and his companions, who were engaged in leaping across a puddle near a pit in the hillside. He marched right up to the culprit, the little fellow he had befriended trailing after him.

"See here, Gill Mace," cried Frank promptly, "can't you find a little better employment of your time than bullying little children?"

Gill flushed up, but put on a braggart air.

"Any of your business?" he demanded blusteringly.

"I'm making it my business -- it ought to be the business of any decent, fair-minded fellow," asserted Frank staunchly.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" demanded Gill, doubling up his fists.

"I'm going to give you just twenty seconds to give that whistle back to that boy, or I'm going to take it out of your hide," declared Frank steadily.

"Oho! you are, eh?" snorted Gill, swelling up and glaring wickedly at Frank. "Well, you won't get the whistle, for it's there in the mud."

"I've a good mind to make you go after it," began Frank, when Gill, making a sudden jump, landed up against him, and dealt him a quick, foul blow below the waist.

"I don't care about dirtying my hands with a thief," answered Gill, "but -- "

"What's that?" cried Frank, all the pride and anger in his nature coming to the front.

"I said it," replied Gill, keeping up his doubled fists, but edging away, for the look in the eyes of his adversary warned and cowed him.

"You call me a thief, do you?" demanded Frank.

"Yes; you stole a diamond bracelet from my uncle's store this morning."

"It's a falsehood!" shouted Frank -- "a falsehood as foul and dirty as the muck in that pool! That for you!"

Frank's arm shot out like a piston-rod, and into the mud-puddle, head over heels, went Gill Mace with a frightened howl.



Chapter V

The Ruined House


"Well, it's been a pretty lively day for me, and every move I make I seem to be getting deeper and deeper into trouble."

This was the sentiment expressed by Frank as he retired to rest at the end of the most eventful day in his young life. The hours had indeed been full of incidents. He reviewed them all as he lay, his head on his pillow.

Frank smiled to himself as he remembered Gill Mace. The boy who had called Frank a thief was unable to repeat the vile accusation when he emerged from the puddle into which Frank had pushed him. His mouth was full of mud, his hair was a dripping mop, his clothes were plastered with it. Frank had waited to respond to any later move that Gill might decide on. The jeweler's nephew, however, made none. As he emerged from the puddle three schoolgirls, arms linked in friendly companionship, passed the spot. They noticed Gill and tittered, and Gill sneaked away without so much as even glancing at Frank again.

"I always thought you three fellows a pretty good lot," Frank spoke to the companions of Gill. "I'd hate to change my opinion by thinking you believe what Gill Mace said about my being a thief."

Frank looked so manly and earnest as he spoke these words that his hearers were impressed. One of them stepped up and shook hands with him. Another remarked that he believed no story until he had evidence of its truthfulness, and a third half intimated that he would have served Gill Mace just as Frank had done if he made an untrue accusation.

When Frank got home he discovered that his pocket knife was missing. He tried to remember what had become of it, and finally decided that he must have left it on the log frame or dropped it to the ground when he had started out to meet Gill Mace. Frank valued the knife as a pleasant reminder of Ned Foreman, and planned to get up extra early the next morning and make a search for it.

He was pretty well satisfied as he closed his eyes in sleep that the jeweler would not dare to have him arrested for the theft of the diamond bracelet.

Nothing would probably come of the ridiculous charge, except that the underhanded public insinuations of Mace would damage Frank's character. Now that he had taught Gill Mace a needed lesson, of course his family would be more bitter against Frank than ever.

"The thing will die down," decided Frank. "If they get too rampant, I'll -- yes, I'll actually sue them for slander."

It must have been about midnight when Frank awoke with a shock. The echo of a frightful rumble and crash deafened his ears, and he fancied that the bed was vibrating. A scream inside the house made him sit up and listen. He was startled and bewildered.

"Frank! Frank!" quavered the terror-filled tones of his aunt, as she knocked sharply at the door of his bedroom, "get up at once!"

"What has happened?" inquired Frank quickly.

"I don't know -- something dreadful, I am sure!" gasped the affrighted spinster. "It felt like an earthquake. It shook the whole town. It must have been an explosion."

"Humph! Good thing you know I'm in the house," observed Frank, as he jumped to the floor and hustled into his clothes.

"Why is that, Frank?"

"Because it may have been a dynamite explosion blowing up somebody's safe, and of course Mace would say I did it."

"Don't jest, Frank," pleaded his aunt. "I'm chilled through and shaking all over. Get outside and see if you cannot learn what it all means."

"I think myself it was probably an accidental blast at the quarry down the river," said Frank; "but I'll soon find out."

He did not dress fully, and let himself out on the porch in his slippers. As he walked down to the gate Frank noticed lights appear in many houses nearer the village, as if their inmates had been suddenly aroused from sleep.

Then distant voices, a rumbling wagon, people talking in loud tones, boyish shouts and a vague chorus of sounds unusual for the midnight hour, were drifted to Frank's hearing. From all this, however, he could think out no coherent idea as to what might be going on nearer town.

"It's not a fire, for there's no glare," he decided. "There's some kind of a commotion over near the schoolhouse, it seems. Reckon I'll dress fully and investigate."

There was a certain attraction for Frank in the distant bustle and turmoil. He went back into the house to find his aunt seated in the front hall. She was wrapped up in a shawl, pale and shivering.

"Oh, Frank, what is it?" she chattered.

"I didn't find out, but I'm going to," he announced, as he hurried on to his room.

"Is -- is it coming here?"

"Is what coming here?"

"The -- the -- whatever it is."

"It hasn't hurt us any, has it? And I don't think it will."

Frank got back to the road ten minutes later and started on a run toward the town. Taking the middle of the road, he nearly bumped into a man where the highway turned.

"Hi, there!" challenged the latter.

"Hello!" responded Frank, recognizing a truck gardner who lived just beyond the Jordan place. "What's happened, Daley?"

"Old Dobbins' house."

"What, the one they're moving?"

"Yes. It broke loose from its bearings and has rolled right back to where it stood."

"You don't say so?" exclaimed Frank, with something of a shock.

"Yes, it has," asserted Daley, "only it's the greatest wreck of bricks and plaster now you ever saw."

"No one hurt, I hope?"

"No, except old Dobbins' feelings. He's capering around at a great rate, saying that the town, or the county, or the government, will have to pay him for the damage."

"The movers couldn't have understood their business very well to have such a thing happen." said Frank.

"Looks that way," acceded Daley, and they parted at the gateway of the Jordan home.

Frank advised his aunt of the state of affairs and went back to bed. Naturally he was curious to have a view of the wrecked house. He got up early before breakfast and took a stroll over to the scene of the disaster. The lad, too, thought of his lost knife and bore that fact in mind.

He gave up all hopes of recovering the knife, however, as he reached the spot where he believed he had lost it the afternoon previous. Where the Dobbins house had been anchored on the hillside the ground was torn up and disturbed as though a cyclone had passed over the place. At the bottom of the hill, jammed half way through the rickety old stable, was what was left of the dismantled house.

Miss Brown made Frank stay in the house and study from eight until ten every morning. With all the exciting thoughts that were passing through his mind, Frank found it difficult to fix his attention on his books that morning. He was glad to get out of the house when ten o'clock came. His pet pigeons were his first care. Then he started for the post-office, hoping that he would find a letter from his father.

"Hi, Frank," a voice hailed him as he made a short cut through a little grove at the rear of the house, and a familiar form emerged from some bushes.

"Why, it's Mr. Dobbins!" exclaimed Frank in some surprise. He had expected to find the miserly old fellow in the depths of despair over the loss of his house, but Dobbins was grinning and chuckling at a great rate.

"So 'tis Frank," he bobbed with a broad smile. "Was looking for you."

"What for, Mr. Dobbins?"

The old man blinked. Then he laughed in a pleased, crafty way and put his hand in his pocket.

"See here," he cried, and Frank noticed that he held three coins in his palm. There was a twenty, a ten and a five-dollar gold piece.

"Um-m," observed Dobbins. "Double eagle a good deal of money, isn't it now, Frank?"

"Why, yes," assented Frank wonderingly, and the old fellow picked out the twenty-dollar gold piece with his free hand and put it in his vest pocket.

"It would be extravagant for a boy to squander even as much as ten dollars, hey?"

Frank did not answer, for he could not surmise what the old fellow was getting at.

"So, if you'll consider this five-dollar gold piece the right thing," resumed Dobbins, "you're mightily welcome to it, and say, Frank -- you're a bully boy!"

"How's that?" inquired Frank.

"Oh, you know," asserted Dobbins. "Take it quick, before I change my mind."

"Take the five dollars, you mean?" questioned Frank.

"Exactly."

"Why should I do that? You don't owe me anything."

"Don't?" cried Dobbins. "Why, boy, I owe you everything. No nonsense between friends, you see."

"I don't see -- " began Frank.

Old Dobbins placed a finger beside his nose in a crafty, expressive way. He winked blandly at Frank, with the mysterious words:

"That's all right, Frank, boy. No need of going into particulars, but -- you know right enough. Mum's the word. Take the five dollars."



Chapter VI

An Astonishing Clue


"But I don't know," declared Frank forcibly, "and as I have not earned any five dollars, of course I can't take it."

"Sho!" chuckled old Dobbins, dancing about Frank, as spry as a schoolboy and poking him playfully in the ribs. Frank had to smile.

"See here, Mr. Dobbins," he observed, "it appears to me that you feel pretty lively for a man who has just had his house all smashed to pieces."

"That's just it -- that's just it," retorted Dobbins in a tone almost jubilant. "Where would I be if it hadn't happened? Why, boy, when I think of what you've done, I -- I almost would adopt you -- that is, if you weren't too big an eater."

There was some mystery under all this, Frank discerned. He wanted to get at the plain facts of the case.

"I'm afraid I don't entirely understand," he began when his eccentric visitor interrupted him.

"Ho! ho!" he guffawed. "You will be sharp, you young blade, won't you? Got some temper -- hey? True as steel -- hi! When the rope gave out you cut for it -- ho! ho! ho!" and the speaker went into spasms of merriment over his own wit.

"'Blade, temper, steel,'" quoted Frank. "Are you getting off a pun, Mr. Dobbins?"

"Put it that way if you like," returned Dobbins cheerfully. "There was a knife. That's the long and short of it, don't you see? A boy's pocket knife. It sawed the big moving cable. Snap! Bang! Away went the house. Whose knife? Aha! Dear me -- who can tell? Sly, hey -- Frank, boy? We ain't going to tell. No need of it. Artful dodgers -- ho! ho! ho! Take the five dollars."

Frank gave a vivid start. He was partly enlightened now. He had mislaid his knife near the house that had been anchored on the hill side. Somebody had found it and had cut the cable with it.

"What you are getting at, then," said Frank, "is that a knife cut the rope loose?"

"Ah, just that."

"And my knife?"

"Oh, yes, it was your knife, Frank -- no doubt about that at all."

"How do you know it was my knife?" asked Frank.

"Because it had your name on it. Of course I didn't see the knife used, but Judge Roseberry found it the next morning right under the windlass."

"Who?" fairly shouted Frank.

"Judge Roseberry. The knife fitted to the cut. Judge Roseberry came to me with it. 'Dobbins,' says he to me, 'business is business. I have made a discovery. The person who smashed your house is Frank Jordan, and I can prove it.' Then he told me the rest."

"And what did you say?" cried the astonished Frank.

"Well, feeling pretty perk over a discovery I had just made, I listened to the crafty old varmint."

"And what did he say?"

"He told me that you had stolen a diamond bracelet from Mace, the jeweler."

"Which was a falsehood," asserted Frank with vehemence.

"Yes, I can believe that," nodded Dobbins, "seeing that Roseberry said so. He then began to tell me how they were trying to have you give up that bracelet. He said that if I would have you arrested for smashing the house, it would break you down and make you confess about the bracelet. Anyhow, it would look so bad for you that your father would settle all the damage."

"The villain!" commented Frank.

"Them's my sentiments, too, Frank. Mebbe, if things hadn't turned out as they did, I might have acted mean and measly, too, but I was so tickled over the way they did come out that I just laughed at your boyish mischief of letting the old shack slide downhill."

"But I had no hand in anything of the sort," declared Frank stoutly.

"Let it pass, Frank, let it pass," chuckled Dobbins unbelievingly. "You see, when I came to look over the old ruins I come to where the old storeroom wall had busted out. You know it's always been a mystery to me what had become of my wife Sairey's scrapings and earnings?"

"I've heard you tell so -- yes," nodded Frank.

"There they were, boy!" cried old Dobbins in a sort of ecstasy. "She'd hidden them in a hole in the wall. The wall broke out in the crash. Confidentially," and the narrator looked around cautiously and lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper, "I found in gold and silver a heap of money amounting to nigh three thousand dollars."

"Well!" ejaculated Frank.

"So, you see, it was a lucky day for me when you cut that rope."

"Which I never did," replied Frank vigorously. "If you will come over to the house, Mr. Dobbins, my aunt will assure you that I was in bed hours before and after the crash happened."

"Well, anyway, it was your knife."

"Yes," assented Frank, and explained about it being mislaid. Apparently Dobbins was convinced. He was thoughtful for a moment or two, exchanged the coin in hand for another in his pocket, and extended this to Frank with the words:

"I guess it's worth ten dollars, then."

"No, Mr. Dobbins," said Frank positively, "I can't take your money. I'll tell you, though, if you really feel kindly toward me."

"I do, for a fact, Frank."

"And want to do me a favor?"

"Try me, Frank."

"I want you to come up to the house and satisfy yourself that I have told you the truth about being home last night, and then I want you to go to town with me."

"Why, Frank, I don't doubt your word."

"No; but others may, and I want to settle this affair."

"All right, Frank, though I'd feel better if you took the money."

Miss Brown looked rather curious and perplexed when confronted by Frank and Dobbins, but satisfactorily answered the questions put by her nephew.

"Oh, Frank," she said, as he and his companion left the place, "if you are going to town I wish you would stop at the post-office."

"I will," replied Frank. "I hope there will be a letter from the folks. I shall not take much of your time, Mr. Dobbins," he explained to his companion as they started for the village.

Frank ran into the post-office as they reached it. The postmistress handed out a paper from the Jordan letter-box. Frank stuck it in his pocket a little disappointedly, for he had expected a letter from his father.

He led Dobbins from the post-office to the village tavern. As he had expected, Judge Roseberry was lounging on the bench outside, spouting politics to some loafer companions.

"Keep right with me, Mr. Dobbins," directed Frank. "I shall need your services."

"Drat me, if I can understand what you're getting at, lad," said Dobbins desperately, "but I'll stick, if I can be of any use to you."

Frank marched straight up to the crowd in front of the tavern.

"Judge Roseberry," he said calmly, but with an impressive seriousness, "I will thank you to return my pocket knife."

"Hey -- h'm!" spluttered the judge, taken off his balance. "Your knife?"

"Precisely," insisted Frank.

"Why -- how -- who says I've got your knife?" stammered the judge, growing redder in the face than usual.

"Mr. Dobbins, here, informs me that he does," replied Frank.

"That's so," echoed Dobbins; "inasmuch as you showed it to me this morning."

"Well, if I have," observed the judge, bracing up a little, "I hold it as evidence of a crime. As an emissary of the law -- "

"That's the right word, judge," grinned Dobbins -- "'emissary' fits. It don't go in this instance, though. The evidence is all on Frank's side, as I have found out. He was in bed when that smash-up took place, so I reckon I won't go into any plot to ruin the character of an honest boy, this time."

Judge Roseberry gave up the knife reluctantly and felt pretty sheepish in the act, for his cronies were winking and chuckling over his discomfiture.

"I thank you very much for what you have done for me, Mr. Dobbins," said Frank as they left the spot.

"That's all right, boy," replied Dobbins heartily; "and if these varmints make you any more threats, just sue them and I'll stand the costs -- that is, if they aren't too heavy."

Frank felt quite lighthearted as he left old Dobbins and started homeward. He entered the house whistling, and threw the newspaper he had just got at the post-office into his aunt's lap. As he went outside and was passing the open window of the sitting-room, a cry brought him to a halt.

"What is the matter, Aunt Tib?" he inquired quickly.

Miss Brown held an open letter in her hand and looked fluttering and excited.

"It was inside the paper, Frank," she explained.

"Is it from the folks?" inquired Frank eagerly.

"It is," assented his aunt

"Father is well?" asked Frank breathlessly.

"He is getting better every day. But, Frank," and his aunt looked profoundly grave and important, "the serious duties of life are grave. A false step may change the whole course of a young life. There is a tide in the affairs of men --  -- "

"Yes, yes," interrupted Frank. "I know all about that; but what are you getting at?"

Miss Brown did not fancy being interrupted in one of her famous homilies, and she answered tart and terse:

"Your father has made arrangements to send you to Bellwood School, and you are to start at once."

Frank fairly staggered at the glad news. He was so overcome that he could not speak. He just bobbed his head and smiled.

The instant the youth got out of range of the house, however, a riotous, echoing yell rang from his lips as he turned a mad, capering somersault:

"Hurrah!"



Chapter VII

The Confidence Man


"All aboard!"

Frank fancied that he had never listened to a more cheery command than this given as the Western Express rolled out of the depot at Tipton.

It was beautiful weather, a glorious day that would put life and sunshine into an invalid, let alone a lively, happy boy escaping from what he considered thralldom, believing that all the joys of life were awaiting him at the end of his trip.

Frank's aunt actually smiled and waved the lad a gracious adieu from the depot platform. She had been quite gentle and kind to him the few hours preceding his departure. She had put up a generous lunch for him, and had even unbent so far as to declare that she had believed from the first that he knew nothing about the missing diamond bracelet. All this, however, had been the preface to a dozen brief lectures on thorny ways and the dark pitfalls of life. Frank was genuinely glad to escape from the gloomy influence Miss Brown cast on everything bright and happy about her.

At another part of the platform was Mace, the jeweler. He had a sullen frown on his face, and he fixed his glance on Frank as though his eyes were boring him through and through to discover the missing diamond bracelet.

The wrecking of old Dobbins' house had remained a mystery. Some thought the rope had been cut, while others were of the opinion that it had broken because of the heavy strain put upon it.

"Good -- we're off!" jubilated Frank, as he waved a last adieu to his aunt through the open car window, and Tipton faded away in the distance. Then he settled down in his comfortable seat to enjoy the all-day ride to Bellwood.

Miss Brown had doled out twenty-five cents at the depot news-stand for a book full of jokes and funny pictures. Frank soon exhausted this literary fund. Then he bought some oranges from the train boy and had a lively chat with him. He bought a daily paper and read it through and through, and by noon the trip began to get a trifle monotonous.

It was about one o'clock when the train arrived at a junction, where there was a stop for half an hour. Frank was glad to walk about and stretch his limbs. When leaving time came and he returned to the train he became interested in studying two passengers.

A husky, farmer-looking man had entered the coach, followed by a stocky-built lad about the age of Frank. The latter bore the appearance of a boy sullen and unhappy over some circumstance. Frank thought he had never seen a more dissatisfied face than that of this lad. He shuffled along after the farmer in an ungracious fashion, and taking the first empty seat flopped into it unceremoniously.

"All right," said his companion. "You're probably better by yourself when you're in one of your tantrums. Just see if you can't get some of your natural meanness out of you while looking at the beauties of nature along the route."

The boy hunched up his shoulders contemptuously without saying a word in reply, while the farmer selected a seat across the aisle and directly in front of Frank. He occupied himself looking over a weekly farm paper. After a while Frank crossed over to the seat occupied by the boy who had accompanied the farmer.

"Going far?" inquired Frank in a friendly tone.

The lad did not move to make room for him in the seat. He turned a sullen face on Frank. There was dark suspicion and open animosity in his eyes.

"Far enough," he muttered.

"It's pleasant weather, isn't it?" propounded Frank, bound to be companionable.

"Say," said the boy, staring pugnaciously at our hero, "trying to pick on me, are you?"

"Why," answered the astonished Frank, "I never dreamed of such a thing."

"Yes, you did! Lemme alone!"

"All right," returned Frank pleasantly. "Only here's an orange and a funny book I want you to enjoy," and he placed the articles in question beside the boy and stepped back to his own seat.

As he did so he met the big round face of the farmer on a broad grin. The latter turned around and accosted him.

"Not very sociable, hey?" he remarked.

"Oh, I probably seem strange to him," observed Frank.

"He's that way all along," declared the farmer. "If he is my son, I say it."

"You are his father, then?"

"The only one he's got," replied the farmer. "You see, I married his mother. She's dead, now. That boy always was a sulky, ugly varmint. Why, he'd ought to be the happiest critter in Christendom. He's got eight step-brothers and step-sisters. Won't jibe, though. He's just unnateral, that fellow is. No living at home with him, so I'm taking his to a boarding-school."

"Maybe he doesn't feel well all the time," suggested Frank gently.

"What, that big, husky boy? Why, he's strong as an ox. No, sir-ree, nateral depravity, I say. I tried to whip it out of him. It did him no good."

"I shouldn't think it would," decided Frank mentally, and then the conversation dropped and the man returned to his paper.

Frank felt sorry for the grumpy, sad-looking boy across the aisle. His own loveless experience with his aunt at Tipton gave him some reason for this. The boy was worse off than he was, though, for Frank had kind-hearted, affectionate parents, while the farmer boy was motherless. The latter had eaten half of the orange and was quite engrossed in the book given him. Frank was about to start another effort to make friends, when the train came to a station and a passenger came aboard who diverted his interest.

The newcomer was a tall, dark man of middle age. He had a very solemn face and wore a black tie and choker and clothes that suggested mourning.

There were plenty of vacant seats, but after a sharp look about the coach this new passenger came to where the farmer sat.

"Seat engaged, sir?" he inquired in a polite, ingratiating way.

"No, sure not," responded the farmer heartily. "Sit down. Glad to have company."

"I fear I shall not be very good company," observed the new passenger with a dismal sigh.

"How's that, sir?" questioned the farmer curiously.

"I'm going to a funeral."

"Ah! Nigh relative?"

"Yes; a brother."

"Too bad," commiserated the farmer. "Lost my own brother last year. Bill was a hustling chap. Missed him dreadfully last plowing season."

"My brother lives at Jayville," explained the man, naming a station two stops ahead.

"Jayville, eh?" repeated the farmer. "Been there. Went to the bank there once to sell a mortgage."

"Indeed. An uncle of mine is an official of the bank."

"Is that so, now?" said the farmer. "There's the mayor, there, too; sort of a distant relative of my first wife. Don't know him, do you?"

Frank interestedly watched the stranger deftly draw from a side pocket a book. It seemed to be some kind of a country directory. Without attracting the attention of his companion, the stranger glanced over its pages, meantime suspending conversation by pretending to have a violent fit of coughing.

"The mayor," he said finally. "You mean Mr. David Norris?"

"That's him!" exclaimed the farmer.

"Oh, yes, I know him. He is a cousin of mine."

"Is that so? Shake!" said the farmer. "Why, we're quite acquainted, hain't we? Almost relatives, hey?"

"Well!" muttered Frank under his breath. "This is getting interesting. Sure as sugar, that fellow is a confidence man."



Chapter VIII

Nipped In The Bud


Frank had traveled some in his young career, had read considerable, and had thought a good deal. The talk of the melancholy man in the white choker had led up to a point where Frank felt pretty sure he was up to some trick or other. While pretending to be interested in the newspaper he had read over and over, our hero kept eyes and ears wide open.

The stranger talked of things in general now. He asked the farmer concerning his crops, and particularly about the wife who must be a distant relative of his. Finally he observed:

"It's a pretty bad prospect for the family of my dead brother."

"How's that, neighbor?" asked the farmer.

"Left them without much of anything -- that is, in the way of ready money. In fact, I must bear all the burden of the funeral expenses. I'm short myself, and it's going to cramp me to get hold of ready cash. I've got to make something of a sacrifice, and it's worrying me."

"Hope you don't have to sacrifice your homestead, or anything like that," observed the farmer sympathetically.

"I won't, just the same," declared the stranger with some force. "I promised my father I'd never let the old home go."

"That's the right sentiment, friend."

"I was offered ten thousand for it, and refused it. Then fifteen thousand -- I would not listen to it. I may have to borrow on it, but it will be a small amount. I'm trying to avoid even that. Let me show you something. See those documents?" and the speaker showed a neat little package of papers secured with a rubber band. He selected the outside one and spread it open. It was a certificate of stock, printed in green and red on fine parchment paper. Its blanks were filled in with writing in great flourishes, and there was an immense gold seal in one corner.

"What's that, now?" inquired the farmer with bulging eyes. "Government bond?"

"Better than a government bond, my friend," assured the stranger. "A government bond brings a man only four per cent. a year. This stock paid me ten per cent. in January, twenty per cent. in March, and I was offered double its face value last week."

"A hundred dollars," said the farmer musingly, noting the handsome medallion figure at the top of the stock certificate.

"Yes, and worth two hundred, as I tell you. I wouldn't sell it at any price, but I'm short of ready cash, and I'll pay eight per cent. interest and give the next dividend as a bonus, for a loan of seventy-five dollars for thirty days. I'm proud and particular about my business, and I dislike to ask my friends for the loan."

"Say," observed the farmer, dazzled at the sight of the pretty document, "you mean you'll give all that security and interest for a loan of seventy-five dollars?"

"To an honest man who won't run away with the security, yes."

"I can show you letters telling you who I am," declared the farmer, perking up with pride. "Straight business with me, neighbor. I reckon I can dig up seventy-five dollars on any occasion."

"Look over the certificate, friend. You'll find the signatures all right. D. Burlingame Gould, president -- you've heard of the Goulds?"

"In the paper, certainly."

"He's one of them. Robert Winstanley Astorbilt, secretary, prominent New York banker. Excuse me, I've got to get a drink of water. You won't find better security in this country than a share of stock of the Little Wonder Bonanza Mining & Milling Company of Montana."

"Hello!" said Frank to himself with a start "The Little Wonder -- why, where did I see that name? I've got it! There's an item in the very newspaper I've been reading about it."

The stranger had proceeded to the water tank. He purposely left the farmer dazzled with his proposition to think over it. The latter sat in a sort of trance of avarice, staring at the enticing stock certificate.

A plan to confuse and outwit the swindler occurred to our hero. He was intent on locating the brief item he remembered having seen in the newspaper. He wanted to act on his plan before the stranger returned. Frank's eye ran over column after column, page after page.

"Got it," he breathed at last, and neatly tore out of place an item near the bottom of a page. It told of a swindle astoundingly perpetrated by a gang of confidence men in the city where the paper was published. The scheme was to induce greenhorns to invest in or loan money on mining stock of some companies that had no existence except on paper. The Little Wonder Bonanza Mining & Milling Company of Arizona headed the list of the worthless concerns.

"Quick -- before the man comes back, read that," said Frank, leaning over the seat in front of him and placing the clipping in the hands of the former.

"Hey! What --  -- "

"And then give it to him to read," added Frank with a chuckle.

"Hemlock and asparagus!" ejaculated the farmer as his glance ran over the item. "A bunko man, eh? And I was nearly gulled!"

"Well, friend," spoke the swindler suavely, returning down the aisle, "how about that little loan? You'll have to decide quick, for this is my station they're coming to."

"I see 'tis," responded the farmer, arising with a grim face that should have warned the man, who had taken him for an easy victim. "Say, you measly, flaggerbusted scrub, read that!"

The farmer did not wait to have the swindler read the newspaper item. He only thrust it near enough to his discomfited face to allow the fellow to get an inkling of its meaning. Then his sinewy hand closed on the collar of the swindler's coat.

The train was slowing up just then, and a brake-man threw open the door of the coach with the announcement:

"Jayville!"

"I'm going to introduce you to the town," grinned the farmer. "Bolt, you varmint!"

He ran the fellow down the car, the other passengers arising from their seats in excitement. Straight through the open doorway he rushed the swindler, and out upon the platform. Arrived there, the farmer changed his mind. The depot was about two hundred feet ahead. Just where the coach was running was a deep ditch.

Frank saw the stalwart farmer lift his prisoner bodily, he heard a yell and then a splash, and saw the baffled swindler land waist-deep in the ditch, deluged, silk hat, white choker and dress coat, in a cascade of murky mud.

"My wife's cousin, the banker, and his friend, the mayor of the town, can help him out of that fix if they want to," chuckled the farmer, coming back into the car and rubbing his hands as if to wash the dirt from them.



Chapter IX

A Boy Guardian


The conductor grinned and the passengers roared with laughter when the farmer explained the incident. Even the glum-faced stepson of the narrator roused up into some interest.

"Thankee, neighbor," spoke the farmer, effusively grasping Frank's hand. "You're the right sort, sure enough -- eyes wide open and up to snuff. Guess I'd better keep close to home after this. I ain't to be trusted along with them gold-brick fellows."

The old man took a great fancy to Frank and became quite confidential with him. He piled candy and peanuts on him from the train boy's supply, invited him to the farm, and wanted to know Frank's name so he could tell the folks about him.

"I am Frank Jordan, live at Tipton, and am bound for school at Bellwood," said Frank.

"Hey! how -- what?" exclaimed the farmer explosively. "You don't mean to say that you're traveling to school, too?"

"Yes," replied Frank. "But who else do you mean?"

"Why, my son, Robert, over there -- Robert Upton. Now, isn't it funny -- he's going right to the very school you are?"

"To Bellwood?"

"That's the name -- Bellwood is the place," assented Mr. Upton. "Wish you'd tell me what you know about it."

"I don't know anything about it, except what I've read and what I've heard from friends who went there," said Frank. But it seemed he had enough information to quite interest the farmer. Then the latter told him about his stepson.

"Robert's been no good at home," he said. "You can see what a sulky, unsociable fellow he is. No interest in nothing -- thinks everybody hates him, and won't make up to anybody. He says he'll run away if I put him in school. If he does, I certainly will put him in the reformatory until he's of age."

Frank stole a rather pitying glance at the lad. The latter was hunched down in his seat, his hands rammed into his pockets, looking bored and miserable. Frank wondered what kind of a queer make-up his nature could be, to mope and scowl that bright, beautiful day, with the prospect of the useful chance for study and the gay life of schoolboy sport.

"Why, say," suddenly ejaculated Farmer Upton, starting under the spur of some exciting idea, "why can't Robert go with you to Bellwood?"

"He is doing so, isn't he?" said Frank with a smile.

"I mean why can't you sort of take charge of him and introduce him around, and save me the time and the expense. You see, if I go with him I can't get home until to-morrow. I can get off the train at Chester, and not buy any ticket to Bellwood, but go right back home. I've made all the arrangements for him by letter at Bellwood. The only reason I was going with him was to deliver him into the hands of the teachers and give them an inkling of what a troublesome fellow he is."

"Doesn't it strike you that that would hurt his chances with them and discourage him?" suggested Frank.

"I never thought of that."

"Excuse me, Mr. Upton," said Frank, "but maybe you're too hard on your stepson. It's hard to understand people, and a boy is a queer make-up. I will be glad to have him come with me to Bellwood, and I'll put myself out to make it agreeable for him."

"But he won't be agreeable; that's the trouble, you see," declared the farmer. "When he gets in one of them tantrums of his, you simply can't reason with him."

"Well, I'll take charge of him, if you don't wish to make the long journey, Mr. Upton."

"I'll never know how to thank you, if you will," said the farmer gratefully. "Hi, there, Robert."

"Me?" droned the boy in the seat across the aisle.

"Who else do you suppose?" snapped his stepfather testily. "Come, rout out there, or I'll unhitch a strap somewhere and make you step lively."

Frank made up his mind that he would interest himself in the drifting waif of a fellow. As he thought of the big, husky farmer and his houseful of grown sons and daughters, he wondered if in their rough, unthinking way they had not quite broken the spirit of the motherless lad in their midst.

"Sit down here," ordered the farmer, turning the seat so it faced Frank. "This boy is going to Bellwood, Robert. He's agreed to take you along with him, and I'm going back home."

Robert shot a glance of dislike and suspicion at Frank, as if he was a link in a chain of jailers waiting for him along the line of life.

"You behave yourself along with him down at the academy, or I'll put you in the reform school," threatened the farmer harshly.

"Oh, give Bob something to think of that's pleasant," put in Frank cheerily. "It's a scary thing for a fellow, first time he goes among strangers. I'm bracing up myself to meet the rollicking, mischief-making crowd at Bellwood, who will just be lying in wait to guy us and haze us. We'll stand together, Bob, hey? and give them good as they send," and Frank slapped the lad on the shoulder, with a ringing laugh.

"They won't haze me," muttered Bob.

"Yes, they will, and then you and I will lay around to haze the new fellows who came after us," cried Frank. "Ha! ha! you'll see some fun down at Bellwood, Bob. They're a capital set of fellows, I'm told. We'll make the best of them, anyhow, and the best of ourselves. Come, friend Bob, we'll stick together and get all the fun out of life we can. Chums, is it?"

Frank was irresistible in his cheery, open-hearted good nature. Bob was ashamed to refuse his hand, but the set, glum look on his face did not lighten.

They had to change cars at a place called Chester. The farmer gave Frank minute instructions as to his charge. He went over his "perky meanness" in all its details, and he said to his stepson at parting:

"Now, then, you've got your chance to make a man of yourself. Any tantrums, and you'll hear from me quick, and hot and heavy."

This was his parental farewell, and Frank felt truly sorry for poor Bob, who, with all his sullenness, seemed entitled to a little better treatment.

After Farmer Upton had left them, Frank tried to break in on his stepson's sulky reserve, but failed utterly. Bob drew within himself. He made ungracious replies to questions put to him when Frank tried to interest him, and about two o'clock went over to a vacant seat and curled up in it and went fast asleep.

It was about six o'clock when the train pulled into Bellwood. Frank found it to be a quaint, pretty town with delightful country surrounding it.

"Come on, Bob," he spoke as they stepped to the depot platform; "we must arrange to have our trunks sent up to the academy."

"You've got my check," said Bob. "You can attend to all that; I'll wait here."

"Oh, no," replied Frank lightly, "we'll stick together until we get landed."

He was determined to afford his companion no opportunity to stray off. There was a look in Bob Upton's eye that recalled the oft-repeated injunction of his stepfather to watch out for "tantrums."

Frank arranged for the delivery of the trunks, and then made an inquiry of a truckman as to the location of Bellwood School. The man pointed out its towers about half a mile away.

They passed through the business part of the little town. At the village post-office several boys were waiting for their mail. They looked the newcomers over, but did not address them, and in a few minutes Frank and Bob found themselves pursuing a path following the windings of a little stream.

"We'll soon be there," announced Frank as they came to where on a slight rise of landscape the academy buildings stood pretty plainly in view. "What's the matter, Bob?"

The latter had halted in a peculiar, positive way. He backed slightly. His eye was defiant and determined now, instead of sullen.

"The matter is this," he announced bluntly. "I don't intend to go to that school."



Chapter X

An Obstinate Rebel


"What's that?" demanded Frank, looking Bob over in a quiet but resolute way.

"I said it," observed Bob Upton obstinately. "I don't go to that school."

"Nonsense!" retorted Frank simply with a laugh.

He understood that a crisis had come. He read in the face of his companion a set purpose, and he prepared to meet the dilemma squarely.

"I think all the more of you, Bob," he observed, "for speaking your mind right out, but you'll have to change it this time."

"Why will I?" demanded Bob.

"Because I'm going to convince you that your scheme won't work at all."

"We'll see," muttered Bob.

"We will," declared Frank. "In the first place, you're thinking things out wrong. In the second place, I've promised your stepfather to take you to the academy."

"What of it? I didn't agree."

"No; but I never break my word. I'm going to fill my contract, if I have to carry you to Bellwood School."

"You'll have to do it, then," retorted Bob Upton. "I shan't budge an inch."

"I won't argue with you, Bob," said Frank evenly. "I'll give you some advice --  -- "

"Don't want none," flared up Bob.

"Then I'll give you two minutes to resume the tramp."

Frank took out his watch and held it in his hand, surveying his opponent with a pleasant smile. Bob Upton with scowling brows dug his shoes into the ground for sixty seconds, and then began to back away.

"It won't do," said Frank, stepping after him and seizing his arm firmly. "Come, now, be a good fellow."

"You let me alone."

"I shan't."

There was a vigorous struggle. Bob was stoutly built, but he was no match for Frank. The latter laughed at his threatening struggles.

"Give me a chance to fix my shoe, will you?" growled Bob as he gave up the fight and Frank released him. Then he stood patiently awaiting his pleasure, while his companion fumbled at his feet.

Bob's back was to Frank, but the latter suspected no trick. Of a sudden, however, Bob whipped off both shoes, flinging them into the creek, his cap after them, stripped his coat from place and tossed it also into the water. Then he flopped flat to the ground.

"I won't go another foot," he declared. "I'll rip every stitch of clothes on me to tatters and I'll fight like a wildcat before I'll make another step."

Frank's eyes flashed. His settled will showed in his resolute face.

"All right," he said quietly. "If you want to be handled like a wildcat, I can give you the treatment."

Quick as a flash Frank sprang to a plank reaching a few feet out into the stream. It appeared to have been a landing place for small boats. Lying across it was a piece of rope, evidently used in securing some water craft. Seizing this, Frank made a leap back to his stubborn companion, jumped squarely astride of him, and snatching his knife from his pocket, cut the rope in two. In a jiffy he had bound the struggling hands of Bob. He performed the same function for his feet. Then, arising, he looked down steadily at his helpless captive.

"I can carry you easily that way," he observed.

Frank went along the banks of the stream until he found a long branch. There was little current to the rivulet, and he soon fished out the floating coat and cap. One of the shoes had sunk, but it was in shallow water, and he managed to rescue this also.

"You're making a good deal of trouble, Bob," he remarked, "but you'll think better of it when you get cooled down."

All the stubborn resistance began to fade from the face of the wretched lad. He realized that he had found his master. The mute misery and helplessness in his eyes appealed more strongly to Frank's sympathies than had his former unpleasant mood.

"See here, Bob," said Frank, sitting down beside his companion, "while these articles are drying, better listen a bit to reason from a fellow who wants to be your friend. Will you?"

Bob turned his face away, his laps puckering.

"Oh, leave me alone," he sobbed. "I've got no friends. I never had any. I wish I could die and be out of everybody's way, that's what I wish."

"See here, Bob," said Frank, "that's downright wicked, if you mean it. I'd like to know what's the matter with you? Can't you see any sunshine in life?"

"Sunshine!" retorted Bob hotly. "Oh, yes, lots of it. Blazing, blistering sunshine in the harvest fields, where those big, selfish louts my stepfather told you about were loafing. Many a night I've crawled up to bed so tired and sore I could hardly get there, to have those fellows torment me or kick and cuff me because I wouldn't sneak down into the cellar and steal cider or preserves for them. I tell you, my stepfather has treated me wrong. I tell you, that heartless family of his had made my life so dark, I'm just discouraged."

Bob Upton broke down and cried bitterly. Frank felt very sorry for him.

"Bob," he said, "I'm glad you told me all of this. I begin to understand now. They haven't given you a fair chance; I see that. They've cowed you down and have nearly broken your spirit. All right. Show them that you're going to make something of yourself, all the same. We all have our troubles," and Frank told something of his own irksome, unpleasant life with his fault-finding aunt.

It was by slow degrees that Bob Upton livened up and then braced up. No one could help liking Frank Jordan.

"You're a cracking good fellow," said the farmer boy at last. "I hope it isn't like the spurts Jeff Upton used to have one day, and wallop me like thunder the next."

"I'll see to it that no one wallops you or jumps on you," promised Frank. "You keep right with me till you learn the ropes and unlearn all the bitterness those relations of yours have put into you. I'm going to have you and me paired off for the same room, if I can."

"Say," choked up Bob at this, "any fellow who would do that, after seeing how measly mean I can be, is a brick. Just wait. When the time comes that I can show you what I think of you, I'll be there, true as steel."

"I believe you will," said Frank heartily. "You've been a good deal of a martyr, Bob Upton, and -- there's your chance to be a hero! Quick, for mercy's sake, stop that runaway!"

Frank shouted the words excitedly. He had removed the ropes from Bob's wrists and ankles, and they had been standing near the coat spread out on the grass while they conversed. A clatter and wild shouts had suddenly pierced the air, and whirling about Frank saw coming down a steep roadway toward the river a spirited team of horses attached to a light carriage.

It had two seats, but the front one held no driver. In the rear seat, clinging frantically to one another and swung dangerously about by the swaying vehicle, were two affrighted children.

Frank was speedy, but Bob Upton was quicker. It amazed and gratified Frank to see his companion dart off like a shot. He himself ran to where the road curved down to the river to obstruct the runaway's progress when it reached that point. Bob, however, who knew all about horses from his farm experience, had made a rush on a short cut to intercept the runaway horses before they reached a spot where the descent was sharp, and where deep ravines showed on either side of the winding roadway.

Frank ran with all his might up the road, but Bob Upton by his short cut reached the point where it narrowed in an incredibly brief space of time. He had to catch at saplings and bushes to make the ascent. He was so far in advance of our hero that, while Frank continued running, he foresaw that he could not be first on the scene, and he watched Bob's progress with admiration and suspense.

Bob Upton did a risky thing. He seemed to think only of diverting or stopping the runaway team -- anything to keep the spirited horses from reaching the dangerous point where the road narrowed.

Frank saw him pick up a great tree branch lying on the incline. Bearing this before him, Bob ran at the fast approaching horses with a loud shout.

Squarely into their foam-flecked faces the farm boy drove the branch, dropped hold of it, and let it rest on the carriage pole. The horses reared and tried to turn. Quick as lightning Bob grabbed a bit strap in either hand, gave them a jerk, then grasped the nose of each horse, and brought them to a panting standstill.

A man, the driver, pale and breathless, came running up from behind as Frank reached the spot.

"Oh, you've saved them! Oh, I'll never leave them unhitched again! Boy, you shall have my month's wages -- all I've got -- for this!" shouted the man hysterically.

"Get the lines," directed Bob. "The horses are restive yet. Hold them till I see what the matter is."

His practiced eye had noticed one of the horses acting queerly with one foot. As the driver gained the front seat and held the team under control, Bob picked up the off foot of one of the animals.

"This is what started them," he explained, holding up a sharp, long thorn.

"Say, who are you -- what's your name? I want to see you again about this."

"Nothing to see me about," responded Bob. "Glad I was on hand, that's all. If you loosened that check rein your horses will go a great deal easier."

"He's Robert Upton," spoke Frank, determined to give his valorous comrade all the distinction he deserved. "Bob," he added, as the restive team proceeded on their way, "you have been something of a martyr -- now you are a positive hero."

"Pshaw! that little thing!" observed Bob carelessly, but his face flushed at Frank's honest compliment. "I've had a wild stallion drag me all around a forty-foot lot, and never got a scratch."

"You've made a fine beginning in the new life, Bob; you can't deny that," said Frank. "Come, get on your duds and let's travel."

Half an hour later, within the classic precincts of the big hall of learning on the hill, Frank Jordan and Robert Upton were duly registered as students of Bellwood School.



Chapter XI

Turning The Tables


"Frank, we are marked men!" declared Bob Upton tragically.

"Ha!" retorted Frank with a laugh. "The deadly enemy approaches!"

"No nonsense!" declared Bob, quite earnestly now. "We're in for a course of sprouts; it's to come off this very night, and the savage horde which is to begin the hazing operations is that gang of ten who occupy the big dormitory room next to us."

"How did you find all this out, Bob?"

"I overheard them plotting."

"I see."

"I'm going to spike their guns and turn the laugh on them."

"How?"

"That's telling. You'd object, so I'm going to keep my own counsel. There are four degrees of initiation. If a fellow consents to all the tests with a good-natured grin he passes muster. If he doesn't, he's tabooed."

"Well, then, let's stand muster cheerfully."

"Not I," retorted Bob grimly. "We'll turn the tables; then they'll think all the more of us. Ever hear of the Chevaliers of the Bath? Or the Knights of the Garter?"

"They are new to me -- some school rigmarole, I suppose."

"Yes. Then there's Scouts of the Gauntlet."

"Worse and worse."

"And finally the Guides of Mystery."

"Whew!"

"To be a free and accepted Chevalier of the Bath a fellow has to be a water-proof rat. To be a Knight of the Garter he must consent to wake up at midnight to find a rope tackle around one ankle, and be dragged out of bed and down the hall."

"Well, we'll have to take our medicine, I suppose," said Frank lightly.

"To be a Scout of the Gauntlet," went on Bob, "is to be sent in the dark down the stairs on a fool errand, and come back to face a pillow shower. A genuine Guide of Mystery must have the grit to be left blindfolded in the village graveyard at midnight, barefooted, and with a skeleton stolen from the museum hitched to one arm."

"That's the program, is it, Bob?"

"Exactly," assented Frank's new chum. "The show begins to-night, as I say. Stick close to me and you won't lose any rest."

Frank looked blandly and admiringly at his comrade, and was rather proud of him.

There had never come so marked and agreeable a change over a boy as that manifested in the instance of Bob Upton within three days.

There was still under the surface with Bob, when he met strangers, a certain suspicious element that had been engrafted in him. The least hint that any one was guying him or imposing upon him would bring the old look back to his face, but Frank watched him closely, and coming to Bellwood School had indeed been the beginning of a new life for Bob.

An incident had occurred the morning after their arrival that, outside of Frank's friendly effort in behalf of Bob, had been the means of lifting the farmer boy to a new level.

The fellows at Bellwood School were of the average class in such institutions, a mixture of jolly and gruff, good and bad. Like attracts like, and the very first morning stroll on the campus Frank found himself attracted to some boys who took him into their ranks as naturally as if he had come recommended to them by special testimonials. Of course Bob went where Frank went, and loyally followed his leader.

Frank soon found out that there were two cliques in the so-called "freshman" crowd. A boy named Dean Ritchie lead the coterie that had accepted Frank and Bob as new recruits. Frank liked him from the first. He was a keen-witted, sharp-tongued fellow, out for fun most of the time and never still for a minute.

At any time the appearance of a lad named Nat Banbury or any of his cohorts was a signal for repartee, challenges, sometimes a sortie. Advances were made by Banbury toward the enlistment of the two new recruits in his ranks, but Frank had already made his choice.

"Oh, come on, he isn't worth wasting breath on," spoke up a big, uncouth fellow named Porter, when Frank had politely announced to Banbury that Dean Ritchie was a friend of some old friends of his at Tipton. "Ta, ta, Bob-up!" rallied Porter maliciously to Frank's chum. "Keep close to brother!"

Bob flushed and his eyes sparkled. His fists clenched.

"Easy, Bob," warned Frank in an undertone.

"Say, Banbury Cross," observed Bob, "there was a fellow of your name chased out of our county for sheep stealing, and another kept the dog pound. You snarl just exactly like some of the curs he keeps there."

"Banbury, cranberry, bow, wow, wow!" derided Ritchie. "Good for you, Upton -- you hit the nail on the head that time."

"Upton -- Robert Upton!" bellowed the old janitor, Scroggins, appearing on the campus just then.

"That's me," acknowledged Bob.

"President Elliott wishes to see you in the library," said Scroggins.

"Aha!" snorted Banbury. "Called down already! Look out, Bob-up, you're in for a quake in the shoes."

"No; the president is going to consult him on how to raise squashes," sneered a crony of Banbury.

"Say, Frank," whispered Bob, quite in a quake, "I'm going to get it for something. What can it be?"

"Don't worry," replied Frank. "Face the music. I fancy you won't be hit very hard."

Bob went away with the old, worried look on his face. He came back radiant, and seemed to walk on air, and he never even heard the jeers of the Banbury crowd as he passed them. He made a beckoning motion to Frank, and the two strolled away together.

"Frank," said Bob, choking up, "I believe I'm some good in the world, after all."

"I told you so, didn't I?"

"I'm glad you made me come here," went on Bob. "Oh, so awfully glad! I declare --  -- " and there Bob broke down and turned his face away for a moment or two.

"Say, Frank," he continued, "so is the president glad I came, too. He told me so. What do you think? The two children in that runaway belong to his family."

"Well! well!" commented Frank.

"I almost sunk through the floor when the good old man, with tears in his eyes, thanked me for saving them, as he called it. He said he was proud of me, and that he predicted that the academy would be proud of me, too. I tell you, Frank, it stirred me up. Strike me blue, if I don't try to behave myself."

"Good for you, Bob!"

"Strike me scarlet red and sky blue, if I don't try to deserve his kind words."

Nothing seemed to ruffle Bob after that. He simply laughed at the snubs and jeers of the Banbury crowd. He seemed to lose his old-time unsociability, and went right in with the jolly crowd that composed the stanch following of Dean Ritchie.

It was just after the nine o'clock bell had rung that evening when Bob so mysteriously disclosed his suspicions of the initiation plots of the occupants of the adjoining room.

"They're all Banbury's crowd," he explained to Frank. "Get into bed and take in the fun. They're waiting for us to quiet down. Don't speak above a whisper. Just stay awake long enough to see the program out."

Bob turned out the light and both snuggled down on the pillows luxuriously after a strenuous day of sport and study.

"Act first," whispered Bob. "Soon as the Banbury crowd think we're fast asleep, you'll hear them come stealthily out into the corridor. They've fixed the transom over our door so it will swing open without a jar. One fellow will stand on a chair. The others will hand him up the nozzle of a hose running to the faucet in their room."

"And we'll be Knights of the Bath -- I see," observed Frank.

"Yes, without having to take any of the medicine. Hist -- they're coming."

Frank could readily guess what the enemy had in view -- the old school trick of dousing them in their sleep. He relied on the mysterious promises of his chum, and lay still and listened intently.

There was a vast whispering in the next room, a rustling about, and then more than one person could be heard just outside in the corridor.

A stool seemed to be placed near to the door. The slightest creaking in the world told that the transom had been pushed ajar.

"Hand up the hose," whispered a cautious voice.

"Here you are."

There was a fumbling sound at the transom. Then came the impatient words:

"It don't work."

"Turn on the screw."

"I have. The water can't be on."

"Yes, it is. I turned it."

"I tell you it won't work," was whispered from the stool. "Go back to the room and turn on the faucet, I tell you."

Hurried footsteps retreated from the door. Some one could be heard entering the next room. Then some one rushed out of it again.

"Say," spoke an excited voice, "we're flooded! The hose has burst, and we are deluged, and --  -- "

"Boys, a light -- the monitor's coming," interrupted a warning voice.

"Cut for it! Something's wrong! We're caught!"

There was heedless rush now from the next room. Frank could hear the hose dragged along the corridor. The door of the adjoining room was hurriedly closed.

"Off with your clothes -- hustle into bed," ordered some one in that apartment.

Shoes were kicked off, beds creaked, and then came odd cries.

"Wow!"

"Murder!"

Tap -- tap -- tap! came a knock at the door.

"What's going on here?" asked the sharp, stern voice of the dormitory watchman.

"Thunder!"

"Oh, my back!"

"I'm scratched to pieces!" So ran the cries, and half a dozen persons seemed to bound from beds to the floor.

Bob Upton was shaking with suppressed laughter, stuffing the end of the pillow into his mouth to keep from yelling outright.

"Bob," whispered Frank, "what have you been up to?"

"Drove a plug into their hose ten feet from the faucet, slit the rubber full of holes -- and filled the beds with cockle burrs," replied Bob, and, quaking with inward mirth, he rolled out on the floor.

"Gentlemen of Dormitory 4, report at the office in the morning with an explanation," droned the severe tones of the monitor out in the corridor.



Chapter XII

A Strange Happening


"Bob, this is worse than the Banbury crowd could devise," remarked Frank.

"Yes. The only thing is that in this case it's friends who are responsible for it. Ugh! I'm sunk to the knees in water."

"I'm in to the waist," said Frank. "They've gone -- the vandals! Off with the blindfolds. Well, this is a pretty fix!"

Two minutes previous a sepulchral voice had spoken the awful words:

"Slide them into the endless pit!"

Then, with a gay college song, the mob that had led Frank and Bob on a hazing trip, that had been positively hair-raising in its incidents, had seemed to retire from the spot. Their laughter and songs now faded far away in the distance.

"Well," uttered Bob, getting his eyes clear and his arms free, "we've had an experience."

"I should say so," echoed Frank. "That old ice chute they dropped us into must have been a hundred feet long."

"The hogshead they rolled us downhill in went double that distance," declared Bob.

"Well, let's get out of this," advised Frank.

That was more easily said than done. Comparative strangers as yet to the country surrounding Bellwood, even when they had got on solid ground out of the muck and mire of the boggy waste, they knew not which way to turn.

It was dark as Erebus and the wind was blowing a gale. Nowhere on the landscape could they discover a guiding light. They were in a scrubby little patch of woods, and they were confused even as to the points of the compass.

"I think this is the direction of the academy," said Frank, striking out on a venture.

"Yes; and we want to get there soon, too," replied Bob, "for we're going to have a great storm in a few minutes."

As Bob spoke the big drops began to splash down. As the lads emerged upon a flat field, the drops seemed to form into streams, and they breasted the tempest breathless, blown about, and drenched to the skin.

"We've got to get shelter somewhere," declared Bob. "Let's put back for the timber."

"I think I see some kind of a building ahead," observed Frank. "Yes, it's a hut or a barn. Hustle, now, and we'll find cover till the worst of this is over."

In a few minutes they came to an old cabin standing near some dead trees. It was small and square and had one door and one window. Bob banged at the door with a billet of wood he found, but could not budge it. The windows had stout bars crisscrossing it.

"Give it up," he said at last. "No one living here, and padlocked as if it was a bank. Hey, Frank, here's a chance."

In veering to the partial shelter of the lee side of the old structure, Bob had noticed a sashless aperture answering for a window in the low attic of the cabin. He got a hold with fingers and toes in the chinks between the logs, and steadily climbed up.

"Come on," he called. "It's high and dry under the roof," and his companion joined him, both half reclining across a loose board floor.

"Hear that," said Bob, as the rain seemed to strike the roof in bucket-like volume. "I hope the crowd who got us in this fix are ten miles from any shelter."

The rain kept on without the slightest cessation. In fact, it seemed to increase every minute in volume. Fully half an hour passed by. Neither lad thought of leaving shelter, and Bob had stretched himself out. The conversation languished. Then Frank, catching himself nodding, sat up and looked out of the window, noticing that his rugged, healthy comrade was breathing heavily in profound slumber.

"There's a light coming this way," spoke Frank to himself, as he peered from the window. "If it's a wagon, I'll hustle down and see if there's any chance of a lift in the direction of the school. Hello, it's two men! Hello again -- they're coming right here to this hut. There, I can hear them at the front door."

Frank was convinced a minute later that the newcomers lived in the cabin, or at least had secured the right to occupy the place. He could hear them at the padlock, and then their lantern illumined the room below. Gazing through a crack in the floor, Frank could make out all they did and was able to overhear their conversation.

They were two rough-looking, trampish fellows. Each threw a bundle on the floor. The room had some old boxes in it and a pile of hay in one corner. The men seated themselves on boxes and let the water drip from their soaked clothing.

"That was a pretty husky tramp," spoke one of them.

"I see the governor isn't here yet."

"No; so it's up to us to get as comfortable as we can."

They threw off their coats, and one of them undid a bundle. He took from it some bread, cheese, and a big black bottle, and the twain were soon enjoying themselves. When they had finished eating they lay down in the straw, smoking short, stubby pipes and chatting with one another.

"Now, then, look a-here, Jem," one of them remarked, "you wouldn't see me tramping around in this kind of weather if it wasn't that there was a chance to get something out of it."

"Don't I tell you what's at the end of it, Dan?" retorted the other. "Don't I say as how the governor pays the expenses right royal while we're here? And then don't you know as how he's agreed to turn over the other half of that card, when we helps him get his plans through about this young kid up at the academy?"

"Say, that was a funny thing about that card," observed the man called Dan.

"No, 'twasn't," dissented Jem. "We got our hands on a fine piece of goods. We had to hide it till there was no danger of its being looked for. The gov and me therefore goes to a friend and we puts it in his strong safe. He is told that we has a card torn up with writing on it, atween us. The arrangement is made that he doesn't let go the property till we both presents them there pieces of card together. So you see, the gov can't get the property and run off with it. No more can I. Now, then, the gov says I can have the property entire if we help him on his present business here."

"Say," spoke up the interested Dan, "is the property pretty fine?"

"I'd call it good for a thousand dollars."

"Where did you fellows get it, Jem?"

"At a town called Tipton."

"Ah!" aspirated the listening Frank in a great gasp.

"And what was it, Jem?"

"A bracelet -- a diamond bracelet," replied the man Jem.

Frank held his breath. He was greatly excited and startled. It seemed a strange thing to him that here, in a lonely loft hundreds of miles from home, by pure accident he should run across a clue to the person who had stolen Samuel Mace's diamond bracelet, the mysterious theft of which had so darkened our hero's young life.



Chapter XIII

Some Mystery


Frank gulped down his astonishment. Then he sat still without a rustle. He was afraid that Bob might snore, wake up talking, and had an idea to creep closer to his chum, wake him up softly, and warn him to remain perfectly quiet.

Before Frank could act, however, there came a sudden interruption to the conversation between the men below, Jem and Dan. There was a thundering knock at the door.

"It's the gov at last!" shouted Jem, jumping to his feet.

"No one else!" echoed Dan.

Jem opened the door and a man staggered in. His slouch hat, dripping wet, was pulled down over his face. He was completely enveloped in a great rain blanket. The hole in its center fitted about his neck and covered him nearly to the feet, even to his arms. These held something under the cloak, for its bulging surface showed that he was carrying something.

"Help me out of this," growled the newcomer. "Good I borrowed this blanket in a convenient barn, or everything would have been soaked."

"Borrowed!" guffawed Jem.

"Haw! haw!" roared Dan, as if it was a great joke. "There you are, mate."

If Frank had been surprised and startled at the secret concerning Samuel Mace's missing diamond bracelet, he was dumfounded at the face of the newcomer.

"Why," he breathed in wonderment, "it's the man I drove off from bothering that traveling scissors grinding boy at Tipton, Ned Foreman. Yes, this is the man the boy called Tim Brady, and -- whew!"

Frank's thoughts seemed to come as swift as lightning. He had marveled at the strange series of events that had given him a clue as to the persons who had stolen the diamond bracelet that had got him into so much trouble. Now that the tramp, Brady, had appeared on the scene, Frank saw how it all could have happened, for Brady was in Tipton the day the diamond bracelet was stolen.

The only thing that mystified Frank was why these people should be at Bellwood, so far away from Tipton. There was scarcely a chance in a thousand that they could have come accidentally.

When the two men had pulled the blanket from Brady, he disclosed two packages in his hand, one resembling a hat box. He placed them on the floor.

"Got the togs there?" inquired Jem.

"Yes," nodded Brady. "I'm famished; give me something to eat."

Frank did not stir. He felt that it was important that he should remain where he was. These men knew about Samuel Mace's missing bracelet. That was one point of interest. They were up to something now; that was another.

Frank listened to every word they said, but they did not just then again refer to the bracelet nor discuss their plans. They talked generally of how easy the farmers they had met gave away meals. They discussed various stores and houses that might be robbed readily. Frank realized that they were very bad men.

Finally, having finished his meal, Brady got up from the box he had been seated on. He went over to the bundles he had brought, undoing one of them. He took out a long black dress coat. This he tried on. It buttoned up to his neck closely, like some clerical garb.

He opened the other box and took out a silk hat. As he put this on his head he straightened up and drew his face down in mock seriousness.

"My friends," he sniffled, "you see in me a penitent and reformed man."

"Hold me!" yelled Jem, rolling around on the straw in a paroxysm of laughter.

"Will it do?" smirked Brady. "Ter-rewly, my friends, I seek only now to make amends for my wicked, misspent life -- a -- ah!"

"Wow! Oh, you actor! It's enough to make a cow laugh!"

"Will it work?"

"Work!" chuckled the man Jem. "Why, you'd win over the president of the college himself."

Bang!

"What was that?" demanded Brady sharply.

Frank was in dismay. In his sleep Bob Upton had groaned, then moved. Probably, in some nightmare, dreaming he was back among his old tyrant masters on the farm, he had kicked out his foot, landing heavily on the floor of the loft.

"Oh, I guess it was the wind rattling some loose timber about the old ruin of a place," observed Jem.

Frank crept cautiously to the side of his sleeping comrade.

Bob was muttering restlessly in his sleep, and Frank feared another outbreak. He placed his hand over Bob's mouth.

"Wake up -- quietly, now -- there is somebody below," he whispered.

"What's the row?" droned Bob.

"S -- st! Follow me. Get out of this. It's stopped raining."

Frank managed to get himself and his friend out of the place without disturbing the three men in the hut or apprising them of their presence. The rain had nearly stopped. Bob rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"Some tramps came into the cabin yonder after you went to sleep," explained Frank. "They are hard characters, and it is best to steer clear of them."

It took the two boys an hour to find their way to Bellwood School. Bob was tired out and sleepy, and Frank was by no means in a mood for chatting. He was absorbed in thinking out his strange discoveries of the night.

"I've got a clue to that diamond bracelet of Mace's," he reflected. "Mace don't deserve any favors from me after the outrageous way he's acted, but if I can do anything toward getting it back for him, all right. I wonder, though, what it means -- that man, Brady, being here, and what trick he is up to with the high hat and the dress coat? His friend spoke of the president of the college and some 'kid.' Are they up to some thieving trick? If so, I want to be alert to balk them."

When the two boys reached the academy, they had some difficulty in locating a loose window, and they had to use caution in getting to their room. The bed felt so good after the rough experiences of the night that Frank soon joined his snoring companion in the land of dreams, leaving action as to the crowd at the cabin for the morrow.

They met their friendly persecutors of the evening before good-naturedly at breakfast. It was easy for Frank to see that Ritchie and his associates were ready to accept them as gritty comrades who could take a joke as a matter of course.

"You've paid your initiation fee in pluck and endurance, Jordan," said Mark Prescott, the able lieutenant of Dean Ritchie in his rounds of mischief. "You and Upton can consider yourselves full-fledged members of the Twilight Club."

"Good!" laughed Frank as he started for the campus. Before he was out of the building, however, Frank got thinking of his adventures of the evening before. And instead of immediately joining his fellows he strolled around to the side of the academy.

There was a walk, not much used by the students, leading past the kitchen and laundry quarters of the school. As Frank got nearly to the end of this a baseball whizzed by him and he saw Banbury and a crony named Durkin making for it.

Just at that moment, too, Frank noticed a boy wearing a long apron sitting on a stone step just outside the kitchen door.

He was peeling potatoes, and he was peeling them right, fully engrossed in his labors, as though it were some artistic and agreeable occupation.

"Well! well! well!" irresistibly ejaculated Frank. "If it isn't Ned Foreman!"



Chapter XIV

The Row On The Campus


"Shake!" cried Frank, rushing forward and extending a warm hand.

The boy peeling potatoes looked up in some surprise. For a minute he was puzzled. Then his face broke into a genial smile.

"It's the fellow I met at Tipton --  -- " he began.

"That's who -- Frank Jordan."

"Who saved me from getting robbed."

"Put it that way, if you like," answered Frank. "How did you ever come here?"

"Walked, coaxed freight hands, and got some passenger lifts," explained Ned. "You know I told you I was going out of the scissors grinding and into school?"

"I know you did."

"Well, I've landed. I've saved up twenty dollars. That don't go far in tuition, so I'm working my way through school."

"Good for you," cheered Frank. "You're the kind that makes a mark in the world. Say, come up to my room. I want to have a real chummy chat with you."

"I couldn't do that just now," demurred Ned. "You see, I help in the kitchen here from six to eight in the morning, eleven to one at noon and five to seven in the evening."

"I haven't seen you in any of the classes."

"No; one of the professors is coaching me. You see, I need training to get into even the lowest class. As I said, I can't leave my work here now, but I may meet you occasionally after dark."

"Come at four this afternoon."

"Think I'd better?" inquired Ned dubiously.

"Why not?"

"Well, to be candid," answered Ned manfully, "my clothes aren't very good, as you see, and some of the fellows here have pretty well snubbed me, and maybe it would be wiser for me to keep my place."

"Your place?" fired up Frank. "Except among the stuck-up cads, your place is to be welcome to all the privileges of any well-behaved student, and I'll see to it that you get them, too."

"Hi, Jordan; on the domestic list?" broke in Banbury just then. He had regained the baseball and with his companion stood staring at Frank and Ned.

"Hum! I should say so," sniggered Durkin with a chuckle. "Pah! How it smells of onions and dishwater!"

"Take your friend and introduce him to Ritchie," sneered Banbury. "He needs a new catcher for his measly team that we're going to wallop to-morrow."

"Say," spoke Frank steadily, though with a flashing eye, "I'll bet you that my friend here -- understand, my friend, Ned Foreman -- would prove as good a catcher as he has to my knowledge run a business where he was trusted and did his duty well. I'll make another bet -- you'll be the second-rate scholar you are now two years further on, when my friend is the boss of some surveying camp, where the smartest fellow is the one who has learned the cooking and science both -- not a smattering -- but from the ground up."

"Yah!" yawped Banbury, but he saw something in Frank's eye that warned him to sheer off promptly.

"You'll run up against a few cads like that fellow," explained Frank to Ned. "Use 'em up in one chapter, and stick to the real friends I'll introduce you to."

"Jordan, you're a true-blue brick," declared Ned heartily, "but I know from experience how these things go --  -- "

"There's the rally whistle for our crowd, so I've got to go," interrupted Frank; "but four o'clock at my room. You come, or I'll come and fetch you."

Frank bolted off for the campus. As he neared his group of friends he observed the Banbury crowd, just rejoined by their leader and Durkin. Banbury was pointing at Frank and saying something, derisively hailed by his companions. Then Frank saw his stanch champion, Bob Upton, spring forward with clenched fists. Frank hurried his steps, guessing out the situation, and anxious to rescue his impetuous friend from an outbreak.

"Hi, chef!" howled out Durkin, as Frank approached, and Frank knew that the mean-spirited cads had been spreading the story of his meeting with Ned Foreman.

"What have you got to say about it, huh? Who are you?" Frank heard Bob cry out angrily, as he came nearer to the crowd.

Frank could not repress a start as he observed the boy whom Bob was facing. He was a newcomer -- he was Gill Mace. It appeared that the nephew of the Tipton jeweler had been sent to the same school as Frank.

Gill Mace looked as mean as ever. There was a sneer on his face. He was loudly dressed, or rather overdressed. His uncle had probably provided him with plenty of spending money, for he was jingling some coins in his pocket. His money and his natural cheek had evidently made him "solid" with Banbury and the others, for they seemed to be upholding his braggart insolence.

"Don't get hot, sonny," advised Gill. "I said that Jordan needed to make friends, for he never had any where he came from," and then, staring meanly at Frank, he whispered something to Banbury.

"Hello!" broke out the latter. "That so? Jordan, how's the diamond market this morning?"

Frank started as if he had been struck by a whiplash. A bright red spot showed on either cheek. His eyes flashed, his finger nails dug into the palms of his hands.

He advanced straight up to where Gill Mace stood, brushing aside heedlessly all who were in his way. The jeweler's nephew tried to hide behind his cohorts in a craven way, but Frank fixed him with his eye.

"Gill Mace," he spoke in a firm, stern tone, "you have been telling that bully friend of yours some more of the falsehoods you peddled out at Tipton."

"I told him how you stood in that old burg," admitted Gill.

"What do you mean?"

"I said that you robbed my uncle's jewelry shop."

"Then you uttered a low, malicious falsehood," retorted Frank. "Fellows," he cried, turning to his adherents, "I ducked this sneak in a mud puddle for lying about me once. I want to now make the announcement in public that if within twenty-four hours he does not retract his words I shall whip him till he can't stand, leave the academy, and never come back till I have the proofs to vindicate myself, which I can do."

Mace turned white about the corners of his mouth.

"Everybody in Tipton knows that Frank Jordan stole a diamond bracelet from my uncle," he stammered.

"It's false!" shouted out Bob Upton, squarely springing before Gill, who retreated in dismay, "and you are more than a thief, for you're trying to rob an honest boy of his good name. Take that!"

And Bob Upton knocked Gill Mace down -- flat.



Chapter XV

Dark Hours


Gill Mace went down with a shock of surprise and a yell of fright. He blubbered as his teeth went together like a pair of castanets.

Banbury stepped forward in his usual braggart way. Bob did not wait for him to advance. He flew right up to him.

"You want some?" he shouted. "Come on, the whole bunch of you, one at a time."

Just then, however, Dean Ritchie uttered a familiar warning, and there was a general movement of commotion and dispersement among the group.

"Scatter, fellows," was what Ritchie said.

The Banbury contingent proceeded to sneak away. Some of Ritchie's crowd surrounded Bob Upton and cleverly tried to manipulate him out of view.

Frank, turning, learned the motive for the maneuvers. Professor Elliott stood not thirty feet away, his eyes fixed upon them. The seriousness of his countenance told that he had witnessed the fight.

Bob brushed aside his friendly helpers. He walked straight up to Professor Elliott, took off his cap respectfully and stood with his head bowed. Then some words seemed to pass between them, and Mr. Elliott turned toward the academy, Bob following him.

Frank was a good deal stirred up by the exciting events of the hour. He did not feel much desire for companionship, and less for sport. He left his friends and went up to his room.

He sat down on the bed somewhat gloomy and worried. Frank knew that the malicious story told by Gill Mace would spread through the school like wildfire.

Frank valued his fair name and the good opinion of the new friends he had made. To be dubbed a thief meant harm, and there were some who would believe the story. He recalled the impression such an accusation had made on several people at his home town, and he grew quite downcast thinking it all over.

"I won't mope," he cried resolutely, stirring about the room. "I am innocent, so who can hurt me? I won't think of it."

Frank tried to whistle a careless air, but his efforts were somewhat feeble. Then he went over to his trunk and looked over its contents. He got to thinking of Ned Foreman, and took out a suit of clothes, some neckties and a couple of shirts from the trunk, and had just placed them on a chair when Bob entered the apartment.

"Well, what's the latest?" inquired Frank with a sharp quiz of his impulsive friend's face.

"I'm all broken up, that's the latest," declared Bob, throwing himself into a chair, his face a puzzling mixture of soberness and satisfaction. "Say, Frank, I want to say one thing with all my heart -- President Elliott is a bang-up good old man. I've been ashamed, near crying, sorry, glad, mad, and just about all knocked out in the last five minutes. Oh, that measly Banbury mob! And oh, that miserable Gill Mace!"

"What's happened, Bob?"

"Why, I went to the library with the president, and told him manfully that the Mace fellow had insulted the best friend I had, you, and that I couldn't stand for it and just had to land him one."

"And the president?"

"He looked grave. Then he turned his head away. Then he sort of looked at me as if he'd been a -- a corker himself in the old boy days. He gave me a mild lecture on controlling my temper. I told him he'd better have me tied up or put Mace somewhere so I couldn't find him, or I was afraid I'd break loose again."

"That was pretty strong, wasn't it, Bob?"

"I spoke my mind, and he knew it. Then he carried me right off my feet, and I'd die for that bully old man any time. He just placed that gentle old hand of his on my head and looked at me with his kind old eyes and said: 'Upton, we're going to be proud of you some day. I feel sure of that. My little ones remember how bravely you risked your life to save them the other day, and pray for you every night. Don't disappoint us, my boy. Young Jordan is a good fellow, and I am sure he wouldn't encourage you to violate our school discipline. Just simply forget the fellows who stir you up. After a good many years' experience, I may say to you that in the long run the bad ones sift out and the good ones come to the top. Make us proud of you, Upton, and become proud of yourself by controlling your temper and acting the gentleman.'"

"That was fine, and it's true," said Frank heartily. "Yes, Bob, we've got to forget those fellows. You are a true-blue champion, but you've shown your colors, so let it go at that."

"What, and have any of those fellows call you a thief?"

"Some day I shall prove my innocence," declared Frank firmly.

"You don't have to prove it -- with your friends," flared up Bob. And just then the chapel bell called them to the duties of the hour.

Frank did not pass a very happy day. He mingled of necessity with the Banbury groups during the studies, but only for an occasional glowering look from Gill Mace's discolored eye and some suppressed sneers from Banbury, Durkin and others of their crowd, there was no allusion made to the cause of the fight.

However, there were mysterious whisperings going on at times. Some boys with whom Frank was not well acquainted shied off from him at noon time, and Frank knew that the poison of Mace's insinuations was working among the general school group.

Frank was in his room at four o'clock, and promptly at the hour Ned Foreman put in an appearance. Frank set aside his troubles and greeted him in a friendly manner. He locked the door and gave his visitor a comfortable chair.

"Tell me about yourself, Ned," he said. "How you got here from Tipton, and about your plans, and all that."

It was not much of a story, but its details showed again the homeless lad was set and sensible in his resolve to gain an education.

"I like you, Ned," said Frank, "and you know it, and I wouldn't be acting as a true friend if I didn't say just what was in my mind, would I, now?"

"You'll never say a thing to hurt a fellow's feelings, I'll risk that," returned Ned with a smile of confidence.

"I hope not. I've been thinking about you, and I'm interested in you. Say, is that your best suit of clothes you're wearing?"

"Best and only," acknowledged Ned bluntly. "Why?"

"Well, I've got a suit that will just about fit you, and I want you to sort of tog up when you have time to come out and join our crowd. Not that I would ever be ashamed of you no matter what you wore, but we all have a little pride."

"I'm not going to let you rob yourself to do a kindness for me," declared Ned.

"Rob myself?" repeated Frank with a laugh. "Say, let me tell you something, and you'll see how you are helping me out. I've been living with an aunt at Tipton who is a caution in some ways. She ordered a suit for me about six months ago. Well, she's a great bargain hunter, and then, too, there was some of the same cloth left, and taking two suits she could get a reduction. Here's the one I was measured for first."

Frank opened the wardrobe and showed a light checked suit he did not often wear.

"The other suit," he continued, "is this one," and he indicated the clothes he had taken from his trunk that morning. "The tailor didn't have enough cloth, and the suit is too short for me. My aunt packed it in my trunk, thinking I could wear it out knocking around Saturdays, but it won't do at all. It is nearly new, and you are a little smaller than I am, and I believe it will fit you. There are a few spare neckties and such that go with it, and there you are."

"Mine, eh?" said Ned with a smile, getting up and looking over the clothes. "It will make me dreadfully proud and dressy, Frank. I never had such an outfit before."

"You don't know the relief I have in getting rid of it," said Frank, smiling. "It's settled, then -- you'll lug it away with you."

"I'll carry it away as the finest present I could possibly get," responded Ned warmly. "You don't know how I appreciate it."

There was no false pride or affectation about Ned Foreman, and Frank liked him better than ever for his manly actions. He did up the bundle for Ned. Then they had a general talk. An hour drifted by before they knew it.

"Saturday, remember," said Frank as they parted. "I want you to get in on some of the games and know all the good fellows who train with Dean Ritchie."

Frank sat alone at the window after Ned left him, reflecting very seriously.

"I couldn't tell him," he murmured; "at least, not yet. How do I know that I am right? Maybe I'm guessing it all out. Oh, dear, how I miss my father to go to with all my troubles and perplexities. I'd have a talk with President Elliott, only I don't want to bother him and make a lot of talk about things that may naturally right themselves in time. Hello, there's Bob."

Frank got up to greet his friend, who swung down the corridor and into the room, whistling.

"The very fellow!" exclaimed Frank. "I say, Bob, I want to ask your advice."



Chapter XVI

The Foot Race


"You want my advice?" asked Bob in some surprise.

"Just that, Bob," responded Frank Jordan.

"Huh -- no one ever asked that before. I'm afraid I'm not much in that line, but I'll do the best I can."

"All right. Sit down while I tell you a little story," directed Frank.

Bob had come into the room red and perspiring, as though he had just been indulging in some very violent exercise. He soon settled down to steadiness from sheer interest as Frank proceeded to talk.

Frank began at the beginning of quite a lengthy narrative. He recited the episode of the diamond bracelet. He described his first meeting with Ned Foreman. Then he brought his recital down to what he had seen and heard in the lonely hut the night of the hazing and while Bob had been fast asleep.

"You're some story-teller, and that all sounds like a story-book romance," commented Bob, when Frank paused in his narrative.

"I only hope it will end in the good story-book way," observed Frank. "This is all secret between you and me."

"Surely," assented Bob.

"I had to tell it to somebody, for it was worrying me dreadfully," confessed Frank. "You see, I'm in a dilemma."

"I do see that, Frank," nodded Bob seriously.

"I can't see it any other way, but this tramp and his friends, Jem and Dan, among them stole that diamond bracelet."

"I think so, too," said Bob. "Anyhow, judging from their talk you overheard they know where it is now."

"What had I better do? I am awful anxious to prove my innocence to the world."

"Why, I shouldn't hesitate a minute to have those three fellows arrested," exclaimed Bob.

"That wouldn't help the case any."

"Why wouldn't it?"

"They evidently haven't got the stolen bracelet with them."

"That's so, Frank."

"And I haven't the least proof in the world that they are the thieves. No, I must get about it in a different way."

"But how?"

"You see, this man Brady knows me by sight. He doesn't know you. Do you think you could locate the old cabin, Bob?"

"I don't think I could go direct to it," answered Bob, "but I am pretty sure that by hunting for it and making some inquiries I could find it."

"All right; try it, Bob. If you succeed, sort of spy around and you may pick up something that will give us an idea of what those men are about. You see, the fact of Brady being here makes me anxious on another score."

"What is that?"

"They mentioned the academy here. I am afraid that Brady has some plan concerning Ned Foreman."

"Say, Frank, it looks that way," declared Bob thoughtfully. "Why don't you tell Ned about it?"

"I don't want to worry him until I find out something more."

"I'll get on the track of that old cabin and those men first chance I have," promised Bob. "Say, Frank, I was coming to tell you I've just done a big thing, Dean Ritchie says."

"What is it, Bob?"

"You know we are going to have a baseball game and some other matches to-morrow."

"Yes, I know," nodded Frank.

"Well, there's a foot race scheduled. The crack runner of our crowd, Purtelle, is out of trim, and they were looking for a substitute. I don't want to brag, but about the one thing in the athletic line I can do well is running."

"Then you must try to fill the bill."

"I'm going to. Ritchie asked me to give them a test. It's a long-distance spurt -- twice around the track over in the meadow where they train their horses on the stock farm. I made the sample run just now. I don't know but what the crowd were guying me, but they seemed to go wild over it."

"Oh, I guess they're in earnest, Bob."

"I hope so, for that big bully, Banbury, is to be my opponent, and I'd do anything to take the conceit out of him and his crowd. Ritchie timed me, and said I had discounted the best record ever made by an academy runner."

"That's grand," said Frank.

"They took me to the gymnasium and gave me this pair of shoes for the ones I had on. They're going to grease up and soften my own shoes to make the running easier, they say. I hope I don't disappoint them."

"You won't, I am sure," said Frank encouragingly.

The next day was Saturday. The weather was ideal, and the boys anticipated a great deal of pleasure for the holiday.

Frank was pleased when his friend, Ned Foreman, showed up about ten o'clock. Ned looked neat and handsome in the light checked suit Frank had given him. He was modest and natural, and Ritchie and his crowd treated him nicely.

There was the first ball game of the series after lunch. Then the whole school adjourned to the training track for the foot race.

Banbury, Mace and their chums were in great evidence. The ball game had come out a tie, and even this barren honor swelled them up considerably. Banbury was gotten up in a flashy sporting suit, as though he was in for the championship of the world, and Mace was also overdressed. Bob wore his every-day clothes. He looked eager and hopeful as Frank helped him put on his running shoes.

The evening previous Bob's remarkable test run had been noised around the school, and Frank somewhat wondered at the vaunting spirit shown by the Banbury crowd.

The start of the race was made in good order. The opponents were off on the second, and they looked in splendid trim as they kept evenly abreast up to the first quarter post. There Bob forged ahead slightly, and there was a cheer from his excited friends. Then he lagged, and Banbury got the lead, and his cohorts gave out ringing huzzahs.

"What's wrong?" uttered Ned breathlessly, as Banbury, with a jump and kicking up his heels derisively at the Ritchie group, shot by the starting post on the second spurt with Bob fully ten yards to the rear.

"Bob is lamed," said Frank in consternation. "See, he's limping."

"Go it, Bob!" yelled the voices of a dozen loyal friends.

Bob looked haggard and unfit. One foot dragged, and he acted like a person in acute pain. At the encouraging word, however, he braced up, made a prodigious spurt, but at the end of fifty yards hobbled and fell flat.

A cry of dismay went up from the Ritchie crowd, while Banbury's adherents made the air echo with delirious shouts of triumph.

Suddenly, however, Bob was on his feet again and off down the course like an arrow.

"He's thrown off his shoes. What's up, I wonder?" spoke Ritchie.

"He's gaining!"

"He's up to him!"

"Past him -- huzzah!"

The spectators held their breath. Never had the boys of Bellwood School witnessed so sensational a foot race.

Bob Upton flew like the wind. He was five -- ten -- twenty yards in the lead of his laboring antagonist.

His face was colorless as he crossed the starting line. A flash of triumph was in his eyes, but Frank saw that he was reeling. Our hero sprang forward just in time to catch the falling champion in his outstretched arms -- the winner of the race.



Chapter XVII

The Tramp Again


"He's in a dead faint -- give him air," ordered Dean Ritchie.

"Get a dipper of water," said Frank quickly, letting Bob slip gently to the grass.

There was a pump just beyond the enclosure. Ned ran to it, and soon Frank was sponging Bob's face with cool water.

"Who did it -- and why?" spoke Bob suddenly and opening his eyes and sitting up.

He drew up one foot with a wry face. As he did so Dean Ritchie gave a start and a stare.

"Why," he cried, "your stocking is dripping with blood."

"The sole of my foot feels like a raw beef-steak," said Bob.

One of the boys had gone after the shoes that Bob had thrown off a distance from the course.

"Ritchie," he said gravely, "feel there."

His leader took the shoe, ran his hand into it, and looked into it.

"Oh, shame! shame!" he exclaimed with a wrathy face. "Whoever did this deserves to be tarred and feathered."

"What is it?" inquired Frank.

"An old trick among touts and welchers. Just feel, Jordan -- some one got into the gym last night and doctored these shoes."

"Doctored the shoes?" repeated Frank vaguely.

"Yes, they set in a light cushion sole, with a half dozen blade-pointed brads under it that would break through after a little use. It's a wonder that Upton's foot isn't ripped to pieces."

"It feels pretty near as if it was," said Bob, wincing. "Frank, I guess I'm crippled for a few days. You'll have to help me get to our room."

There were dark frowns of indignation and suspicion among the group. The Banbury crowd were making off with glum faces and uneasy haste.

"Stop!" sharply shouted Ritchie after them. "I accuse nobody, but I want to say right here and now, and I want everybody to hear me, that I'm going to ferret out the low sneak who put those brads in Bob Upton's shoes. When I do, he leaves this school or I do, and one of us will have reason to remember the drubbing of his life."

"They're a fine set, aren't they?" spoke Purtelle. "Fellows, I think this circumstance should be reported to the faculty."

"No," dissented Bob Upton decidedly. "The rascals will reach the end of their tether some time, and we can't prove who worked this mean trick."

They got Bob to his room. Ned did not go there with the crowd, but he appeared a little later with a box of salve and some strips of cloth. He fixed up Bob's injured foot so skilfully that Ritchie complimented him as an expert surgeon.

Frank stayed with his friend, reading to him for a time. All the others had gone away. Finally Bob fell asleep, and Frank strolled out on the grounds. As he again entered the building bound for his room, he ran directly against Ned as he turned down a corridor near the reception-room.

"Why, Ned," he exclaimed, "what are you doing here?"

Ned Foreman was almost crouching in a dark corner. He was trembling, and his lips were white, and there was a marked terror in his eyes. Frank was profoundly startled, almost shocked at the strange appearance of his friend.

"That man is in there!" gasped Ned.

"In where?"

"The reception-room."

"What man do you mean?"

"Tim Brady."

"Oh!" uttered Frank, and a whole lot of light seemed to flood his mind in an instant. "How do you know that?"

"President Elliott send word to me that a visitor wished to see me in the reception-room. I just came down and looked in. That terrible man who calls me his relative is in there talking to the president."

"What is he after?" asked Frank.

"Can't you see?" spoke Ned in a tone of great agitation and excitement. "He has followed me clear here. He is going to drive me away from here, just as he has driven me away from other places. I can't meet him -- the cold chills run all over me whenever my eyes light on him," and Ned shuddered.

"See here, Ned Foreman," said Frank, "you go right into that room. Brace straight up to that miserable wretch, and defy him. Don't be a bit scared at anything he may say to you. I'll do the rest."

"How -- how can you?" stammered the terrified boy.

"Leave that to me. I know a lot I'll tell you afterward. Go ahead, now, and don't you show one particle of fear. Leave the door ajar a little, just as it is. I'm no eavesdropper, but on the present occasion I'm mightily interested in seeing and hearing all that's going on."

There was something unaccountable about Ned Foreman's dread of his professed relative. He passed into the reception-room, but he was trembling all over and his face was pale and frightened.

President Elliott sat near a table, and the tramp whom Frank knew as Tim Brady was standing up in front of him.

He did not look much like the fellow Frank had rescued Ned from at Tipton.

In his hand he carried a high silk hat. He was clean shaven, and his hair was combed and plastered down over his bullet head. His clerical-looking frock coat was buttoned up to the chin. His face was drawn in a hypocritical expression of great concern.

"Ah, my boy! my boy!" he exclaimed, jumping about and rushing at Ned, extending both hands as if about to greet some beloved friend.

Ned Foreman shrank from his obnoxious relative in horror.



Chapter XVIII

A Doleful "Uncle"


Frank, peering in at the doorway of the school reception-room, saw that President Elliott looked both grave and concerned. Judging from the expression of his face, Frank decided that the academy head was not very favorably impressed with either the words or the appearance of the visitor.

"You see, kind sir," said the repulsed Brady, turning to him and snuffling as if at the point of tears, "my own kin disowns me. Oh, sir, it is hard, hard, to have it happen so!"

Ned did not say a word. He simply kept at a safe distance.

"If I may ask," spoke Mr. Elliott, "what do you expect of this boy?"

"Forgiveness," whined the tramp. "Yes, sir, that is the word. I have wronged him cruelly. I admit it, to my shame. I was a worthless, shiftless man, and I abused him and drove him from my heart. Now I have reformed, and I seek to make atonement. He is my last living relative. To whom shall I go for sympathy, to whom shall I cling but my dead wife's brother?"

"Stepbrother," corrected Ned almost sharply. "You are no relative of mine."

"Boy, don't taunt me, don't make my sufferings more than they are," and Brady heaved a prodigious sigh. "I have given up drinking. It's this way: An old-time friend of mine, who has made eighteen million dollars in a diamond mine in Canada --  -- "

"How's that? How's that?" challenged the learned old professor keenly. "According to the last authoritative geological data available, Canada --  -- "

"I mean Brazil; yes, that's it, Brazil -- anyhow, somewhere over in Africa."

"H'm!" sniffed the old professor suspiciously.

"He found me in rags. I told him my story. He offered to set me on my feet again if I would sign the pledge. I signed it. Then he bought me a home, and put enough money in the bank to start me in some nice little business, and some other money. I got thinking of this poor, homeless lad. It almost broke my heart. I have spent several hundred dollars having detectives trace him down."

"Jem and Dan," Frank told himself, and almost laughed outright.

"At last I find him," proceeded Brady. "I wish to provide for him; I wish to educate and make a man of him."

"Very well," nodded Mr. Elliott. "He is here at a good school. Let him remain. I shall be pleased to have him now on a basis where he can study and learn all of his time, instead of having to work his way, for he is a bright, promising scholar."

"Exactly, exactly," assented Brady eagerly; "only, you see, sir, I want to prove that I mean well by him."

"Prove it, then, by paying his tuition for a year, and leave him in competent hands," suggested the practical, sensible educator.

"Willingly," declared Brady. "I'll pay five years in advance if you say so, only I'd like to have him come with me for a week or so."

"Why?"

"To get used to me. To see that I'm in earnest I want his advice about my new house, about my business. I want to get him a fine outfit. He can have the best, sir, I assure you. I will get him a watch. I understand these college fellows like pets. I'll buy him a pug dog."

"Not for Bellwood School you won't," observed Mr. Elliott bluntly.

"No, sir, that's so," assented Brady. "I'll buy him a horse and a boat, then, anything he wants, only let him come with me. We are all of us weak, sir. I may be tempted, I may fall. Let him sort of brace me up for a couple of weeks. Then he will return, realizing that his poor old relative is genuine, and I'll be proud all the time thinking I've won his respect."

Professor Elliott fixed his eyes on the speaker as if he would pierce him through and through. Then he regarded Brady thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.

"Foreman, do you wish to go with this man?" he asked.

"No, sir, never!" cried Ned fervently. "Professor Elliott, please, please don't let him take me away!"

"Do I understand," inquired the professor of Brady, "that you pretend to be the legal guardian of this boy?"

"Oh, no, sir; no, indeed," Brady hastened to say. "I'm only his poor old -- "

"Then, if you are not his legal guardian," remarked Mr. Elliott decidedly, "the boy remains here, if he so elects. That ends the matter, I think."

Brady made a great ado. He tried to look pathetic and mournful.

"My boy," he sniffled, "won't you grant the dying request -- I mean the ardent request of your poor, homeless old relative?"

"I thought your eighteen million dollar friend had given you a home," intimated Ned.

"True, but what is a home without a -- a relative?"

"I won't go with you, and that ends it," said Ned firmly.

"I will go, then, sir," said Brady to the professor with affected sadness, "but I shall return to make another appeal to you."

"This incident is closed, sir, and my time is valuable," observed the school president with some asperity, arising to his feet and waving Brady out of the room.

The latter directed a venomous look at Ned. Frank noted this, and shuddered as Ned himself had done. It was an evil face, unmasked now, that of the tramp, and Frank realized that his young friend would do well to keep out of the power of this hypocrite and knave.

Frank dodged aside as the man came out into the corridor. Then he followed him at a distance. He waited till Brady had reached the road in front of the academy. Then he stepped more briskly, caught up with him and touched him on the arm.

"One moment," said Frank.

"Eh -- ah -- what is it?" stammered Brady, halting and staring suspiciously at our hero.

"Do you remember me?" inquired Frank, looking him squarely in the eye.

"I don't," replied Brady.

"You're sure of that?"

"I never saw you before."

"Think again," spoke Frank. "I'll recall a little incident at Tipton, where I came very near getting you into the hands of the town marshal."

With a frightened scowl Brady glared at Frank, the light of recognition now in his eyes.

"I see you recall the incident," proceeded Frank steadily. "You are a scamp, and you are up to some game about my friend, Ned Foreman. Now I've something to say to you. If you hang around this place one single minute, if you ever dare to come to this academy again, I'll have you in jail inside of an hour."

"You impudent puppy!" shouted Brady, lifting his hand as if to strike Frank. "You'll do what?"

"I'll have you arrested."

"What for?"

"For stealing a diamond bracelet from Mr. Samuel Mace of Tipton," was Frank's reply.



Chapter XIX

A Clear Case


The shot had told -- Frank saw this at once.

Brady gasped for breath and turned white as a sheet.

"W -- what diamond bracelet?" stammered the man.

"I guess you know," said Frank. "I guess, too, that the best and safest thing for you to do is to get that bracelet back to the man you stole it from before he sends an officer after you."

Brady simply stared at Frank. He was all taken aback. Frank saw that he was dumfounded and scared. He followed up his advantage.

"You can't play any of your 'reformed man' tricks here, I can tell you," he continued. "You practiced your game pretty well in that plug hat and swallow-tail coat up at the cabin."

"The cabin?" repeated Brady, as though he was shocked.

"Yes; the cabin with those precious 'detectives' you told the professor about, Jem and Dan."

"Say -- look here -- I don't see --  --  How do you know?"

"Never mind; you see I do," interrupted Frank. "Now, then, you follow my advice. You get those two pieces of card together, and get that bracelet from the man who has it in safekeeping for you."

Brady's eyes goggled. The amount of information Frank had about him, its tremendous importance, staggered the man. He almost reeled where he stood.

"Send it at once to Samuel Mace at Tipton," went on Frank, "if you don't want to be hunted down across the world if necessary. Then get as far as you can from here. If you don't you're lost. Yes, sir," declared Frank impressively, "a lost man."

"Thunder!" ejected the tramp in an overwhelmed sort of a way.

"You'd ought to be ashamed, hunting down an honest boy like Ned Foreman, who is trying to make a man of himself," continued Frank indignantly. "You've nigh ruined his chances already. You want to leave him alone. Mean and low as you are, he is ashamed to tell the professor about it, but I'll tell him, you bet. Now, then, you get away from here, double-quick."

The tramp started up as if he had been struck by a whip.

"And stay away," added our hero.

"I'm an abused man," sniffled Brady, trying the pathetic tack again. "You're talking Greek to me about diamonds, and that such. Suppose I was a bad one once, ain't I a reformed man now?"

"No, nor never will be, until you tell what dodge you're up to in getting Ned into your clutches again."

"Boy, you mistake a poor old reformed man," said Brady, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his screwed-up eyes. As he did this a lose pack of playing cards came out with the handkerchief and scattered all around the ground, much on his confusion and assumed surprise.

"That looks like a reformed man, doesn't it?" said Frank. "You're a real, right bad one, you are. Now you get away from here."

Brady went. He gave Frank an awful look of hatred and menace, but he hurried his steps.

Frank stood watching him until the fellow was clear out of sight. Then, very thoughtfully, he walked back to the school.

"Maybe I said too much; maybe I spoiled my own case," he reflected, "but I was thinking of Ned's interests."

Frank had an idea in his mind that he would go to Professor Elliott, tell him the whole story from beginning to end, and see if something could not be done, here at Bellwood, to have the officers of the law try and find the stolen diamond bracelet.

When Frank got to his room Bob Upton was awake, and, pale and worried-looking, Ned Foreman sat conversing with him, and both occupied Frank's thoughts for the next hour.

Frank had a reassuring talk with Ned. He told him that he need not worry about Brady any further, that he had pretty effectually scared the rascal away.

"All he can do is to try and kidnap you," explained Frank. "So you keep pretty close to the academy for the next few days. Then I'll know if he is hanging around here anywhere."

The next day Professor Elliott went away from Bellwood to visit a friend, and Frank had no chance to talk with him about Ned, as he had planned.

Late that afternoon Frank strolled alone from the school grounds. He had no definite purpose in view when he started. A little distance progressed, however, he thought of the old hut, and made up his mind to see if he could locate it.

For the first time since becoming a student at Bellwood Frank wore the light checked suit of clothes, the counterpart of which he had given to Ned.

Our hero had a pretty good idea as to the direction of the old cabin. He must have gone a mile, when, as he was passing through a dense patch of shrubbery, Frank became aware that some persons were following him.

Two men were skulking in his rear, advancing as he advanced, but keeping well under the shadow and shelter of the bushes.

"It's those two men -- Jem and Dan," said Frank to himself.



Chapter XX

Frank A Prisoner


Our hero quickened his steps a little. Then he made up his mind what he would do. He fancied he knew what the presence of the men, Jem and Dan, meant. He smiled to himself as he strolled along, carelessly now.

Sidelong glances enabled him to make out the movements of his trailers without awakening their suspicions. He could observe that they had branched off from one another, aiming at a clear space, where they planned to head him off.

This is just what they did do. Frank anticipated their action as they suddenly moved toward him. He was as cool as a cucumber, and halting hailed them with a nod and a familiar:

"Hello!"

"Hello, yourself, youngster," returned Jem, looking Frank over keenly, while his comrade stood as if ready to pounce upon the lonely boy in the woods at a given signal. "One of the school fellows, aren't you?"

Frank nodded.

"Thought so. Let's see, your name is --  -- "

"Oh, call me Brown for short," retorted Frank with a laugh.

"You can't fool me," declared Jem, coming nearer.

"What do you want to know my name for?" demanded Frank.

"I'm sort of curious, that's all. Say, you give us the initial, and I'll bet we can guess at the rest of it."

"Think so? All right, what do you say to N, now?"

"I'd say Ned, right off the handle," piped in Dan.

"All right," laughed Frank. "Then you might take F for the last name."

"Foreman -- Ned Foreman!" shouted Dan excitedly. "It's him, Jem. The light suit of clothes that Brady told us about --  -- "

"Shut up -- the bag!"

Quick as lightning Dan drew something from his breast and sprang forward. It was to slip a canvas bag over Frank's head. Then each of the men pinioned an arm, and Frank was a prisoner.

This was just as Frank had calculated it would be done, and he was not in the least worried. He figured it out that these men had been sent by Brady to kidnap Ned Foreman. The light suit of clothes had deceived them, and his own verbal parrying had aided in their accepting him as the boy they had been hired to capture.

The bag hung loosely about Frank's head. It was perforated at the top, and he could breathe easily. He could not, however, see through the opaque covering.

"Don't you make any noise now, if you're wise," ordered Jem.

"I'm not doing it, am I?" propounded Frank coolly in a muffled tone.

"Better not," said Dan. "I've got a heavy stick here, and I'd use it pretty quick."

"Who are you, anyway, and what do you want of me?" asked Frank.

"Well, lad," answered Jem, "we're going to take you on a little journey. It will take all night to do it, and we'll make you as comfortable as we can, if you behave nicely. There's a real fine man you are to see. If you do as he wants you to do, you won't be five minutes with him, and you'll leave him with good pay for all the trouble we're putting you to."

"That's fair enough; I'm agreeable," said Frank.

"He's easy enough to handle," Frank heard Jem tell Dan.

"Maybe that's all put on," suggested the other. "Don't take any risks. You'd better leave him with me when you get to the creek, and hurry on to Middletown and get the horse and wagon."

Frank knew that Middletown was a small village not far from Bellwood. After they had proceeded a little farther there was a halt. Dan made our hero sit down on the grass and kept hold of his arm. The man Jem seemed to go away somewhere.

It must have been nearly half an hour when Frank caught the echo of rumbling wheels. Then there was a whistle as an approaching vehicle halted.

"Come on," said Dan, helping him to his feet. "We'll take a little ride."

"Anything for a change," laughed Frank. "What are you fellows up to, anyhow?"

"You're pretty cheerful for a boy in the dark," observed Dan.

"Oh, that's all right -- I'm thinking of that good pay you were talking about."

"You're a sensible young fellow," commented Dan. "Don't you worry a bit. You'll fare all right if you last through as you've begun. But if you don't, then most everything fierce is likely to happen to you."

Frank was lifted into a wagon. Its back hinged out, and it was closed again by Jem as Dan got into the vehicle after his prisoner. Frank dropped to a pile of old blankets. Then Dan lifted the bag from his head.

"Don't try to see any further than the law allows," he remarked, "and it's all right."

There was nothing to see, Frank found, but the sides, back and roof of a shut-in delivery wagon. The driver's seat was obscured by a water-proof blanket that came within a foot of the top of the wagon, leaving a small space through which light and air might come.

"All right in there?" sang out Jem, and the vehicle started up.

"You can sleep or loaf, any way you like," said Dan. "If you get hungry or thirsty we'll stop at some tavern and get you some food and something to drink."

"I'm comfortable," declared Frank. "Say, look here, we've got quite friendly. Maybe I can ask you a question or two."

"Ask away, youngster," directed Dan.

"Of course I guess what you are up to, or rather who put you up to it," said Frank.

"You wouldn't be Ned Foreman if you didn't," chuckled Dan.

"All right. Give me a guess, will you?"

"For certain."

"You're taking -- me to see a man for five minutes, you said?"

"Yes, that's so."

"I'll bet you I know his name."

"Well, what is it?"

"Tim Brady."

"You've hit it wrong, youngster," declared the man Dan in apparent good faith; "it's not Tim Brady."



Chapter XXI

A Queer Experience


Frank was a little surprised at the definite announcement of the man Dan. The latter seemed to be telling the truth.

"If it's not Brady, who is behind this business?" began Frank.

"I didn't say that," retorted Dan.

"Why --  -- "

"I said that it wasn't Brady you were going to meet."

"Oh!" uttered Frank vaguely.

"If you hadn't acted so sensible and handsomely," proceeded Dan, "I wouldn't talk with you at all. You've got me sort of chummy, though. I like you. I don't suppose there's any harm in telling you that it's a lawyer you're going to see. He'll explain the business to you."

"What is the business?" persisted Frank.

"Bless me if I know," declared Dan. "We were to do something -- get you. We were to take you somewhere -- we do it. After that we're paid off, and that's our end of it."

Frank did some thinking and surmising; but he could only theorize. He saw that now he was in the mix-up he must see it through.

How far they traveled in the next eight hours he could only guess at. The vehicle had two horses attached; they were pretty good travelers, and the road was a smooth and level one and in excellent condition.

A little after dark the team halted, and Jem went to some place near by and bought some doughnuts. He gave them to Dan, who divided up with Frank. Then Frank went to sleep, awoke, and went to sleep again on the heap of blankets in the bottom of the wagon, to be aroused by Dan shaking his arm vigorously and saying:

"Wake up, youngster."

"What time is it?" inquired Frank.

"Just struck midnight by the village clock," Dan informed him.

"What village?" asked Frank.

"You're not to know that, youngster," responded Dan with a chuckle, as though he considered the prisoner a pretty keen lad. "You'll have to put on this headgear again," and Frank did not demur as the bag was drawn over his head.

Then our hero was lifted out of the wagon, and Jem took hold of one hand and Dan of the other, and he was led across a yard, up a pair of outside stairs, along a porch, and then there was a pause. Jem knocked at a door. There was some delay, and then the door was opened.

"We're the men from Brady," said Jem.

"Pretty outlandish hour to disturb a man," snapped a sharp and domineering voice in return.

"Acting on orders, judge," said Jem.

"This is the lad, is it?"

"It's him, judge," answered Jem, and they entered some kind of a room.

Frank was pushed down into a chair. Then Dan removed the bag from his head. Frank looked about him with a good deal of curiosity.

He found himself in a room that he decided must be a lawyer's office. It had cases full of law books. On a table stood a shaded lamp, and beside it was the man who had admitted them.

This was a wiry, shrewd-looking individual, whose hair was all touseled and who was only partially dressed, as if he had been aroused from sleep. He moved to a chair and drew toward him a little package of documents with a rubber band around it.

"This is the lad Foreman, is it?" he demanded.

"It's him, judge," declared Jem.

"Very good. Young man, I am acting for a client. Understand one thing. You appear before me voluntarily. If at any future time any -- er -- misunderstanding, complications arise out of this extraordinary midnight -- er -- invasion, I simply act as attorney for my client. Here's a document. It is to be signed by you. In consideration of the same, at a later date, my client is to remit to some school or other the money to pay for your schooling four years in advance."

"Don't say a word but 'uh-huh,'" whispered Dan quickly to Frank. "You'll be glad if you do it. It's all right."

"Uh-huh," said Frank obediently, but thinking somethings that would have startled the men with him if they had guessed them.

"Ipse dixit, de facto, as we say in the law," proceeded the judge pompously. "That's all, I think."

The speaker dipped a pen in ink. He set before Frank a two-paged document. Its first page was turned over. Its second page our hero was not given time to read, but Frank's keen glance took in words and phrases that plainly indicated to him that the document alluded to a guardianship of some kind.

Frank signed a name that was no name at all. It was a meaningless scrawl. He believed it would bring about a crisis, but he was now ready for just that. The document was drawn from his hand, but before the judge could look at it there was a ring at a telephone at the end of the room. The judge hastily thrust the document into a drawer and hastened to the telephone.

He spoke to somebody over the phone and nodded to Jem, and said:

"It's Brady."

"No need of us waiting," responded Jem. "Here's my half of that card, judge. I suppose you know the arrangement."

For reply the judge walked to a safe standing in the corner of the room, opened it, took out a little box and handed it to Jem.

Frank felt somehow that this was the diamond bracelet that had been stolen from Samuel Mace back at Tipton. The thought connected with the talk he had overheard at the cabin near Bellwood about two pieces of card. He theorized that it was the reward to Jem and Dan for agreeing to kidnap Ned Foreman.

"Got it?" spoke Dan eagerly, edging up to Jem. "Then our part's done. Let's get away from here."

Frank took a last glance around the room. It was to note a row of law books that had written on their calfskin backs the name "Grimm." Frank treasured this clue. He did not doubt that it was the name of the "judge." He did not know what town he was in, or how far away from Bellwood, but he believed he now had learned the name of the "judge," and that it would afford a starting point in a later investigation.

Frank smiled to himself as, the bag again over his face, he was taken back to the covered wagon. He wondered what the "judge" and Brady would say when they found a meaningless scrawl to the document they had gone to so much trouble to have signed.

He made up his mind that, although he was a minor, the signature of Ned Foreman to that paper meant something important. It probably gave some power to Brady over Ned. What this was Frank felt sure that he could soon find out, and he planned upon his return to Bellwood School to go straight to Professor Elliott with the whole story.

"Now, then, youngster," observed Dan as the wagon started up, "you've behaved fine. Nobody is hurt, and you've done yourself some good. I'll promise you that your schooling bills will be paid, and you just want to forget everything that's happened to-night. Don't be foolish and stir things up. It'll be no use. You'll be provided for until you're of age, and that's a good deal for a fellow who was grubbing for every cent yesterday."

Frank went to sleep after that. He was roused by Dan in broad daylight, and Jem opened the back of the wagon. Dan walked a few steps with Frank.

"You're about two miles from your school," he said. "I've taken quite an interest in you. If I was the right sort, I'd kind of like to adopt you. Good-by."

"Good-by," answered Frank, starting in the direction of Bellwood School.

Frank walked on for a distance. He observed that the wagon had not started up immediately, and he believed that the two men would satisfy themselves that he was not delaying or lurking around before they resumed their journey.

Frank chuckled to himself. He had gone through a night of considerable mystery, but he fancied he had gathered up some pretty important points as to the reason for all the planning and plotting regarding Ned Foreman. He felt pretty well satisfied with himself.

"I don't want to pat myself on the shoulder any," was the way he put it to himself, "but I think I've done pretty well for a young fellow about my size. They would have it that I was Ned Foreman. They would have me sign that paper. I didn't tell any lies, but I wonder what that lawyer will say when he reads that signature? Grim he'll be, sure enough."

Frank at first was quite content to return to the academy. The wagon had started up at a clattering rate and he did not attempt to follow it. Suddenly, however, a crash and then the echo of loud voices halted him.

"Something happened to that wagon," decided Frank. "Jem and Dan are discussing things at a great rate, too. I'm going to see what's up."

Frank made a short cut through the shrubbery and reached the road at the point whither the loud voices of the two men led him. He came upon the wagon with one hind wheel stuck in a muddy rut and the other one smashed at the hub. From the shelter of a handy bush Frank surveyed the situation and listened to what the recent captors were saying.

"There's no use, Jem," remarked Dan. "She's a goner and you've just got to leave her here."

"But what about getting to Rockton?"

"Ain't that plain?"

"Not to me," asserted Jem.

"Why, unhitch the animal, and make it on horseback."

"Me?" hooted Jem. "Why, I never rode a horse twice in my life, and then without a saddle -- not much."

"Well, unhitch, anyway; it isn't far to the town. Let the livery stable man come back after the wagon here and give you a new rig."

"There's no other way to do that I can make out," agreed Jem. "Yes, that's just what we'll do."

Frank became interested in watching them unhitch the horse from the wagon. They finally started off, Jem leading the horse. Frank was about to go about his business, when a casual remark of Dan acted like a magnet in attracting his attention away from his former purpose.

"I say, Jem," he observed in a somewhat anxious tone, "you are sure we can settle the bracelet business right away?"

"Yes, right away," assented Jem.

"Cash?"

"Ready money, sure."

"Hope you will. I want my share so I can get away from these diggings and the crowd into some new district and among new people."

"Oho! Going to turn respectable, are you?" jeered Jem.

"I'm going to try," announced Dan manfully. "I'm afraid of Brady. He's the kind of a man who goes from bad to worse. He will be sure to get you in trouble if you stick with him long enough."

"Well, as long as he pays the bills as he agrees I'm his man," said Jem.

"I'm not, and I'll cut loose just as soon as I get my share of the plunder."

That little talk decided Frank that he would not return to the academy at once. He resolved to play the detective, for a little time at least.

Frank believed that what he had done would result in the upsetting of all the plans Brady had set on foot regarding Ned Foreman.

He felt certain that when he related the circumstances of the case to Professor Elliott, the latter would speedily devise a way to protect Ned and ferret out the object of the lawyer, Grimm, and also Brady, in securing some kind of guardianship over the orphan boy.

About the bracelet, however, that was a different affair. From what Frank had just heard he was convinced that Jem had this now in his possession.

"Yes," mused Frank, as almost involuntarily he followed Jem and Dan at a safe distance, "that little box the lawyer gave Jem surely contains the bracelet stolen from Lemuel Mace, back at Tipton. It's sure, too, from what these men just said, that Jem is going to dispose of it right away. Why, if that's so, all trace of it would be lost, and good-by to my chances of ever convicting the real thieves. This man Dan, the best of the lot, is going to disappear, and, of course, Brady and Jem will never admit they stole the bracelet. I sort of feel that if I let these men slip me now I'll never be able to clear myself of the charge of stealing Mace's jewelry."

Frank was so impressed with these ideas that he trailed on after the two men. He did not know that it would do much good, but that bracelet was a kind of a lodestone, and he felt that he would give a good deal to get it into his possession.

The little procession covered about three slow miles, arriving finally at a little sleepy town. Frank had never been there before. Jem led the horse down the main street of the place, and finally turned into a vacant lot, at the rear of which stood a livery stable. A lantern was burning just beyond the wide open door of the place.

Frank lined a board fence that bounded one side of the livery stable yard. When he got opposite the open doorway where Jem had halted, he posted himself at a crack in the fence, where he could see and hear what was going on.

"Hi, there, somebody -- wake up!" bawled Jem loudly.

A sleepy-eyed hostler made his appearance in a few minutes. There was a lengthy explanation as to the broken wagon. Jem seemed to make this all satisfactory in a money way. Then he told the hostler that he must have a light single rig, and the man took the horse into the stable, while Jem and Dan remained outside.

"Going on alone, are you?" inquired the latter.

"It's best," replied Jem. "You see, I've got one place in view I want to visit. You know -- Staggers."

"Yes, I've heard of him," nodded Dan. "He's a mighty close one, though. Get the full value, Jem."

"I will, never fear."

"What shall I do?"

"Oh, go up to the old hut and snooze until I come back."

"I hope that will be soon."

"I won't be any longer than I can help."

"What are you doing?"

Jem was acting strangely, and the peering Frank was surprised and interested. Jem was going through a puzzling pantomime. He would touch his head in various places in a whimsical manner, then pause and appear undecided as to what he would do next.

"It's funny," he remarked, after silently going through these apparently meaningless gestures for some moments.

"What's that?" inquired Dan.

"I can't get it."

"Can't get what?"

"The high sign."

"Oho!"

"You know what I mean?"

"Yes, indeed. Brady told us that Staggers will have no dealings with any one not having the high sign."

"Exactly. Brady said it was L.E.H."

"I remember that."

"But I've forgotten part of it. Let's see, L. is lip. I know that -- you touch your lip. Then E. Is it eye or ear?"

"Ear," cried Dan. "Say, I'm sure Brady said ear."

"All right. And the last? Oh, of course -- hand. You touch your lip, then your ear, and then put out your hand," and Jem went rapidly through these maneuvers. "As to the grip, it's easy -- slip the forefinger up the wrist. O.K. -- I've got it. Say, what kind of an old tumbledown trap is that thing?" demanded Jem, as the hostler reappeared leading a sorry nag attached to an old buggy with an enormous hood and a big shallow boot at the rear.

"It's an old mail carrier cart," replied the hostler. "But it's the only single rig we've got in the stable at the present time."

"Well, I suppose it will have to do," observed Jem indifferently. "I'll be back soon, Dan."

"All right."

Jem drove out of the yard and down a road leading out of the town. The horse was a decrepit animal and did not go very fast. While trying to think out the best plan to pursue, Frank followed after the cart at a safe distance.

He had gone only a little way when he wished he had remained near the stable and had followed Dan. That would have been easier. Dan had planned to return to the hut and had already disappeared in its direction. Unguided, however, Frank did not believe that he could locate it. He kept on down the road, therefore, after Jem, unwilling to lose sight of both of the men who certainly knew all about the diamond bracelet stolen from Lemuel Mace's jewelry store at Tipton.

"This man Jem has the bracelet," reflected Frank, "and just as surely he is going to some man named Staggers to sell it or get him to sell it for them. Then he will return to Dan to divide the spoils. I can't miss scoring some kind of a point following that cart."

This Frank did for over two miles. Then he began to grow wearied and footsore. He had no idea how many miles Jem planned to go, and finally he carried out a bold idea.

This was to climb into the deep boot at the back of the vehicle. The hood in front prevented Jem from seeing what was going on behind him. As the horse struck a patch of very rutty road, Frank ran close up to the buggy.

The vehicle was wobbling and jolting so that the action of his additional weight on the springs did not attract the attention of the driver. Frank cuddled down in the shell-shaped receptacle for mail and parcels, fairly out of sight.

It must have been fully two hours later when Jem drove into a town of quite some size. It was, in fact, a small city, and from what Frank knew of the district he decided that it must be Rockton, a place about eleven miles from the academy town.

Frank slipped from the boot of the cart after the vehicle had made one or two turnings. When he did this he dropped flat in the middle of the road and remained there until Jem had made another turn, when he was up and away, again on the trail of the man.

After proceeding quite some distance, Jem halted the horse at the edge of a sidewalk near an alleyway. He tied the animal to a ring at the curb and proceeded down the dark lane near by.

Frank had gained the shelter of an open hallway directly opposite the point where the vehicle had halted. He stood there pondering as to his next move, when the sharp clatter of running footsteps attracted his attention.

The next minute a boy about his own size darted around the corner, running at full speed. As he rounded into view, he seemed to see some one ahead blocking his way. With an utterance of dismay and excitement he veered from his course, and sprang directly into the hallway that sheltered Frank.

"Hold on, I say!" cried Frank, fairly swept off his footing.

"Don't say a word," panted the strange lad. "Some one is after me! Show yourself, fool them, or I'm a goner. Is there any way out of this?"

Frank heard the boy run down the hall, try a locked door at the rear, and utter a cry of sharp disappointment and concern.

"They've trapped me!" he gasped.

Frank stepped toward the sidewalk and peered out, not quite able to figure out what had happened or was happening. He did not want to become mixed up in any trouble, especially just now when all his energies were centered on keeping track of the man Jem.

Frank saw one man coming running around the corner which the refugee had just turned. Almost in front of the open driveway he met a man who came running from the opposite direction.

"They're constables," murmured Frank,

"Did you see him?" began the first officer.

"A boy?" queried the man.

"Yes."

"Run into that hallway."

"Ah, there he is! Out with you -- aha! I've caught you at last, have I?" cried the first officer triumphantly.

He seized Frank by the arm and pulled him out on to the sidewalk. The way he whirled him around amid his wild glee made Frank's teeth chatter.

"Hold on!" our hero demanded, struggling to free himself. "What's all this about?"

"What's it about, eh?" chuckled his captor. "Mighty innocent, aren't you? Don't remember me a bit, do you? Look sharp at me, now," rallied the officer. "I guess you'll recognize me, my soft and downy young bird, if you'll look hard enough."

"I never saw you before, and you never saw me before," declared Frank, getting nettled at his rough treatment.

"Thunder! that's so."

The officer, peering closely at Frank, staggered back as though he was about to collapse. He goggled at Frank, choking with stupefaction and disappointment.

"What's the matter, Hawkes?" asked the other officer.

"This isn't the boy I was chasing."

"It must be."

"But it isn't."

"Well, anyhow, it's the fellow who shot around that street corner a few minutes ago and dodged into the doorway, for I saw him."

"Then I must have been chasing the wrong boy."

"I reckon that's so."

Both officers looked Frank over speculatively and suspiciously.

"No, he ain't the fellow," observed the officer who had grabbed Frank. "But, say, who are you?"

"I'm Frank Jordan, a student at the Bellwood Academy," answered our hero promptly.

"We don't know that," observed the second officer.

"I can easily prove it to you," asserted Frank.

"All right, fetch him up to the station, Hawkes, and let him explain to the captain how he comes to be snooking around people's houses at this unearthly hour of the morning."

Frank was very much cut up at this decision. To leave that spot meant possibly to lose all track of Jem and the stolen bracelet.

"I'm in this town on business," he said boldly, "and I don't see what right you have to interfere with me."

"The captain will explain all that to you," observed the officer. "Here, you come right along with us."

There was no use of resisting. Each of the officers seized an arm of Frank and marched him down the street. He uttered an anxious sigh as he cast a last look back at the horse and buggy Jem had left at the curb.

When they got to the little police station of the town, Frank was confronted by the captain. He proved to be a bright, intelligent man, and looked over some letters Frank showed him.

"This boy's all right, Hawkes," declared the officer at once. "I should have thought you would have known that from a look at his honest face. Get to school, though, lad," he added in a kindly tone to Frank. "I was a boy once myself, but I know from experience that these student larks don't pay in the end. Who did you think the lad was, anyway, Hawkes?"

"A young escaped convict," explained Hawkes. "Nice little fifty dollars reward out for his apprehension, too."

"Well, it seems you started up the wrong covey this time. Good morning, lad," nodded the officer to Frank, who promptly left the station.

Frank got back to the place where he had been arrested on a run. As he turned into the street a single anxious glance made his heart sink.

"Too bad -- all for a boy criminal!" he exclaimed. "The buggy is gone."

It seemed certain that during the time the officers had taken Frank to the station, Jem had transacted his business with the mysterious Staggers and had left town.

Frank came across an early riser opening up a cheap restaurant, and inquired if he had ever heard of a man named Staggers.

"Nickname, I guess, that," responded the eating-house man. "Fellows here, shady characters, especially, have all kinds of flash names among their friends. No, don't know Staggers."

Frank was disappointed and wearied. He had the idea of saying something to the police about the bracelet. Then he made up his mind that he would get back to Bellwood and take Professor Eliott into his confidence.

Somewhat dejected and a good deal tired out, our hero turned his face in the direction of Bellwood Academy.



Chapter XXII

A Startling Message


"Wake up, Frank!"

Frank, roughly shaken by Bob Upton, sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes drowsily, and for a moment all the strange happenings of the previous night seemed like some dream.

Then Frank recalled reaching the school about ten o'clock in the morning, when all the students were in their classes, of reaching his room unobserved, lying down on his bed in his clothes to rest and collect his thoughts, and of dropping into a nap.

"I say," hailed Bob excitedly, "where in the world have you been?"

"It's a long story," explained Frank with a prodigious yawn and stretching himself. "You wouldn't believe it if I told it to you. Have I been missed?"

"Missed?" echoed Bob, almost in a shout. "The head monitor sat up for you all night. The gardener and the steward have been searching the creek and hunting for you everywhere. Our tutor had arranged to send a party of the class to hunt for you after dinner, and there's been all kinds of excitement and fuss about you."

"I'm sorry," said Frank, "but I couldn't help it. I've been kidnaped, Bob."

"What!"

"Don't blurt it out. I want to see Ned Foreman first. He's interested."

"Gill Mace was around with his sneering meanness," said Bob. "He said the boys had better see that none of their jewelry was missing."

"Did, eh?" said Frank. "He and his uncle will be interested, too, if things come out as I think."

"Frank, I must tell Professor Drake that you've come back."

"All right," assented Frank, who proceeded to take a refreshing wash as Bob flew from the room.

He returned just as our hero finished brushing his hair.

"You're to come down to the office at once," he said.

"All right," assented Frank.

He proceeded down the stairs without meeting any of his friends. Frank knocked at the office door and was admitted by Professor Drake.

"So you have returned, Jordan?" spoke the teacher in a somewhat severe tone.

"Yes, Mr. Drake," replied Frank.

"I hope you have some satisfactory explanation to offer in regard to your absence against the rules of this school."

"I certainly have, Mr. Drake," said Frank. "There is considerable to tell, and it is very important. I would like to see the president before I say anything, though."

"Professor Elliott is absent until to-morrow," said the tutor. "I am in charge here, and you must explain to me."

"I hope you will excuse me," replied Frank, "but there is a very good reason why I must tell the president before any one else."

"You are pretty mysterious, Jordan."

"I hope you believe that I am doing just what is right until Mr. Elliott returns," said Frank earnestly.

The teacher studied Frank's manly face for a moment.

"I must at least believe that you think you are right," he said after a thoughtful pause. "We will have it that way, if you insist, Jordan."

"Thank you, Mr. Drake," said Frank. "You will find that I am not deceiving you."

Frank was greeted at dinner with a babel of questions as to his mysterious absence. He told his friends that he had been away on business; that he could explain only to the president of the academy.

He attended his classes that afternoon, and joined the crowd on the campus after study hours. A baseball game was on. Frank was right-fielder, and he knew he was on his record in this, his first game, and did some pretty good work.

The game was running pretty close. Two of Banbury's men were on bases, when Frank noticed a ragged urchin run up to a crowd of spectators.

The strange boy asked some questions, and the lad he addressed pointed to Frank.

"Are you -- are you Mr. Jordan?" the youngster panted, running up to Frank.

"Yes," nodded Frank.

"Please, sir, quick -- there's a man in the old cabin on Greenlee's farm. He wants Ned Foreman to come right straight to him. He's all cut up and bleeding. He's dying. The boy yonder said you'd get Ned Foreman for me."

"Who is he?" demanded Frank, interested and startled.

"I don't know, only he said he must see Ned Foreman, because he won't last long. He's in an awful state. He's in an awful state. He just hollers and yells, and he's smashing a great big bracelet with shining stones in it."

"Jordan!"

"Hi -- don't miss it!" Whiz!

Just past Frank's head flew a fly from the bat Frank had not turned in time. But he heeded not the yells, "Deserted his colors!" "Run away again!" or the fact that his neglect had sent two of Banbury's cohorts home.

Frank knew at once that the man the excited boy spoke of was either Jem or Dan. The allusion to a bracelet had started him on a vivid run, the boy keeping breathlessly by his side, panting:

"I was passing the old cabin, when I heard some one groaning on the inside. Then the man told me to get Ned Foreman."

The little messenger led Frank straight to the hut and slipped down to the doorstep almost exhausted, while his companion rushed through the open doorway.

The man Dan lay on a heap of straw, silent and helpless. His clothing was stained with blood. Frank at once ascertained that he was still alive, but he had fainted from weakness.

He went out to the little fellow on the doorstep.

"What's your name?" asked Frank.

"It's Lem."

"Well, you're a grand little fellow," said Frank. "You've done a good deal already, but I want you to run to the nearest farmhouse and tell the farmer that he must get here right away to move a dying man to a doctor at Bellwood."

"Yes, sir," nodded the obliging little fellow eagerly.

"Tell him I'll pay all the expenses, and yours, too, Lem, as soon as we get through with this business."

The boy darted away. Frank re-entered the hut. As he did so his foot kicked some object, and it jangled across the rough board floor.

Frank picked it up with some eagerness and satisfaction. It was the bracelet that Lem had described -- "with shining stones in it."

Our hero was a good deal excited as he examined the object in his hand. He thrust it into his pocket with quite a thrill of satisfaction. He then went closer to the suffering Dan.

The man seemed to have dropped into a deep daze or sleep. Frank realized that he could do nothing for him until he was removed to some place where skilled surgical aid could be summoned.

"It's wonderful," mused Frank, as he went outside, impatient and anxious for the return of his messenger. "This is certainly the bracelet that I've had so much worry about. I never saw it before, but it must be the one stolen from Lemuel Mace. How does it happen, though, that Dan has it here? Why is it all battered up? Where is Jem? Why wasn't it sold to the man, Staggers? Say, here's a big puzzle, but I've got the bracelet, and this man Dan can be made to explain all about it when he gets his senses back."

Frank certainly had some perplexing thoughts as to the peculiar situation of the moment. He could only theorize what had happened.

The way he figured it out was that Jem had been unable to make any bargain with the man Staggers and dispose of the bracelet. He had come back to the hut to report this fact to Dan. They must have had a quarrel over it, Frank decided. Jem had probably been beaten off. Not, however, until he had pretty badly bruised up his opponent. The bracelet must have got battered in the struggle for its possession, or Dan, in the delirium which the farmer boy had described to Frank, had banged it about, not knowing what he was doing.

Frank paced up and down in front of the hut, turning all these thoughts over in his mind, and really anxious about the condition of Dan, counting the minutes and hoping for the speedy return of his messenger with aid. He was walking slowly on his tiresome patrol, when he heard a rustle in the bushes. He turned, somewhat startled. Before he could get fully around a brisk hand slapped him sharply on the shoulder, with the words:

"Hello, you -- glad I've found you!"

Frank drew suspiciously away from a lad about his own age, and a total stranger to him. He was well dressed, and had a keen pair of eyes and a pleasant, rather quizzical expression of face.

Frank was on nettles for fear Jem might return, and at first feared that the boy might be some emissary of Brady or his recent kidnapers.

"Don't know me?" questioned the lad, smiling boldly and in an extremely friendly way into Frank's face.

"Well, I know you," retorted the other. "Here, Frank Jordan, of Bellwood Academy, shake," and he extended his hand.

"Who are you?" inquired Frank, only feebly returning the hearty handshake of the stranger.

"I am your everlasting debtor -- friend, slave!" declared the lad vehemently. "See here; that night, or, rather, morning, dark hallway -- two officers -- nabbed you, took you for me, and I got away."

"O -- oh!" exclaimed Frank slowly, and with a decided shock. "I remember you now."

"Thought you would," nodded the lad briskly. "You don't seem a bit glad to see me, but I am to see you."

Frank did not say anything in reply to this. In fact, the boy who had just revealed his identity was not exactly welcome to Frank just at that moment. The latter remembered what the policeman, Hawkes, had said about him -- that he was an escaped convict, with a reward out for his arrest. That did not speak well for the fellow. Then, too, Frank did not fancy the proximity of such a person, with a diamond bracelet in his possession presumably worth a great deal of money.

"How did you come to find me here?" demanded our hero with blunt suspicion.

"Didn't -- just ran across you. But I was on my way to find you."

"Where?"

"At the academy."

"How did you know I belonged to the academy?" challenged Frank.

"Why, didn't I hear you mention the place and tell your name to the policeman?"

"Yes, that's so," admitted Frank. "But why did you want to see me?"

"To thank you."

"For what?"

"For saving me from arrest."

"Oh, then you admit that you are what the policeman said?"

"What was that?"

"A convict."

"Yes," answered the boy promptly.

"And an escaped convict."

"That's right, too."

"I don't know, then," said Frank, "that I did right in shielding you."

"Oh, yes, you did," declared the lad buoyantly. "See here, you're a good fellow, a staving good fellow. You've just about made my future for me. Isn't that a big thing to do?"

"It is, if it's true," said Frank.

"Well, you'll think so when I tell you something. See here: I was an orphan boy down at the town where you saved me. Five years ago a crowd of fellows started out one Hallowe'en night for fun. We had a mean fellow named Tompkins for a leader. He got us to obey his orders. I had to set fire to a heap of brush at one farmhouse. The others were to do certain stunts in the same neighborhood. We found out later that Tompkins was using us as tools to cover some real spite work of his. I set fire to the brush heap to scare the farmer. The wind blew the sparks into a two-ton haystack near by, and it burned down. I was scared and sorry. I was worse scared and sorry the next day, when I was arrested. Tompkins and his crowd had burned down some barns and an old mill. Their folks were rich, and they could hire good lawyers. I was a homeless orphan boy, and was made the scapegoat. They sent me to the reform school till I was of age."

Frank's mind, of course, was full of anxiety for the wounded man in the hut and impatient for the return of his messenger, but he could not help but be interested in the story of his companion.

"My name is Dave Starr," proceeded the lad. "I went to the reform school. I soon became a good-conduct trusty, but the life nearly killed me. I escaped one day, and if you go into any of the towns around Rockton you'll find my picture in the police stations, with a fifty-dollar reward offered for my arrest."

"What have you done since you escaped?" inquired Frank.

"I have tried to make a man of myself," replied Dave Starr, drawing himself up proudly. "I want to show you something," and he drew a folded paper from his pocket and extended it.

This was what Frank read:

"Received from Dave Starr $37.72, being payment and interest for damage done to my haystack by fire. He says this was the only fire he was responsible for, and that it was an accident, and I believe him to be an honest, truthful lad. "Signed, "JOHN MOORE."

"Understand?" inquired Dave.

"I think I do," nodded Frank. "You've cleaned the slate by paying your debts."

"That's it," assented Dave. "I went back to Rockton to settle that debt, and the policeman, Hawkes, saw me, recognized me, and I would now be back in that dismal, heart-breaking old reform school if it wasn't for you."

"Well, I'm glad I happened to help you," said Frank warmly.

"I've been pretty lucky since I escaped," narrated Dave. "I went away and got work at a factory just outside a little town. One winter day, when a lot of us were nooning, an empty palace car swung from a switching train into a ditch. It caught fire. There was no water near, and a good twenty thousand dollars was burning up, when I led the fellows to the car. We snowballed it till we put out the flames. That was my start in life. What do you think? About two weeks later an agent of the railroad came around. He gave each of my helpers a ten-dollar gold piece, and he gave me one hundred dollars for saving the railroad property."

"That was fine," commented Frank,

"Wasn't it, though? Well, that was my nest egg. I bought a small stock of notions. I made money. By and by I had five hundred dollars. I had an old friend, who had known my father, who had a ranch in California. I wrote to him, and he replied to my letter saying that he had a place for me. Well, I spent a year on his ranch, raising plums. Then a month ago I struck a fine idea. I heard of how they did things in some African fruit colonies. I enthused my employer. A month ago I came East with his instructions and plenty of money to gather together one hundred monkeys."

"What!" fairly shouted Frank.

"Just as I say," declared Dave with a pleasant smile.

"One hundred monkeys?"

"Yes."

"To start a show?"

"Not at all."

"What, then?"

"To teach the little fellows to help in the plum orchards. They can be trained easily. You see, when the plums are ripe we spread a sheet under a tree and shake the tree. The monkeys pick up the plums fast as can be, and fill big wicker baskets with them. We take the gang around to other orchards, and save the hiring of a lot of men."

"Well! well!" murmured Frank admiringly. "What a novel idea."

"I've had to pick up the little animals all over the big cities in bird stores," explained Dave. "At last I've got the hundred. They are in a special car down the road, and we start for the Pacific Coast to-morrow morning."

"You certainly have had a queer experience, and you deserve a lot of credit," said Frank.

"I feel good for meeting a square, fair fellow like you, Frank Jordan," continued Dave. "I'd like to feel I had a friend in you, and if I write to you once in a while, will you answer my letters?"

"I shall be delighted," declared Frank.

"Well, I've said my say," resumed Dave in a practical way, "and I see you're busy about something about here, and I may be hindering you, so I'll say good-by."

"Good-by," responded Frank, "and good luck wherever you go."

"Thank you. I say, you wouldn't mind if I sent you a little present as a sort of reminder of what you've done for me, would you, now?" propounded Dave.

"Oh, you mustn't think of that," objected Frank.

"Do they allow pets up at the academy?"

"Oh, yes, -- if the fellows keep them from annoying others."

"Well, you'll hear from me about to-morrow. Good-by, Frank Jordan."

The strange lad waved his hand to Frank in a friendly, grateful way, and disappeared just as a wagon came rattling across the field toward the old hut.



Chapter XXIII

Under Arrest


"There's some one at that transom!"

"Quick, see who it is?"

Frank, Bob and Ned sprang to their feet as the latter gave the alarm, and Frank's words started them speedily into action. Bob, half crippled though he was, reached the door of the room first, tore it open and gained the corridor.

"It was some one from the crowd next door," he reported. "I fancied I saw Gill Mace vanish into that room. It's just like him -- a sneaking spy."

"Ritchie said those fellows were nosing around a good deal to find out about my being away from the academy," observed Frank. "I suppose they're pretty curious."

"Yes, and they're bolting away from the ball game the way you did stirs them up," said Bob.

"Well, the transom is nailed shut, so any eavesdropper wouldn't be likely to hear much," declared Frank.

"No, but they might see that," and Ned pointed to an object on the table, where they had been seated for an hour discussing Frank's circumstantial story of all that had happened to him from the time of his kidnaping. "I shouldn't suppose you would care to have that Mace fellow see it."

"Oh, anybody can see it and welcome, as soon as I have a talk with the president," responded Frank carelessly.

Frank took up from the table and pocketed the bracelet he had found on the floor of the old hut. It was bent and dented as though it had been handled roughly.

Frank had just returned from the town, where he had seen to it that the man called Dan was placed in a comfortable room at a hotel, with a physician in charge of his case.

The doctor told Frank that the man must have been in a terrible fight with some one, for he was wounded in several places and unconscious.

Frank told the hotel keeper that he would be responsible for the expense incurred in caring for the sick man. Our hero offered to pay the farmer whose wagon had brought Dan to the town. The farmer refused any payment, but Frank made little Lem a present out of his pocket money.

Now Frank and his two fast friends had gone over the details of his recent stirring adventures.

"I think that this man Dan is the best of the crowd of plotters," said Frank. "There must have been a fight over the bracelet. I'm glad I've got it. I can prove my innocence now."

"What are you going to do with it, Frank?" asked Ned.

"Turn it over to Professor Elliott in the morning, and tell him the entire story. I am sure that Dan can be made to tell who stole it. I believe it was Brady."

"He may tell you, too, where to find that lawyer," suggested Bob.

"Grimm -- yes," answered Frank. "There's something he's been up to with Brady that is of interest to Ned here -- I am sure of that."

Frank felt certain that affairs were now on a basis where a good many things would come to light within the next few hours.

He was up bright and early the next morning, and was somewhat disappointed to learn that Professor Elliott had not yet returned to Bellwood School.

Ritchie came up to him on the campus after breakfast and took him to one side.

"I say, Jordan," he began in a confidential tone, "there's a good deal of mystery going on around these diggings."

"How's that?" inquired Frank with a smile.

"Banbury's crowd are up to something, and I feel sure it concerns you in some way."

"I can't understand how that can be."

"Nor can I," said Ritchie; "but one of our scouts says they were hobnobbing late into the night. That Gill Mace went to town last evening and sent off a rush telegram somewhere. This morning the crowd are buzzing like a lot of bees, whispering together and looking at you, and Mace walks around with his eye in the direction of the town, as if he expected something to happen. Look there, now -- what's up?"

Gill Mace had hurried toward the campus of the school to meet a man coming up the road. Accompanying the latter and acting very important and excited, he advanced across the campus toward the spot where Ritchie and his friends stood.

"That's the boy," pronounced Gill Mace in a loud tone, pointing to Frank.

"Is your name Jordan?" demanded the stranger of Frank.

"Suppose it is?" inquired Frank.

"Then I've come to arrest you, that's all," said the man. "I'm a constable, and the charge is stealing and having in your possession a certain diamond bracelet belonging to Samuel Mace of Tipton."

"Yes," cried Gill Mace, "he's got it about him. I saw him with it last night."

"Oh, then you are the sneak who was spying over our transom last night, eh?" said Frank, with a glance at Gill that made him quail.

"Search him, officer -- get that bracelet," vociferated Gill. "He stole it from my uncle."

"Come with me, young man," ordered the officer, extending a hand to seize Frank's arm.

"Hold on," spoke up Ritchie suddenly, stepping in between the two. "You don't arrest Frank Jordan until we know the particulars of this affair."



Chapter XXIV

Cleaning Up


The constable of Bellwood drew back a trifle at the warlike demonstration of Dean Ritchie and his friends. He probably had heard of the treatment of some of his kind who had been mobbed, ducked and sent home ingloriously when they had tried to interfere with the sports of the students at the school.

"Hold on, fellows," said Frank quickly, moving his champions aside. "This man is only doing his duty."

"There's the president!" exclaimed Ned Foreman, and he ran forward to the front of the academy, where Professor Elliott had just been driven up in a carriage.

"I will go with you," said Frank, ranging himself up by the side of the officer. "I would like to speak to Mr. Elliott first, though."

"Certainly," acceded the constable willingly, awed by the crowd and pleased with the gentlemanly manner of his prisoner.

Professor Elliott stood awaiting the approaching crowd, staring in a puzzled way at them through his eye glasses. Frank walked straight up to him.

"Professor Eliott," he said, "I have just been arrested by this officer, on the complaint of Gill Mace, I am led to believe."

The academy president stared in astonishment at Frank, and then at Gill, who had kept up with the coterie.

"Yes, I had him arrested," proclaimed Gill.

"Indeed," spoke Mr. Elliott. "Upon what charge, may I ask?"

"He stole a diamond bracelet from my uncle's jewelry store at Tipton," declared Gill.

"There is the bracelet in question, Professor Elliott," said Frank, promptly placing a little parcel done up in tissue paper in the hands of the professor.

"I told you he had it. Didn't I say so?" crowed and chuckled the triumphant Gill.

"However, I didn't steal it," continued Frank. "There is a story I should like to tell you, Professor Elliott. Its telling now may save some trouble later on."

"Yes -- yes," nodded Mr. Elliott in a somewhat disturbed way. "Of course there is a mistake. Officer, please come with me to the library. I wish to look into this affair."

"I would like to have Gill Mace and my friend, Ned Foreman, come with us, sir," suggested Frank.

"Certainly, Jordan. Charged with robbery! Dear me! Officer, this is a pretty serious action on your part."

"I'm only doing my legal duty, sir," insisted the constable.

"You have a warrant for the arrest of our student, then?"

"No, sir, I haven't," acknowledged the officer, "but the sheriff said I had a right to act in the premises."

"How so?" demanded Mr. Elliott.

"This lad, Mace, came to us and declared that he had seen in the possession of the Jordan boy a diamond bracelet stolen from his uncle at Tipton, the town that both of them came from."

"Well?"

"He had telegraphed for his uncle to come on at once. He expects him on the eight o'clock train. The sheriff said that, in a way, the case being under the jurisdiction of another State, we might hold the accused as a fugitive from justice, pending identification."

"Fugitive, nonsense! identification, fiddlesticks!" commented the old professor testily. "Jordan isn't going to run away. As to his identification, he has turned the property in question over to me, and, knowing him as I do, I would stake a good deal that when he comes to explain matters it will clear up the situation so far as he is concerned. You have no legal right to apprehend Jordan, officer, and we certainly will not allow you to disgrace him through an arrest, except by due process of law."

"With every respect to you, sir," said the constable humbly, "what am I to do, then?"

"Go back to town, wait till this man Mace arrives, and bring him here to consult with me."

Frank gave the professor a grateful look. He felt at that moment that Mr. Elliott was indeed what Bob Upton had so enthusiastically declared him to be "a good old man."

"Now, then," continued Professor Elliott, waving the constable away as they entered the library, "we will get at the bottom of this matter. This is the bracelet in question, is it, Jordan?" he inquired, indicating the little parcel Frank had given him.

"I think it is, Mr. Elliott."

"How did you come by it?"

"If you please, Mr. Elliott," said Frank, "I would like to tell you my story in private. It involves another person, and also some facts about his relatives, which he might not be disposed to have made public property."

"Very well," answered the professor, and he led the way to his private office at the end of the library and closed its door.

Frank told his story from beginning to end, and he had an interested and sympathetic listener.

When he had concluded, the professor extended his hand, and Frank was proud to grasp it.

"Jordan," he said, "you are a noble fellow. I liked you from the first; I like you better than ever now. If every boy in the school came to me as you have done he would find in me a true friend. I hope you will tell the boys so."

"I don't have to," declared Frank. "They all know you are a good old -- I mean, their friend," stammered Frank, checking his impetuous utterance just in time, "but they are a little shy."

Professor Elliott returned to the library and Frank accompanied him.

"Mace," said the former, "you may have acted on your best convictions, but I am assured that you have made a great mistake."

"I don't see how," muttered Gill stubbornly. "There's the bracelet. He had it, didn't he? So he stole it."

"That does not follow -- except in your perverted opinion," observed the professor drily. "We will move no further in this matter until your uncle arrives. Foreman, I wish to have a word with you."

"Yes, sir," bowed Ned politely.

"I will give you a note to my attorney in Bellwood. You will tell him all that Jordan has told you, as to his experiences with the person who visited us in your behalf the other day. My lawyer will ferret out this mystery concerning you, and I feel pretty sanguine you will discover something of decided interest and profit to you."

"Thank you, sir."

"None of you three need report for studies today, as I may desire to see any or all of you later on quick notice."

The boys were dismissed. Gill Mace looked suspicious and mystified, Ned was radiant, Frank felt that his patience and loyalty to his friends were about to score a grand result.

Just then the door opened, and a blustering and excited form burst into the room.

It was Samuel Mace.



Chapter XXV

Conclusion


"Hello, Gill," said the jeweler to his nephew, and then, glaring at Frank and facing Professor Elliott in an insolent way, he added: "Now, what's doing here?"

"Is this Mr. Mace?" inquired the professor, advancing courteously.

"Yes, it is," retorted the jeweler in an ungracious tone, "and I want to know who's been interfering with my affairs, and where's the diamond bracelet that Jordan boy stole from me?"

"This lad stole no bracelet from you, Mr. Mace," said Professor Elliott positively, and placing his hand on Frank's shoulder.

"Hello! There's a scheme to cheat me and save him, is there?" flared out the jeweler. "The constable gave me to understand that. See here, Elliott -- if that is your name --  -- "

"I am Professor Elliott, yes," interrupted the academy president.

"Well, I paid my nephew's tuition to have him associate with decent boys -- not with a thief that you seem to be shielding and harboring here."

"We are not used to this kind of language at Bellwood School, Mr. Mace," observed the professor with dignity and sternness. "You will kindly desist from using the same and act like a gentleman, or leave this room."

"If I do, it will be to have that Jordan boy behind the bars mighty quick!" declared Mace.

"It would be the mistake of your life, Mr. Mace, and a costly experiment for your pocket. This boy is innocent of the outrageous, and I might say cowardly and unfounded, charge you make against him. I shall ask you to remain here for about an hour, while I attend to some details of this case which will enable me to give you a clear statement as to who stole your property."

"If it's no scheme to sneak Jordan away --  -- " began Mace.

"Silence, sir!" ordered the professor. "Foreman, kindly show Mr. Mace to my private office and get him the morning paper from the city to read."

"I'll take my bracelet first, if you don't mind," said Mace, extending his hand.

Professor Elliott took out the little packet that Frank had given him, and turned it over to the jeweler. Mace opened it eagerly. Then he gave a jump and uttered a howl that fairly electrified those about him.

"What's this?" he yelled, displaying a piece of jewelry and nearly choking with excitement. "You're all in a scheme! You're all thieves! I'll have you all arrested!" and he flung the bracelet to the farther end of the room.

"What's the matter, uncle Sam?" inquired Gill Mace.

"Matter?" screamed the jeweler, hopping madly from foot to foot. "That isn't my bracelet at all."

"What?" involuntarily exclaimed the startled Frank.

"It's a cheap imitation affair with paste stones in it."

"Is this possible?" inquired Mr. Elliott in surprise.

"Yes, 'tis, and somebody knows it. Don't you crow nor laugh over me, Frank Jordan!" raved Mace.

"We had better not talk about crowing and laughing just now, Mr. Mace," said Frank seriously. "I think I understand about the bracelet, which I believed until this moment to be the one stolen from Tipton."

"Yah! Yes, you did!" derided the jeweler.

"I think I now guess out the mystery of this substitution. As that explanation and the fate of the real bracelet may hang on the words of a dying man, you had better get down from your high horse and help us reach the facts in the case."

Then in a low tone Frank told the professor that they had better see the wounded man, Dan, at the village hotel at once.

Mace was induced to await the movements of Professor Elliott, and within five minutes the latter and Frank and Ned Foreman were wending their way to the village.

It was arranged that Frank should visit the man Dan at the hotel, while President Elliott went to his lawyer with Ned.

It was an hour later when Frank, his mission completed, hurried his steps to overtake Professor Elliott and Ned, just returning to the academy from the lawyer's office. While in the town Frank stopped at the post-office and received a letter from his father, in which his parent stated that he was much improved in health.

"That's the best news yet," said the boy to himself.

"My lawyer believes that there is some plot afoot on the part of that man Brady to rob Foreman of some fortune," explained the school president. "He knows who this 'Judge' Grimm is, and will see that Foreman gets his rights."

"Yes," said Frank, "I have learned that this is true, and a good many other important facts in the case."

"Then the man Dan was able to see you?" inquired Ned eagerly.

"Yes, and he has told me everything," replied Frank. "He explained about the bracelet. It seems that Dan is not as bad as Brady and Jem, who stole it originally, right after I had visited the jeweler's shop. It was left in charge of Grimm, the lawyer. It was given with a sum of money to Jem after he and Dan brought me, supposed to be you, Ned, to the lawyer's office. After they brought me back to Bellwood, Jem and Dan went to the old cabin to settle up. Jem had the real bracelet. He palmed off a brass one on Dan. The latter discovered the fraud. There was a terrible fight. Dan is getting better. Jem has the real bracelet."

"Which Mr. Mace will have some trouble in recovering, I fancy," observed Ned.

"That is his business," remarked Professor Elliott drily. "We can now with the evidence of this man Dan positively prove your innocence, Jordan."

"About Ned, here," said Frank, "it seems that recently a distant relative left his dead stepsister a legacy consisting of some mortgages and a house and lot. Brady learned of this. His wife being dead, the legacy goes to Ned. What Brady was figuring on was to become Ned's appointed guardian so he could manage, or, rather, mismanage the estate until Ned was twenty-one years of age."

"We will soon have that phase of the case adjusted," observed the professor in a confident and satisfied tone.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

"Hi, fellows, look there!" shouted Bob Upton.

It was two days after the arrival of Samuel Mace, the jeweler, at Bellwood School, and the boys were engaged in their usual late afternoon sports on the campus. Bob was up and around again now, not much the worse for his experience with the "doctored" shoes.

"A fight!" exclaimed several, and there was a rush for two combatants, who seemed sparring in dead earnest on the outskirts of the Banbury contingent.

Banbury himself had just come striding from the school building in a great huff. He had rushed up to Gill Mace, and pulling him away from the others had engaged him in combat.

All the fellows knew that when Professor Elliott came home a few days previous quite a lot of complaints and delinquencies awaited him. Among these the only one very serious was the burning of a haystack belonging to a farmer named Wadsworth.

Suspicion had pointed to the Banbury crowd. The farmer had once caught several members of that group smoking in his barn, and had driven them out violently. Banbury had threatened revenge, and the day before Frank had returned from his trip in the covered wagon one of Farmer Wadsworth's haystacks had burned to the ground.

Banbury had been summoned to the office of the president. Just now returning from it, he had started the present fight.

As Frank and his crowd reached the scene of the conflict and joined the ring about the combatants Banbury struck out with a blow that sent Gill Mace reeling to the ground with a bloody nose.

"Take that, you sneak!" shouted Banbury furiously.

"Hello!" exclaimed Bob Upton. "He knows his right name at last."

"I'll fix you," blubbered Gill, "you great big coward!"

"You shut up, or I'll give you worse," threatened Banbury. "A nice fellow you are! Went and peached on me about that haystack."

"You lied to the professor about us, saying we had a hand in it," declared Gill.

"Well, you've got me suspended, sent home, and I'll probably be expelled."

"You ought to be!" yelled Gill, as a twinge of pain made him howl anew. "It was you who got me sick smoking cigarettes and thought it was funny. Yes, and it was you, too," blabbed the mean-spirited traitor, "who put those brads in Bob Upton's shoes, so he would lose the race."

"What?" shouted Dean Ritchie.

He made a vigorous break through the ranks of the crowd with the word. "The cat was out of the bag" at last, the secret told. Banbury saw the doughty Ritchie coming for him. He turned in a flash.

It was a race to the nearest school building. Banbury reached it first. The other boys, running after pursued and pursuer, arrived at the spot to find Banbury safe within the precincts of the classic temple of learning, and Ritchie fuming at the open doorway.

"I say, let up, Ritchie," suggested Frank. "We've had enough squabbling."

"Not a bit of it," demurred Ritchie. "No, sir. I said that if ever I found out who played that mean, low-down trick on Upton, the culprit or I would leave this school."

"Well, it was Banbury, and he's going to leave, isn't he?" argued Frank.

"Yes; but I said that one of us would go the worst licked boy in Bellwood. I mean to keep my word."

Remonstrances were in vain. With a grim, resolute face, Dean Ritchie took up his post at the entrance to the academy, pacing up and down and waiting for his chance to have another interview with Banbury.

It never came. Some of Banbury's crowd informed their leader of what was waiting for him, and Banbury managed to sneak out of the school by the rear, and reached the depot at Bellwood and was on his way home before Ritchie found out that he had escaped.

"Well, let him go. A good riddance," commented Ritchie, when he was informed of the fact. "His crowd needs a further cleaning out, though. I suggest a law and order vigilance committee. There's going to be a rooting up of all the cads and sneaks around here, if I have my way. This is a decent school; we've got a grand old fatherly president, and the fellow who can't have fun without meanness has got to leave, that's all."

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

"A box, you say?" observed Frank Jordan one day, as Bob Upton came up calling.

"Yes," returned Bob excitedly.

"Just arrived?"

"While you were out on the campus. Came by express, and directed to Mr. Frank Jordan, as big as life. What do you suppose it is?"

"Maybe some fruit from my folks in the South," suggested Frank. "What was in the box?"

"It's light. I shook it -- nothing to indicate."

"Where is it?"

"I took it up to your room. Hey, Ritchie, and you, Foreman -- come and be witnesses before Frank sneaks a box of goodies under cover."

The little group proceeded pell-mell up the stairs and were soon in Frank's room. Eager, curious eyes observed a box about two feet square on a little stand.

"There's holes in the top, and -- hello! there's something alive in this box, Frank," declared Bob.

"Yes, I can hear it scratching," put in Ritchie.

"Oho!" exclaimed Frank, enlightened now. "This end up -- handle with care. I know."

"Know what, Jordan?" inquired Ned.

But Frank did not answer. He had detached the shipping tag, and was reading some words written on its reverse side.

"I am sending you my special pet, Rambo," the scrawl read, "because nothing is too good for you. Highly educated, gentle. I know you'll be good to him."

Frank recalled his new friend, Dave, with a smile of pleasure. He took the cover off the box. Nestled contentedly in some soft hay at its bottom was a wonder-eyed little monkey. Beside the animal was a thin, long chain.

To be sure, the boys made a lot of the cute little pet during the next hour. The word went around, and Rambo held quite a reception. A drink of water and a cracker put the animal in rare good humor, and he began to show off.

Rambo would sit in a chair and hold a book, pretending to read. He could whirl around, hanging by his tail from a hook in the ceiling. His agility, displayed in springs, curvets and climbing, was something prodigious.

Frank arranged the box comfortably, and lots of fun they had with the clever, friendly little animal.

Mace and his crowd, with their usual envy for the enjoyment of others, complained finally that the chattering of the monkey awakened them nights. This was not true, but obedient to the suggestion of the monitor, until the faculty could act in the affair, Frank shut Rambo up in a room in the unused attic nights, not wishing to trust him along with the other animals in the academy stables.

This was a providential move, it developed later. The second night of Rambo's isolation, toward morning, Frank was awakened by the crash of glass. He got up to find that the monkey had burst in through the outside window. Rambo was bleeding and shivering on the floor.

"Hello, this is strange!" exclaimed Bob, roused up also from sleep. "I say, Frank, I smell smoke!"

"That's so," replied Frank quickly. "Where does it come from?"

They ran out into the corridor, to quickly trace the smoke to its source. It evidently proceeded from the attic. Rushing there, Frank and Bob found some rafters on fire. They had evidently ignited near the chimney.

Rambo, it seemed, frightened at his danger, had broken through the attic window and had reached the boys' room in time to warn them. The fire was soon extinguished, but it might have been serious had it not been discovered in time.

That settled it for useful, vigilant Rambo. He was given permanent quarters in Frank's room, and was treated like a hero by the academy boys.

Another box came to Frank a few days later -- from his father in the sunny South. It was filled with oranges, pineapples and other luscious fruits, and there was a gay supper in Frank's room that night. Even Gill Mace and his crowd were invited, and little Rambo was an honored guest at the banquet.

Frank felt that the disturbed air of the academy was clearing. Certainly his own affairs and those of Ned Foreman had come out most satisfactorily.

Samuel Mace had been convinced that Frank was innocent of any connection with the theft of the diamond bracelet. He had started out the officers of Bellwood to look up the real robbers, Tim Brady and his accomplice, the man Jem.

These two rascals had got an inkling of what was up and had fled the country -- not, however, until they had disposed of the bracelet to an innocent purchaser. The jeweler had to pay out a large sum of money to recover it.

Gill Mace was compelled to retract in public his false charge against Frank, and the vindication of the latter was made complete. Then, to the surprise of our hero, came word from Banbury that Gill had once boasted of cutting loose a house that was being moved up a hill, using Frank's knife for that purpose and thereby getting our hero in trouble. This matter was investigated, and in the end Samuel Mace had to pay for the wrecking of the old building. This angered the jeweler, and he punished his nephew severely for his misconduct.

A pleasant position on a farm was secured for the man called Dan, who promised to lead an honest life in the future.

As to Ned, the homeless lad felt that the greatest happiness in the world had come into his life. The lawyer, Grimm, had been frightened into telling all about Brady's plot. The estate that belonged to Ned was traced, and Professor Elliott was legally made the boy's guardian.

The academy president called Frank, Ned and Bob to his office one evening, and informed them of the pleasant outcome of their affairs.

"Just think of it," said Ned, with happy tears in his eyes. "I'm sure of an education now, and all through the loyal friendship of the best boy I ever knew, Frank Jordan."

"I echo that sentiment," added Bob. "Why, say, I didn't know life was really worth living till I met Frank."

"Forget it, fellows," ordered Frank modestly, though flushing with genuine pleasure. "You may help me to win some battles yet."

"Jordan," spoke the bland old professor, handing a sealed letter to Frank, "you may feel very proud sending that letter to your father. It tells all the good things I know about a noble, honorable boy."

"Well, professor," replied Frank, "we've made you a good deal of trouble. Now we're going to get down to good hard work."

"And play," added Professor Elliott, with the kindly, earnest smile that made him the true friend of the boys of Bellwood School.

<eob>

Colonel Crockett's Co-Operative Christmas

By

Rupert Hughes



Letter One


New York, N. Y., Dec. 26, 1904.

Friend Wife:

The miserablest night I ever spent in all my born days -- the solitariest, with no seconds -- was sure this identical Christmas night in New York City. And I've been some lonesome, too, in my time.

I've told you how, as a boy, I shipped before the mast -- the wrong mast -- and how the old tub bumped a reef and went down with all hands -- and feet -- except mine. You remember me telling how I grabbed aholt of a large wooden box and floated on to a dry spot. It knocked the wind out of my stummick considerable, but I hung on kind of unconscious till the tide went out. When I come to, I looked round to see where in Sam Hill I was at, and found I was on a little pinhead of an island about the size a freckle would be on the moon. All around was mostly sky, excepting for what was water. And me with nothing to drink it with!

I set down hard on the box and felt as blue as all the swear words ever swore. There was nothing in sight to eat, and that made me so hungry that me and the box fell over backward. As I laid there sprawled out, with my feet up on the box, I looked between my knees and read them beautiful words, "Eat Buggins' Biscuit," in plain sight before me on the end of the box.

Well, me and friend Buggins inhabited that place -- about as big as one of Man Friday's footprints -- for going on four weeks. When tide was in, I held the box on my head to keep my powder dry. 'Long toward the end of my visit, just before the ship that saved me hove in sight, I began to feel a mite tired of that place. I kind o' felt as if I'd saw about all that was int'resting on that there island. I thought I was unhappy and I had a sneaking idea I was lonesome. But I see I was mistaken. I hadn't spent a Christmas night alone in a big city then.

Then once when I was prospecting for our mine, I was snowed up in a pass. I reckon I've told you how I got typhoid fever and wrestled it out all day by my lonesome; unparalleled thirst, Boston baked brains, red flannel tongue, delirium dreamins, and self-acting emetic, down to the final blissful "Where am I at?" and on through the nice long convalescence till my limbs changed from twine strings to human members. Six weeks doing time as doctor, patient, trained nurse and fellow-Mason all in one, was being alone right smart. But it wasn't a patch on the little metrolopis of Manhattan on Santy Claus day.

Then once I had a rather unrestful evening out in the western part of Texas. A fellow sold me a horse right cheap, and later a crowd of gentlemen accused me of stealing it, and I was put in jail with a promise of being lynched before breakfast. That was being uncomfortable some, too. But I wished last night that my friend, Judge Watson, hadn't come along that night and identified me. It would have saved me from New Yorkitis.

Then there was the night when I proposed for your hand and you sent me to your pa, and he said if I ever come near again he'd sic the dogs on me. I spent that night at a safe distance from the dogs, leaning on a fence, and not noticing it was barb wire till I looked at my clothes and my hide next day. I watched your windows till the light went out and all my hope with it -- and on after that till, as the poet says, till daylight doth appear.

Then there's the time I told you about, when -- but there's no use of making a catalog of every time I've been lonesome. I have taken my pen in hand to inform you that last night beat everything else on my private list of troubles. My other lonely times was when I was alone, but the lonesomest of all was in the heart of the biggest crowd on this here continent.

There was people a-plenty. But I didn't know one gol-darned galoot. I had plenty of money, but nobody to spend it on -- except tiptakers. I was stopping at this big hotel with lugsury spread over everything, thicker than sorghum on corn pone. But lonely -- why, honey, I was so lonely that, as I walked along the streets, I felt as if I'd like to break into some of the homes and compel 'em at the point of my gun to let me set in and dine with 'em.

I felt like asking one of the bell-boys to take me home and get his ma to give me a slice of goose and let her talk to me about her folks.

There was some four million people in a space about the size of our ranch. There was theatres to go to -- but who wants to go to the theatre on Christmas? -- it's like going to church on the Fourth of July. There were dime muzhums, penny vawdevilles, dance-halls.

There was a big dinner for news-boys. The Salvation Army and the Volunteers gave feeds to the poor. But I couldn't qualify. I wasn't poor. I had no home, no friends, no nothing.

The streets got deserteder and deserteder. A few other wretches was marooned like me in the hotel corridors. We looked at each other like sneak-thieves patroling the same street. Waiters glanced at us pitiful as much as to say, "If it wasn't for shrimps like you, I'd be home with my kids."

The worst of it was, I knew there were thousands of people in town in just my fix. Perhaps some of them were old friends of mine that I'd have been tickled to death to fore-gather with; or leastways, people from my State. Texas is a big place, but we'd have been brothers and sisters -- or at least cousins once removed -- for Christmas' sake. But they were scattered around at the St. Regis or the Mills Hotel, the Martha Washington or somewhere, while I was at the Waldorf-hyphen-Astoria.

It was like the two men that Dickens -- I believe it was Dickens -- tells about: Somebody gives A a concertina, but he can't play on it; winter coming on and no overcoat; he can't wear the concertina any more than he can tootle it. A few blocks away is a fellow, Mr. B. He can play a concertina something grand, but he hasn't got one and his fingers itch. He spends all his ready money on a brand-new overcoat, and just then his aunt sends him another one. He thinks he'll just swap one of them overcoats for a concertina. So he advertises in an exchange column. About the same time, A advertises that he'll trade one house-broken concertina for a nice overcoat. But does either A or B ever see B's or A's advertisements? Not on your beautiful daguerreotype.

That was the way with us-all in New York. The town was full of lonesome strangers, and we went moping round, stumbling over each other and not daring to speak.

They call us "transients" here. It's like a common sailor that's lost at sea; he's only a "casualty." So us poor, homeless dogs in New York are only transients. Why, do you know, I was that lonely I could have stood out in the square like a lonely old cow in the rain, and just mooed for somebody to take me in.

I'd have telegraphed for you and the childern to come to town, but Texas is so far away, and you'd have got here too late, and you couldn't come anyway, being sick, as you wrote me, and one of the kids having malary. How is his blessed self to-day? I hope you're feeling better. Telegraph if you ain't, and I'll take the first train home.

Well, last night I ate a horrible mockery of a Christmas dinner in a deserted restaurant, and it gave me heartburn (in addition to heartache) and a whole brood-stable of nightmares. I went to bed early, and stayed awake late. Gee! that was an awful night.

I tried Philosophy -- the next station beyond Despair. I said to myself, "You old fool, why in the name of all that's sensible should you feel so excited about one day more than another?" I wasn't so lonely the day before Christmas, I ain't so lonely to-day, but then I was like a small boy with the mumps and the earache on the Fourth of July. The firecrackers will pop just as lively another day, but -- well, the universe was simply throwed all out of gear, like it must have been when Joshua held up the moon -- or was it the sun?

You remember reading me once about -- I reckon it was Mr. Aldrich's pleasing idea of the last man on earth; everybody killed off by a pestilence or something, and him setting there by his lonely little lonesome; and what would he have done if he had heard his door-bell ring? Well, I reckon he'd have done what I'd have done if I'd met a friend -- given one wild whoop, wrapped his arms round his neck, kissed him on both cheeks, and died with a faint gurgle of joy. I'd of been glad to have died so, too.

Finally, I swore that if I ever foresaw myself being corralled again in a strange city on Christmas, I'd put on a sandwich board or something and march up and down the streets with a sign like this:


I'm lonely! I'm homesick for a real Christmas! There must be others. Let's get together! Meet me at the Fountain in Union Square! We'll hang our stockings on the trees. Perhaps some snow will fall in 'em. Come one -- Come all! Both great and small!


I bet such a board would stir up a procession of exiles a mile and a half long. And we'd get together and have a good crying match on each other's shoulders, and wring each other's hands, while the band played Old Lang's Sign.

But it's over now. I've lived through the game of Christmas solitaire in a big city, and I feel as relieved as a man just getting out of a dentist's office. He's minus a few molars, and aches considerable, but he's full of a pleasing emptiness.

But let me say right here, and put it in black and white: If I'm ever dragged away from home again on Christmas, I'll take laughing-gas enough for a day and two nights, or I'll take some violent steps to get company, if I have to hire a cayuse and a lariat and rustle Broadway, rounding up a herd of other unbranded stray cattle.

Well, this is a long letter for me, honey, and I will close. Love and kisses to the sweet little kids and to the best wife a fellow ever had.

Your loving

Austin.


P. S. I pulled off the deal all right. The syndicate buys the mine. I get $500,000 in cash and $500,000 in stock, and I start for home in three days. We'll hang up our stockings on New Year's Day.



Between Letters


The Fates accepted Colonel Crockett's challenge, and, by an irresistible syndication of events, forced him to be alone in New York again the very next Christmas. After a series of masterly financial strokes, he had felt rich enough in his two millions to spend a year abroad with his family. A cablegram called him to America early in December, to a directors' meeting. Expecting to return at once, he had left his family in Italy. A legal complication kept him postponing his trip from day to day; and finally an important hearing, in which he was a valued witness, was postponed by the referee -- or deferee -- till after the holidays. The Colonel saw himself confronted with another Christmas far away from any of his people. The first two days he spent in violent profanity, and in declining invitations which he received from business acquaintances to share their homes. Then he set out to make the occasion memorable. Once more we may leave the account to him.



Letter Two


New York, N. Y., Dec. 28, 1905.

Friend Wife:

Well, I've been and went and gone and done it! And golly, but it was fun -- barring wishing you and the little ones had of been here, too. Next year we'll arrange it so, for I'm going to do it again. You remember Artemus Ward's man who "had been dead three weeks and liked it." Well, that's me. This camping out in New York is getting to be a habit. I'm sending you a bundle of newspaper clippings as big as a stovepipe -- all about Yours Truly.

As soon as I saw that circumstances had organized a pool to corner me and my Christmases, I spent a couple of days sending up rain-making language. Then I settled down to work like a bronco does to harness after kicking off the dashboard and snapping a couple of traces.

"If I've got to be alone this Christmas," I says to myself, "I'll make it the gol-blamedest, crowdedest solitude ever heard of this side of the River."

I looked for the biggest place in town under one roof. Madison Square Garden was it. You remember it. We was there to the Horse Show -- so-called. You recollect, I reckon, that the Garden holds right smart of people. At a political meeting once they got 14,000 people into it, and there was still room for Grover Cleveland to stand and make a speech.

Well, feeling kind o' flush and recklesslike, I decided to go and see the manager, or janitor, or whatever he is. And go I did. I says to him: "Could I rent your cute little shack for one evening -- Christmas night?"

"Certainly, sir," he says. "There happens to be nothing doing this Christmas."

"How much would it set me back?" I says very polite.

"Only one thousand plunks," says he smiling.

"But, my dear Gaston," I says with a low bow, "I don't want to buy your little Noah's Ark for the baby. I only want to borrow it for one evening."

"One thou. is our bargain-counter limit," he says. "I couldn't make it less for the poor old Czar of Rooshy."

I kind o' hesitated, remembering the time when a thousand dollars would have kept me comfortable for about three years. It's hard to get over the habit of counting your change. Then Mr. Janitor, seeing me kind o' groggy, says, a little less polite:

"If that's more than you care to pay for a single room you can get a cot for five cents on the Bowery; for a quarter you can get a whole suite."

That riled me. I flashed a wad of bills on him that made his eyes look like two automobile lamps. He could see it wasn't Confederate money, either. Then I shifted my cigar to detract attention while I swallowed my Adam's apple, and I says:

"I was only hesitating, my boy, because I wondered if your nice young Garden would be big enough. You haven't got a couple more to rent at the same price?"

He wilted and caved in like a box of ice cream does just before you get home with it. Then he began to bow lower, and we cut for a new deal. He took the lead.

He says what might I be wanting to use the Garden for?

"Oh, I won't bulge the walls or strain the floor," I says. "I only want it for a Christmas tree. I am going to invite my friends to a little party."

"Whew, but you must be popular!" he says. "Who the dickens are you? Brother Teddy, or Mother Eddy?"

"I'm Colonel D. Austin Crockett, of Waco," I says as meek as I could.

"Pleased to meet you, Colonel," he says. "What you running for? -- District Attorney? Or are you starting a new Mutual Benefit Life Assassination?"

"Neither," I says; "I'm a stranger in New York."

"But these friends of yours?" he gasped. "Is all Waco coming up here on an excursion? Is the town going to move bodily?"

"Mr. Prosecutor," I says, "if you'll stop cross-examining a minute, and let me tell how it all happened, it will save right smart of time. I am a stranger here to about four million people. They are strangers to me. We ought to know each other. So I'm going to give a little Madison Square Garden warming and invite 'em in."

"What are you going to sell 'em -- prize poultry, or physical culture?"

"I've nothing to sell. I'm just going to entertain 'em."

"Well, I've heard of Southern hospitality," he says, "but this beats me. How much you going to charge a head?"

"Nothing. Everything is to be free. Admission included."

"Not on your dear old Lost Cause!" he exclaims. "Leastways not in our little doll's house. Not for ten thousand dollars! Why, man, do you realize that if you offered these New York, Brooklyn, Bronx, Hackensack and Hoboken folks a free show, more'n two thousand women would get trampled to death? Did you ever see a bargain-counter crowd on Twenty-third Street? Well, that's only for a chance to get something they don't want at a fishbait price. But if you offered them a free, 'take-one' chance -- holy keewhiz! -- I can just see it now! The Garden ain't half big enough in the first place. There's enough Take-One'ers in these parts to fill the old Coliseum. And they'd make the wild animals look like a cage of rabbits or white mice."

Well, the upshot of it was, he persuaded me to charge an admission; so we set it at $1.00 a head "on the hoof." I wrote out a card and sent it to all the papers to print at advertising rates. It cost right smart, but it looked neat:


To Every Stranger In New York, And His Lady

If you are not otherwise engaged on Christmas night, the honor of your presence at Madison Square Garden is requested by

David Austin Crockett

Colonel Fifth Texas Cavalry, C. S. A.

Music, Dancing, Refreshments, Souvenirs. For the purpose of keeping out the undesirable element a charge of $1.00 will be made.


I knew that them magic words, "Refreshments" and "Souvenirs," would hit 'em hard. In order to whet the public interest, I asked the papers where I advertised to give the thing some editorial or other reference. But they was very cold and said the best they could do was to send their dramatic critics to criticise the show afterward. A lot of good that would do me! So I took more space in advertising.

In a day or two I was visited at the hotel by one of the most imperent young fellows I ever met up with. He sent up a card, "James J. James, Publicity Expert." I said to show him in, and he sort of oozed through the door -- he was that oily. He looked about to see if we was alone; then winked slow and important, and says:

"What's your game, Colonel? It looks pretty slick, but I can't quite make it out. It's a new bunco, all right, but slick as it looks, it ain't quite so slick as it ought to be."

"Look here, you cub," I roared, "if you imply that I have any evil motives in this, I'll shoot you so full of holes you'll look like a mosquito net!"

He wasn't a bit scared; he simply winked the other eye, and said in a kind of foreign-sounding language:

"Forget it, Colonel! Cut it out! Back to the alfalfa with your Buffalo Bill vocabulary! If you are really on the level, you don't need to prove it with artillery. But it makes no diff. to me about that. My business is producing fame, not merit. Once more I ask, what's your lay?"

I overcame a desire to kick him through the ceiling, and told him I proposed to entertain the strangers in New York.

"Strangers in New York? -- Why, that means everybody! There's been only one man born in New York since the war, and he's kept in alcohol at a dime muzhum. Your idea is really to give old New York a Christmas party, eh? Very pretty! Very pretty, indeed! But if you insist on exploding money all over the place, I don't see why you shouldn't get a run for it. Besides, I need a bit of it myself. What you want is a press agent. You're starting all wrong. People in New York can't understand or believe anything except through the language of the press agent. You take one on your staff, and in three days you'll be so famous that, if a child in a kindergarten is asked who is the Queen of Holland, it will answer: 'Colonel Crockett, of Waco.'"

Well, he poured out the most remarkable string of talk I ever heard, and before I knew it he had made me promise to trust my soul and my scheme to him; to be surprised at nothing that might appear in the papers, and to refer all reporters to him. The next morning I found my name on the front page of every journal, with my picture in most of them. It seems I had held at bay two hundred angry Italians who were trying to mob a Chinese laundryman. The evening papers said that I had stopped a runaway coach-and-four on Fifth Avenue, that morning, by lassoing the leader. On the coach were Mrs. Aster, Mrs. Fitch, Reggie Vanderbuilt, George Goold, Harry Leer and a passel of other "Among those presents." That night I went to a music-hall -- according to the next morning's papers -- and broke up the show by throwing a pocketful of solitaires to the chorus girls. The next day three burglars got into my room; I held them up in a corner, took away their masks, spanked them, and gave them each a hundred-dollar bill to help them to avoid temptation. That afternoon the three big life-insurance companies asked me to be president. And so on -- you can read for yourself in the clippings -- only for Heaven's sake don't believe any of it. In every article was a neat allusion to my Christmas party.

I wanted to kill James J. James, and I scoured the town for him, but he dodged me. He kept his word, though. For the last few days I've been the most talked-of man in town. Looks like I'd been the Only man in New York.

And now to tell about my little party. For two days a regiment of men was working in the Garden under my direction -- and at my expense. It was like paying the war appropriation of Russia. But it was worth it.

At six o'clock Christmas night the crowd began to line up at the Garden doors. At 6:30 a platoon of police arrived. At 6:40 the line reached twice around the Garden. At 6:45 they sent for more police. At 7:15 every street was solid with people. They called out the police reserves and clubbed about four hundred innocent bystanders insensible. At 7:45 the fire department was called and played the hose on the crowd.

This thinned 'em off a bit on the outsquirts. Then the ambulances give out and the fainting women was carried home in express wagons and wheelbarrows. The subway was the only line that could run cars.

At 8:30 the doors opened. You should of seen the rush. The Galveston flood wasn't in it. At 8:45 the Garden was so full they closed the doors. That sent some of the outside crowd home.

The Garden was a beautiful sight. On the tower outside, in big electric letters, there was a sign, "Merry Christmas to you and yours."

Inside it was decorated with holly leaves and berries -- tons and tons of it. At one end was built a big house with a chimbly and an old-fashioned fireplace. The roof of the house was covered with snow (cotton), and the sky back of it was full of electric stars that twinkled something beautiful. And there was a moon that looked like the real thing.

There was four bands in the balconies and a chorus of angels with real wings and electric halos. They sang "Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men," written for the occasion by Mr. De Koven.

By and by all the bands bust out gorgeous, and then Santy Claus appeared in a sleigh drawed by six real live stuffed reindeers. He run along the sky on unseen grooves and drove up to the roof of the house, and slid down the chimbly with a pack of presents. He filled all the stockings with candy cornycopies and toys, and a lot of attendants passed 'em out to the childern. You should of heard them squeal with joy -- poor little tots, living in hotels and apartment places where Santy Claus would of had to come up the steam radiator or the gas-log pipe to get in. Well, my Santy Claus had to make sixteen trips to satisfy the childern.

The Garden was divided into sections, one for every State and Territory, with its own shield in electric lights and colors. There was a native of every State in charge, and every State had its own big Christmas tree, and reception-room and refreshments. Some of the people I noticed seemed to of been born in several States at once, the way they passed from one booth to another fillin' up their pockets and stummicks. I reckon they paid for it the next day in doctors' bills.

But there was nary a sign of rowdyism. That dollar admission was a regular sieve for straining out the toughs. Then there were policemen everywhere, and every other man nearly was a plain-clothes man or a detective. Besides, after sober consideration, and on advice from the Gardeners, I cut out all drinks, except soft stuff. So there were no jags, except what some people brought with them from their Christmas dinners and loaded plum puddings.

And then, of course, that peculiar something we get into us at Christmas time filled everybody with a sort of loving fellowship and a hankering to hug their neighbors and divvy up their funds like a Mutual Life Insurance Company prospectus says it's a-going to do some day.

In the centre of the hall there was a big sign in electric letters:

Everybody Is Hereby Introduced To Everybody Else -- For To-Night Only


At every State booth you'd see people gathering and recognizing old friends or introducing theirselves to new ones. It was surprising how each State had its gathering.

At the Texas booth there was a big, immense crowd. A lot of them turned out to be old friends of ours; school friends of yours, ranch friends of mine, people I had worked for, people who had worked me -- or for me. A lot of them sent their love and a Merry Christmas to you. I remember especially --  --  [Here we omit a list of names, somewhat lacking in universal interest.]

I had advertised that people who wanted to give each other Christmas presents could have them hung on the State trees. My attendants gave them checks for their gifts and there wasn't many mix-ups. Old Miss Samanthy Clay got a box of cigars meant for Judge Randolph, and he got a pair of silver-buckle garters meant for her. But most of them come out right, and several of them was so surprised at getting presents in New York that they bust out crying. Major Calhoun's whiskers was soaking wet with tears when he got a bottle of old Bourbon from Judge Payton.

Rich folks who had been poor men met charter-members of the "I'm on to your origin" association. But the Christmas spirit made them forget to be snobs. You'd hear millionaires telling plain people how they used to play Hallowe'en jokes, how they scraped up to buy their mothers little Christmas gifts -- what ridiculous things they used to get and give!

All evening as fast as anybody went out they'd let somebody else in. Along about eleven o'clock a lot of the people began to go home. Then a new crowd come in. People who had taken their childern home and put them to bed would come back for more fun. Others, who had spent the evening dining, began to dribble in.

All the actor-people and singers came. It was good to see them. Some of them told me what a god-send such a thing was to them, homeless by profession. A lot of them brought their wives and babies. One father was playing Romeo in Newark, his wife was playing Little Eva in Harlem, and their daughter was playing Camille on Broadway. You should of seen them rejoicing round the Kansas tree!

About midnight the big refreshment hall was opened and everybody that could squeeze in set down to long tables where I had supper served. I had some of the best after-dinner speakers in town come in, and you should of heard some of the funny stories -- it would of brought back dear old childhood memories. Mayor McClellan gave us all a welcome, and then there was Chauncey Depew, of course, and Simeon Ford, and Augustus Thomas, and Wilton Lackaye, and Job Hedges, and Lemuel Ely Quigg, and General Horace Porter, and a passel of others.

They all made the most surprising allusions to your poor old husband. They called me Daddy and sang about me being a jolly good fellow. And one of them christened me "Santy Crockett." Why, my ears burned so hot I near set my collar on fire! It sure was worth all I spent, and I had a terrible time to keep from blubbering. I must of swallowed about four hundred and eleven Adam's apples.

Finally they called on me for a speech. I just kind o' gibbered -- I don't know what. The papers say I said: "Merry Christmas, my childern! This old world sure is some comfortable, after all. The only trouble is that the right people can't seem to get together at the right time often enough. But this here Christmas supper tastes to me terrible much like More. I'm going to try it again. And I hereby invite you all that ain't in any better place or any better world to meet me here a year from to-night. And so God bless you all, and -- and God bless everybody!"

Then after a lot of song-singing and hand-wringing we all went home, tears in every eye and smiles on every mouth. The remnants of food and toys made more than the twelve baskets full of Scripture. I sent them round to the Hospitals and Orphant Asylums. I've engaged the Garden again for next Christmas and paid a deposit down. It ain't the extravagance it looks, either, for while the expenses was high -- twelve thousand-odd dollars -- they took in at the door nearly eighteen thousand dollars. I sent the profit to the Salvation Army and the Volunteers, and now I'm being prayed for and hallelooyied for everywhere there's a bass drum. But I'd do it again if it cost me twenty thousand. It's worth that and more to have your heart nearly break wide open with joy and fellowship.

It was broad daylight when I got to bed, all wore out with happiness. I cuddled up, like I was a little boy once more in the days when I used to get up Christmas morning, cold and early, and look at my presents and then crawl back under the covers again with a double armful of toys, to keep warm and sleep some more.

If only you and the chicks had of been there! Next time you shall be.

Your loving

Austin.

<eob>

Marjorie's Maytime

By

Carolyn Wells



Chapter I

A May Party

"Marjorie Maynard's May Came on a beautiful day; And Marjorie's Maytime Is Marjorie's playtime; And that's what I sing and I say! Hooray! Yes, that's what I sing and I say!"

Marjorie was coming downstairs in her own sweet way, which was accomplished by putting her two feet close together, and jumping two steps at a time. It didn't expedite her descent at all, but it was delightfully noisy, and therefore agreeable from Marjorie's point of view.

The May-day was undeniably beautiful. It was warm enough to have doors and windows flung open, and the whole house was full of May that had swarmed in from out of doors.

The air was soft and fragrant, the leaves were leaving out, the buds were budding, and the spring was springing everywhere.

The big gold bushes of the Forsythia were masses of yellow bloom; crocuses popped up through the grass; a few birds had begun to sing, and the sun shone as if with a settled determination to push the spring ahead as fast as he could.

Moreover it was Saturday, which was the best proof of all, of an intelligent and well-behaved Spring. For a May-day which knew enough to fall on a Saturday was a satisfactory May-day, indeed!

Of course there was to be a May party, and of course it was to be at the Maynards', because Marjorie always claimed that the whole month of May belonged to their family, and she improved every shining hour of the Maytime.

The May party was really under the auspices of the Jinks Club. But as the club was largely composed of Maynards, it was practically a Maynard May party.

The bowers for the May Queens had been built out on the lawn, and though a little wabbly as to architecture, they were beautiful of decoration, and highly satisfactory to the Royalty most interested.

There were two May Queens, because Marjorie and Delight both wanted the position; and though both were willing to resign in favor of the other it was a much pleasanter arrangement to have two Queens. So there were two bowers, and Marjorie was to be the Red Queen and Delight the White Queen.

Of course Kingdon was the May King. No one had ever heard of a May King before, but that didn't bother the Jinks Club any, for they were a law unto themselves.

Kitty and Dorothy Adams were Princesses of May, and Flip Henderson was a Prince of May. Rosy Posy was a May Maid of Honor, and Mrs. Maynard was persuaded to accept the role of Queen Dowager of May.

Miss Hart was of the party, and the title of Duchess of May seemed to fit her exactly.

And now the time had come, and Marjorie was jumping downstairs on her way to her own coronation. She wore a red dress, very much trimmed with flowers made of red tissue paper. The name of the flower doesn't matter, for they were not exact copies of nature, but they were very pretty and effective, and red silk stockings and slippers finished off the brilliant costume that was very becoming to Marjorie's rosy face, with its dark eyes and dark curly hair.

As she reached the lower hall she saw Delight coming across the street, arrayed as the White Queen. Really she looked more like a fairy, with her frilly white frock and her golden hair and blue eyes.

"Hello, Flossy Flouncy!" called out King, using his pet name for Delight; "you're a daisy May Queen! I offer you my humble homage!"

A daisy May Queen was an appropriate term, for Delight's white frock was trimmed and wreathed with garlands of daisies. Not real ones, for they were not yet in bloom, except in green-houses; and so artificial ones had been sewn on her frock with pretty effect.

King's own attempt at a regal costume had resulted gorgeously, for with his mother's help, he had contrived a robe of state, which looked like purple velvet and ermine, though it was really canton flannel. But it had a grand and noble air, and King wore it with a majestic strut that would have done credit to any coronation.

Kitty and Dorothy wore light green dresses trimmed with pink paper roses, and were very pretty little princesses; while Rosy Posy as Maid of Honor wore one of her own little white frocks, tied up lavishly with blue ribbons.

Flip Henderson's costume was a good deal like King's, as he had purposely copied it, not having any other design to work from.

Mrs. Maynard and Miss Hart were not so fancifully attired as the younger members of the party, but they wore pretty light gowns with more or less floral decoration.

The whole affair was impromptu; the children had spent the morning getting it up, and now were going to devote the afternoon to the party itself.

"We must make a procession," began Marjorie, who was mistress of ceremonies; "you must go first, Mother, because the May Queen Dowager is the most honorable one."

"Me go first, too," announced Rosy Posy, taking her mother's hand.

"Yes, you may," said Marjorie. "In fact, Baby, you'd better go first of all, because you're Maid of Honor; and so you walk in front of the Queen Dowager."

So Rosy Posy toddled ahead, followed by Mrs. Maynard, who carried a wand of flowers with gracious effect.

"The Queens ought to come next," said King, but Marjorie's sense of politeness interfered with this plan.

"No, the Duchess must come next," she said; "I don't care whether it's right or not as a procession, but I think Miss Hart ought to go before us children."

So the Duchess of May took her place next in line, and then the two Queens side by side followed.

Then came the two Princesses, and behind them, the King of May and the Prince, walking together in affable companionship. It was an imposing sight, and the paraders were so pleased with themselves that they marched round the lawn several times before going to the scene of the festivity.

But at last they went to the Coronation Bowers, and decided it was time for the ceremonies to begin.

The two crowns were in readiness for the two Queens. They were exactly alike, and were made of pasteboard covered with gilt paper. Miss Hart had helped with these, and they were really triumphs of gorgeous beauty. Each lay on a lace-trimmed cushion, and with them were long golden sceptres with gilt balls on top.

"Who's to do to the crowning?" asked King.

"Why, I supposed you had those details all settled in advance," said Miss Hart, laughing.

"No," returned King, "we didn't fix things up ahead much, we thought we'd just make up as we went along. I'll crown Flossy Flouncy, and Flip, you crown Marjorie, -- that'll be all right."

The other members of the Royal Family took seats on rustic benches, and the two Queens mounted their thrones. The bowers were pretty, and as they stood side by side, framing the smiling Queens, it was a pretty picture.

"I hate to stop the proceedings," said Miss Hart, "but I think I must run over and get my camera, and take a snap-shot of this Coronation."

"All right," said King, agreeably, "we'll wait. We'll sing a song while you're gone, and you can skip over and back in no time."

So while the children sang the "Star Spangled Banner," Miss Hart ran across the street, and came back with her camera.

"Better wait until they get their crowns on," suggested Kitty, "they'll look a heap queenlier then."

So the coronation ceremony proceeded. The King and the Prince advanced majestically to the thrones, bearing the crowns on their cushions.

"Who'll make the speech?" asked the King.

"You may," said Flip, politely.

"No, you're better at it than I am. Well, we'll each make one. You can begin."

So Flip advanced, and holding his burden high at arms' length he dropped on one knee before Marjorie, and began to declaim in oratorical tones:

"Fair Maiden, Queen of May, I salute thee! I salute all the rest of you too, but mostly the Queen, because she is the principal pebble on the beach. Queens always are. And so, Fair Maiden, Fair Maynard Maiden, I salute thee."

"That's enough saluting," put in King; "go on with your crowning."

"And so, fair Queen of May, I crown thee, our Queen and our Sovereign! May your shadow never grow less, and may you have many happy returns of the day! And with kind regards to all, I'm your humble servant."

Having set the crown squarely on Marjorie's head, Flip bowed low in humble salutation, and then resumed an upright position, rather pleased with his own speech.

"I accept thy homage, O Prince," said Marjorie, as she bowed and smiled with queenly grace; "and I shall endeavor to be the best Queen in all the world, except Delight, who will probably be better."

With this graceful tribute to her companion queen, Marjorie sat down, holding her head very straight lest her crown should tumble off.

Then King advanced to Delight, and holding up the other crown, began his declamatory effort.

"Oh, Queen! Oh, White Queen! Oh, our beautiful sovereign! I bring to thee a crown, -- a crown to crown you with, to show to all that you are our beloved and beloving Queen of May. Accept, oh, Queen, this crown and sceptre, and with them the assurance of our alleged loyalty, our humble submission, and our majestic royalty! I am a little at a loss for any thing further to say, as I can't think of any more highfalutin words, so you may as well put on your crown, and let's have some fun."

But though King's high-flown language failed him, it was with a very magnificent manner that he crowned his Queen and gave her the flower-trimmed sceptre.

Then Delight, looking lovelier than ever in her added regalia, made her own little speech.

"I thank you, my people, for your tokens of love and loyalty. I thank you for choosing me to be your queen, and my rule shall be a happy one. My only law is, for everybody to do just what they want to, and so I pronounce the Coronation Ceremonies over."

Delight bowed, and sat down on her throne, while the audience applauded heartily.

Then the two Queens came down from their bowers, and Royalty gave way to the members of the Jinks Club.

"Now, let's cut up jinks!" cried King, capering about in his long Court robes, and looking like a very merry Monarch, indeed. "First the May-pole dance, that'll limber us up some."

A May-pole had been erected near by, and from its top depended long ribbons of various colors. Each of the party took one of these ribbons, and under the direction of Miss Hart, they danced round the May-pole, weaving the ribbons in and out. It was a complicated matter at first, but they soon learned how, and wove and unwove the ribbons many times without getting tangled once. As they danced, they sang a little May song that Miss Hart had taught them, and as they danced faster and faster it became a frolic rather than a dignified rite.

At last, all out of breath they dropped on the grass, and begged Miss Hart to tell them a story.

"I'll tell you of the origin of the May-day celebrations," she said. "May-day has been a festival since very ancient times. Its reason for being is the natural feeling that comes to every one at the glad spring time. When Nature breaks out into new life and beauty, our hearts feel a sympathetic gladness, and a celebration of the spring is the natural outcome. The most primitive people felt this inclination, and they used to gather the flowers that bloomed in profusion about them, set them up, and to pay them a sort of homage, expressed in dance and song. The old Romans had what they called Floralia, or Floral Games, which began on the twenty-eighth of April, and lasted several days. Later in England, and especially in the Middle Ages, it was the custom for people of all ranks, even the Court itself, to go out early in the morning on the first of May and gather flowers. Especially did they gather hawthorn, and huge branches of this flower were brought home about sunrise, with accompaniments of pipe and tabor, and much joy and merriment. Then the people decorated their houses with the flowers they had brought. And because of this, they called this ceremony bringing Home the May, or going A-Maying, and so the hawthorn bloom itself acquired the name of May, and is often spoken of by that name. In those early days, the fairest maid of the village was crowned with flowers, and called the Queen of May; she sat in state in a little bower or arbor while her youthful courtiers danced and sang around her. But the custom of having a May Queen really dates back to the old Roman celebration when they especially worshipped the goddess Flora. Another feature of May-day was the May-pole, which was erected in all English towns and villages, and round which the people danced all day long. But these merry customs were stopped when the Puritans put an end to all such jollifications. They were revived somewhat after the restoration, but they are rarely seen nowadays except among children. But they are all pretty customs, and the whole subject will well repay reading and study. I won't continue this lecture now, but before the month of May is over, we will study in school hours some of its characteristics, and we will read the poem of the May Queen, by Lord Tennyson."

"I wish you had boys in your school, Miss Hart," said Flip Henderson; "you do teach the nicest way I ever heard of."

"Indeed she does," agreed Marjorie; "going to school to Miss Hart is like going to a party every day."

And then came the crowning glory of the May party. This was the feast, which was served out of doors on a table prettily decorated with vines and flowers. Dainty sandwiches were tied up with pink ribbons, and little glass cups held delicious pink lemonade. The cakes were iced with pink, the ice cream was pink, and there were pink bon-bons of various sorts. At each plate was a little pink box of candies to take home; and a souvenir for each guest in the shape of a pink fan for the girls, and pink balloons for the boys. The big balloons made much fun as they bobbed about in the air, and when the feast was over, the guests went away declaring that the Jinks Club had never had a prettier party.



Chapter II

A New Pet


When Mr. Maynard came home that night he was treated to an account of the whole affair, but as two or three of the little Maynards often talked at once, the effect was sometimes unintelligible.

"It was the loveliest party, Father," said Marjorie, as she hung over one arm of his chair, and arranged a somewhat large bunch of blossoms in his buttonhole.

"Yes, it was," agreed Kitty, who hung on the other arm of the chair, and investigated his coat pockets in the hope of finding a box of candy or other interesting booty.

"It sure was!" declared King, who was sitting on a footstool near, and hugging one knee with apparently intense affection.

"And what made it so especially delightful?" asked Mr. Maynard, as he balanced Rosy Posy on his knee; "you tell me, Baby."

"It was a bootiful party," said Rosy Posy, with decision, "because we had pink ice cream."

"That was about the best part," said Kitty, reminiscently.

"Well, the pink ice cream part sounds delightful, I'm sure; but what was the rest of the party about?"

"Oh, it was a May party," exclaimed Marjorie, "and we had May Queens, and a May King, and May Princesses, and everything! I do love May, don't you, Father? Everything is so bright and bloomy and Maysy. I think it is the loveliest month in the year."

"Yes, it is a lovely month, Mopsy, and a good month to be out of doors. Maytime is playtime."

"Yes, I know it; I made a song this morning about that. I'll sing it to you." And Marjorie sang for her father the little verse she had mad about Marjorie Maynard's May.

"Huh!" said King, "'tisn't your May, any more than anybody else's, Midget Maynard."

"No, I know it; but I like to think the May just belongs to us Maynards. Anyway we have it all. It is our May even if other people use it, too."

"I don't begrudge them the use of it," said Kitty; "of course, it's just as much theirs as ours."

"Yes, of course," assented Marjorie; "I'm only just sort of imagining, you know."

"Let me help you imagine. Midget," said her father. "How would you like to imagine a whole May time that was all playtime?"

"For all of us?" rejoined Marjorie, her eyes dancing. "Oh, that would be a lovely imagination! It would be like an Ourday all the time! And by the way, Father, you owe us an extra Ourday. You know we skipped one when you and Mother were down South, and it's time for another anyway. Shall we have two together?"

"Two together!" cried King; "what fun that would be! We could go off on a trip or something."

"Where could we stay all night?" asked Kitty, who was the practical one.

"Oh, trips always have places to stay all night," declared King; "let's do it, Father. What do you say?"

"I don't get a chance to say much of anything, among all you chatter-boxes. Rosy Posy, what do you say?"

But the littlest Maynard was so nearly asleep that she had no voice in the matter under consideration, and at her father's suggestion, Nurse Nannie came and took her away to bed.

"Now," said Mr. Maynard, "what's all this about Ourday? And two of them together! When do you think I'm going to get my business done?"

"Well, but, Father, you owe them to us," said Marjorie, patting his cheek in her wheedlesome way. "And you're not the kind of a business man who doesn't pay his debts, are you?"

"I hope not; that would be a terrible state of affairs! And so I owe you two Ourdays, do I?"

"Yes, one for April, and one for May."

It was the custom in the Maynard household to have an Ourday each month. On these occasions both Mr. and Mrs. Maynard devoted themselves all day long to the entertainment of the four children, and the four took turns in deciding what the nature of the entertainment should be. Much of the previous month their parents had been away, and the children looked forward to the celebration of the belated Ourday in connection with the one that belonged to the month of May.

"Before we discuss the question further," said Mr. Maynard, "I must tell you of something I did to-day. I adopted a new pet."

"Oh, Father, what is it -- a dog?" cried Marjorie.

"No, it isn't a dog; guess again."

"A cat!" Kitty guessed, while King said, "A goat?"

"Wrong, all of you," said Mr. Maynard; "now see if you can't guess it by asking twenty questions."

"All right," said Marjorie, who was always ready for a game. "Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

"All three; that is, it belongs to all three kingdoms."

"Is it a house?" asked Kitty.

"No, it is not as big as a house."

"Is it useful or ornamental?" asked King.

"Both; but its principal use is to give pleasure."

"How lovely!" cried Marjorie. "I guess it's a fountain! Oh, Father, where are you going to put it -- on the side lawn? And will it have goldfish in it, and shiny stones, and green water plants growing in it?"

"Wait a minute, Mops; don't go so fast! You see, it isn't a fountain, and if you should put water and goldfish in it, you'd spoil it entirely."

"And any way, Father," said King, "you said it was a pet, didn't you?"

"Yes, my boy, a sort of pet."

"Can it talk?"

"No, it can't talk."

"Oh, I made sure it was a talking machine. What kind of a sound does it make?"

"Well, it purrs sometimes."

"Then it is a kitten after all," cried Kitty.

"No, it isn't a kitten. It's bigger than a kitten."

"An old cat!" said Marjorie, scornfully.

"Pooh," said King, "we'll never get at it this way. Of course it isn't a cat! Father wouldn't make so much fuss over just a cat."

"But I'm not making a fuss," protested Mr. Maynard; "I only told you I had adopted a new pet, and suggested you guess what it is. If you give up I'll tell you."

"I don't give up," cried Kitty; "what color is it?"

"Red," answered her father.

"Ho!" cried Kitty, with a sudden flash of inspiration, "it's an automobile!"

"Right you are, Kitsie," said her father, "though I don't know why you guessed it so quick."

"Well, nothing else is red and big. But why do you call it a pet? And how does it purr?"

"You're so practical, Kitty, it's difficult to make you understand; but I feel quite sure we'll all make a pet of it, and when you once hear it purr, you'll think it a prettier sound than any kitten ever made."

"Is it really an automobile, Father? And have you bought it? And shall we ride in it? Where is it? Where are you going to keep it? When will it come? How many will it hold? Where shall we ride first?"

These queries were flung at Mr. Maynard by the breathless children without waiting for answers, and as Mrs. Maynard came in just then, Mr. Maynard told the story of his new acquisition.

"I've been looking at them for some time, as you know, Helen," he said, looking at his wife, "and to-day I decided upon the purchase. It's a big touring car, and will comfortably accommodate the whole Maynard family and a chauffeur beside. It will arrive day after to-morrow, that's Monday, and after a few short spins around this neighborhood, I think by Thursday we may be able to start for an Ourday trip in it."

"A whole Ourday in an automobile!" cried Marjorie; "how gorgeous and grand! Oh, King, isn't it just splendiferous!"

Marjorie sprang to her feet, and grasped her brother round the neck, and they flew round the room in a sort of a wild Indian war-dance that went far to express their joy and delight at the prospect.

"Two Ourdays, you know, Father," said Kitty, nestling quietly to her father's side as her madcap brother and sister whirled round the room. But they brought up with a round turn, though a little dishevelled-looking, to hear Mr. Maynard's reply to Kitty's remark.

"Yes, two Ourdays at once!" Marjorie cried, affectionately pulling King's hair as she spoke. He returned the caress by pinching her ear, and said, "Will it be two Ourdays together, Father, or one at a time?"

"If you two young tornadoes will sit down quietly for a moment, you may hear of something to your advantage," said Mr. Maynard, smiling at his two eldest children who were rather red-faced and breathless from their recent exertions.

"Sure we will!" cried King, and drawing Marjorie down with him, they fell in a heap on the floor, and sat there awaiting further disclosures.

"You see," Mr. Maynard began, "as Marjorie says, Maytime is, -- what?"

"Playtime," supplemented Marjorie, quickly.

"Well, then, if Maytime is playtime for the Maynards, why shouldn't we play all through the month of May?"

"Play every day, All the month of May, All the Maynards may Play all day! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!"

sang Marjorie who often improvised her songs as she went along. This was not a difficult one to learn, and King and Kitty took up the refrain, and they sang it over and over with great gusto, until Mrs. Maynard begged for a respite.

"But of course you don't mean anything like that?" said Kitty, when the song had ceased.

"But that's just exactly what I do mean. What do you think of the plan of the Maynards going a-Maying in their own motor car, and taking the whole month of May for it?"

Marjorie's eyes opened wide. "I know what you mean!" she exclaimed; "you mean a tour -- a tour through the country in an automobile! I've heard of such things!"

"Wise child!" said her father; "well, that's exactly what I do mean. A tour through the country in our own motor, and in our own Maytime. How does it strike you?"

"It strikes me all of a heap!" cried Marjorie, throwing herself into her father's arms; "tell me more, quick! Seems as if I can't believe it!"

"I can't believe it, either," said Kitty, slowly; "but I 'spect I can by the time we get ready to start. When are we going, Father?"

"On Thursday, if Mother can be ready."

"Oh, yes, I can be ready. I've only to get a few things for the children and myself to wear on the journey."

"Yes, we must all have up-to-date motor togs, I'm sure," and Mr. Maynard looked about as happy over the projected trip, as any of his children.

"But, Father," said Marjorie, "how can you take so much time away from your business? You said you couldn't take two Ourdays together because you were busy."

"I didn't say exactly that, dearie, and anyway I was only joking, because I knew I was going to spring this surprise on you in a few minutes. I have arranged, of course, to be away from my business for nearly a month, and have planned to spend the greater part of May taking this motor trip. We will go to Grandma Sherwood's first, and stay a few days, -- "

"To Grandma Sherwood's? Oh, glorious!" And again Marjorie was seized with a paroxysm of joy, and this time she caught Kitty, and led her off for a mad dance round the room. "Just think of it, Kit," she cried, "we'll be at Grandma Sherwood's together, and you can see the lovely room she fixed up for me, and the house in the tree, and everything. Oh, Kitty!"

"But I'm going to be there all summer, anyway," said Kitty, as she finally induced Marjorie to tumble on the divan amid a heap of sofa pillows.

"Yes, I know; but that's different. But what fun for us all to be there together for a few days! Did you say a few days, Father?"

"Yes, I did; but if you're so turbulent, and excitable, and noisy I think a few hours'll be enough for Grandma and Uncle Steve."

"It may be enough for Grandma, but it won't for Uncle Steve," declared Marjorie; "he loves rackety-packety children!"

"Well, he'll get his desires fulfilled when you get there," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling; "but perhaps the trip there will calm you down a little bit."

"No, it won't! It just makes me more and more crazy all the time I think of it! Oh, Father, won't we have a lot of our Ourdays all at once!"

"Indeed we will, enough to last for several years ahead. For if you debit me with last month's deficiency, of course you must credit me in the future."

"Oh, no, this rule doesn't work both ways! We'll just take all the Ourdays that we can get whenever we can get them. But what are we going to do after we leave Grandma's?"

"Well, if you all agree, I thought we might go over to New York and see your other grandma."

"Go to Grandma Maynard's, too! Oh, what fun we will have!" and Marjorie looked as if her cup of bliss were full and running over.

"And after that," said Mrs. Maynard, "if none of you object too seriously, we thought perhaps a little run up through New England would prove attractive."

"Mother," said King, looking at her twinkling eyes, "you planned all this out before? It's no surprise to you!"

"Very true, King; your father and I planned it while we were on our Southern trip. We had such a delightful outing, it seemed only fair that we should take you children for a trip also. And your father has been thinking for some time about buying an automobile, and as he can take the time now, it all works in beautifully."

"Beautiful! I should think it was!" cried Marjorie; "and Mother, will we all have motor coats and goggles, and all those queer things that they wear in automobiles?"

"You won't have any queer things, and I doubt if you'll need goggles; but you and Kitty shall have pretty motor coats, and pretty hoods and veils. We'll go on Monday to buy them."

"Oh," sighed Marjorie, "it just does seem too good to be true! It's like a fairy dream, and I 'spect I'll wake up every minute. What about lessons, Mother?"

"We've thought of that; but as your lessons would stop the first of June anyway, you'll only lose a few weeks, and so we're going to take you all out of school for that time. For this year, at any rate, Maytime shall be playtime for the Maynards."

"I'm so glad I'm a Maynard, and live in the Maynard family," said Kitty, with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

"So'm I," declared Marjorie; "there never was such a nice family, with such a bee-yootiful father and mother!"

And as if this were a signal for a general onslaught, the three young Maynards made a dash for the two older Maynards, and nearly choked them with well-meant but rather athletic embraces, which was their fashion of expressing approval and appreciation.



Chapter III

A Trial Trip


Owing to some unexpected delay, the automobile didn't arrive until Wednesday. But when at last it came whirring up the drive, the assembled Maynards on the veranda greeted it with shouts of approval.

"Did you ever see such a beauty!" cried Marjorie, as she danced around the new car, and clambering up on the farther side, jumped over the closed door, and fell plump into one of the cushioned seats.

"Oh, Mopsy!" cried her father, "that isn't the way to get in."

"I don't care, -- I am in! And it's just great in here! Why, there's room enough for a whole party."

The chauffeur who brought the car seemed a little surprised at the antics of the children, for he was a stolid Englishman, and not much accustomed to American exuberance.

Mr. Maynard had engaged him on the best recommendations, and felt sure that he was a trust-worthy and capable man. His name was Pompton, and he was large and muscular, with a face that was grave but not ill-natured.

Kingdon made friends with him at once, and climbing up into the seat beside him, asked innumerable questions about the various parts of the machine.

"Suppose we go at once for a trial spin," proposed Mr. Maynard, and almost before he had completed his sentence, a chorus of assent rose in response.

"Oh, do, Father," cried King; "and let me stay here in front, so I can see how it works."

"Some other time you may do that, King, but this time I want to sit in front myself, so hop out, and take one of the orchestra chairs."

"All right, sir," and King tumbled out, and flew around to the other side of the car. Mrs. Maynard, Kitty, and Rosamond were already seated in the wide, comfortable back seat. This left two seats in the tonneau for King and Marjorie, and with Mr. Maynard in front, by the side of Pompton, the car offered perfect accommodations for the Maynard family. It was a big touring car of a most approved make, and up-to-date finish. The top could be opened or closed at will, and there were many appurtenances and clever contrivances for comfort, designed to add to the delights of a long tour.

The family had been so eager to start at once that they had not paused to get hats or wraps, and as the top was down, the strong breeze blew their hair all about, and also made conversation a little difficult.

But the Maynard children were not baffled by difficulties, and they raised their voices until they were audible in spite of the wind.

"Isn't it magnificent!" screamed Marjorie, pulling at King's collar to attract his attention.

"Perfectly gorgiferous! -- and then some!" he yelled back, a little preoccupied in manner, because he was leaning over the chauffeur's shoulder, in his impatience to learn how to run the machine.

They went flying through the streets of Rockwell, and out into the country for a little run. Then as they were to start on their tour next day, Mrs. Maynard declared they must be turning homeward.

"Oh, Father," cried Marjorie, "after Mother gets out, mayn't we take Delight out for a few moments? Even only just around the block?"

"Will she care to go, Mopsy? You know an automobile isn't such a wonderful novelty to her as it is to you."

"Oh, yes, she'll care to go in ours, -- and anyway I mean just for a minute."

"All right then, chickabiddy; we'll put Mother and Baby out, then we'll take Delight around the block, and that'll be about all for to-day."

So Mrs. Maynard and Rosy Posy were deposited on their own doorstep, and the big red car flew across the street to give Delight an exhibition of its glories.

She was glad to go, but she was far from being as enthusiastic as the Maynard children, for Delight was a timid little girl, and never felt entirely at her ease in a fast-flying motor. She nestled in the back seat between Marjorie and Kitty, and grasped both their hands when the car swung swiftly around a corner.

Then they happened to meet Flip Henderson walking along the street, and they picked him up as an extra passenger, and then Kitty said: "Oh, now we've got the whole Jinks Club except Dorothy Adams. Do let's stop for her, Father, and then go round one more block."

Good-natured Mr. Maynard consented, and though there was no vacant seat, Dorothy was bundled in somehow, and the crowd of shouting, laughing children were driven around several blocks.

The quiet little town of Rockwell was amazed at the sight, and thought it must be some new kind of a circus advertisement, until they realized that it was the Maynard family, and people had long ceased to be surprised at what the Maynards did.

But at last the children who were not Maynards were left at their respective homes, and the big red car again turned in at its own home.

"Where are you going to keep it, Father?" asked King, as they all scrambled out.

"I shall have a garage built on the place as soon as we get back; but for to-night our pet will have to sleep in other lodgings. Skip into the house now, you children, for I want to talk to Pompton without the interruption of a crowd of chatter-boxes."

So the three went into the house and stood together at a front window, flattening their noses against the glass, as they looked out at their new treasure. King was in the middle, behind his two sisters, with an arm around both their necks, and he explained to them in a very learned way, a great many points about the machine that they did not understand. His explanations were far from being correct or true, but as he didn't know that, nor the girls either, it really made no difference.

At last Pompton drove away with the car, and they watched it disappear down the street, and then turned to greet Mr. Maynard as he entered.

Marjorie went straight up to her father, and stood in front of him.

"I do think you are the most wonderful Father in the whole world," she said, eyeing him in a judicial manner.

"And the grandest!" said Kitty, snuggling herself in under his arm.

"And the tip-toppest!" declared King, grasping his father's other hand.

"Well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Maynard, dropping into an armchair, "I am certainly catching some fine compliments! And I'd like to return them. I don't mind confessing that I think you young people just about the highest class of goods in the market!"

"But we're not as splendid as you are," said Marjorie, thoughtfully; "because you do things for us, and we never do anything for you."

"Oh, yes, you do," returned her father; "you do all I want you to, by just living, and growing, and trying to behave yourselves properly."

"But we don't always do that," said Kitty, with a repentant air.

"You do, Kit," said King, generously, "you're always good. Mops and I are the ones that slip up."

"It's human nature to slip up occasionally," said Mr. Maynard, "but I think on the whole my kiddies do pretty well. Now, as you know, we start to-morrow for Grandma Sherwood's, and while I'm not going to give you a lecture on the subject, I am going to ask you to behave pretty fairly well while you're at her house. You know she's not as young as she once was, and a lot of mischievous children may make her a great deal of trouble if they wish to, -- or they can refrain from doing so. Need I say any more?"

"Not another word, Father," declared Marjorie; "I promise to be as good as pie, -- custard pie!"

"And I'll be as good as mince pie," said King, "you can't beat that!"

"Yes, I can," said Kitty; "I shall be as good as lemon meringue pie, -- with a high, fluffy meringue, and little browny wiggles all over the top."

"You've struck it, Kit," said her brother, admiringly; "that is the best kind of pie, -- and you'll be the best of the Maynard bunch! Say, Kitty, doesn't it hurt you to be so good?"

"No," said Kitty, placidly, "I like it."

There was not much fun in teasing Kitty, she was too matter-of-fact, so King turned his attentions to Marjorie, and with apparent innocence kicked out his foot just in time for her to stumble over it. This led to a general scrimmage, in which two Maynards, two sofa-pillows, and a footstool became very much tangled up, and Mr. Maynard and Kitty sat smiling indulgently at them, with the air of enjoying the performance and not caring to take part in it.

Of course the dinner hour and all the hours until bedtime were occupied in conversation about the projected trip, and when at last the little Maynards were tucked into bed, their dreams still continued to hover around the same subject.

*    *    *    *    *

The next day proved to be most kindly disposed as to weather, and the brilliant May sunshine sparkled on the big red car as it stood waiting for its passengers.

There was more or less hurry and scurry of getting ready, but the elder Maynards were of systematic and methodical habits, so that really everything was ready ahead of time. Two trunks had been sent on by express to Grandma Sherwood's, and one large trunk which was to accompany them on their trip, was already fastened in place at the back of the car.

The children all had new motor coats of pongee, which they could wear over other wraps if necessary. The girls also had fascinating little hoods of shirred silk, Marjorie's being rose color, and Kitty's blue. They greatly admired themselves and each other in these costumes, and Marjorie declared it gave her a trippy feeling just to look at them.

They started at ten o'clock. Mrs. Maynard and Kitty sat back with Rosamond between them. Midget and King in the next two seats, and Mr. Maynard in front with the chauffeur.

They went flying down the drive to a chorus of good-byes from the servants, who assembled to see them off, and who would take care of the house in their absence.

As they whizzed across the street, and paused for a moment in front of Delight's house, Delight and Miss Hart came running down to wave a good-bye, and their hands were full of flowers which they flung into the automobile all over its merry occupants.

"Good-bye, good-bye!" they called, for the Maynards had not stopped, but merely slowed down a little, and were now again speeding on their way. Marjorie and King stood up in their places, and waved handkerchiefs and flowers, and shouted good-bye until they could no longer be seen or heard.

"Now we are really started," said Marjorie, settling back into her seat with an air of great satisfaction. "Having all these flowers thrown at us seems like a wedding trip or something. There's not nearly so much wind to-day, and then, with this hood, my hair doesn't blow about so, anyway. Oh, Father, I'm awful hungry! Can't we stop at the grocer's and get some ginger-snaps and apples?"

"You've just had your breakfast, but I suppose automobile kiddies must have something to nibble on!" So a stop was made at the grocer's, and a supply of ginger-snaps and apples was added to their other luggage.

Mr. Hiller, the grocer, was very much interested in the motor party, and came out himself to wish them good speed.

"I don't know what Rockwell will do without the Maynard tribe," he said; "you youngsters keep things lively around town. And you're going to be away a month, you say. Well, well!"

"Perhaps it's a good thing to give the town a little rest, Mr. Hiller," said Mr. Maynard, laughing.

"No, sir; no, sir; them children of yours never does anything vicious. Full of mischief they may be, full of fun they may be, but never really naughty. No, no!"

Mr. Maynard expressed a laughing appreciation of these compliments, and then they started once more.

"Now we're really off," said King, "we won't have to stop again."

"Oh, I think most of the fun is stopping," said Marjorie; "I love to stop and then go on again. Perhaps we can get out and pick some wild flowers or wade in a brook."

"Not to-day," said her father, "but some days you may do that to your heart's content. The whole trip is going to be just one long picnic, and we're going to get all the fun out of it we possibly can."

"I think it's delicious," said Kitty, in her quiet way; "I think it's fun enough just to glide along like this, with the blue sky shining all over us, and the trees waving their boughs at us, and even the fences jig-jigging along at our side."

"You're so poetical, Kitty," said Marjorie; "I love the blue sky and the green trees too, but just now I want to see a red apple and a brown ginger-snap!"

"Midget, I believe you could eat at any time," said her mother, laughing.

"Yes, I could," said Midget, contentedly, "'cept when I've just had enough. And I do feel like eating, but I feel like singing, too."

"You can't do both at once," said her brother.

"No, but I can do first one and then the other. Now I'll tell you, Father, what to do. You make a little song for us, while I eat this apple. A kind of a little motor song, you know."

So while Marjorie ate her apple, and the other children engaged in the same pursuit, Mr. Maynard made a little song for them.

This was a favorite game of the Maynards. Father Maynard had a knack of turning off verses, and they usually sang them to some well-known air, or perhaps made up a little crooning tune of their own.

So when the apples were finished and the cores flung away, Mr. Maynard lined out his little song, and the children quickly learned it.

After two or three attempts they were able to sing it correctly, and they stowed it away in their memory as one of their favorite songs, and at intervals throughout the day their young voices filled the air with these sentiments:

"Very happy the Maynards are; Taking a tour in their motor car Gaily to Grandma's lickety-split Marjorie, Rosamond, Kingdon, and Kit Mothery, fathery, also along, --  Gaily we sing our motor car song! Hooray, hooray! For our holiday May for the Maynards! Maynards for May!"



Chapter IV

Visiting A Camp


Rockwell was soon left far behind, and the Maynards' car flew along the country road, now passing through a bit of woods, and now through a little town, or again crossing a picturesque brook.

The children were delighted with the new experience, and chatted all at once, about the roadside sights.

Pompton, the English chauffeur, though he said little or nothing, was secretly amazed at the gaiety and volubility of the young people. The children were allowed to take turns sitting in the front seat, and, as was their nature, they talked rapidly and steadily to the somewhat taciturn driver.

"What a funny name you have, Pompton," said Marjorie, as she sat beside him; "at least it seems funny to me, because I never heard it before."

"It's a good old English name, Miss," he returned, a little gruffly, "and never been dishonored, as I know of."

"Oh, I think it's a very nice name," said Marjorie, quickly, for she had had no intention of being unpleasantly critical, "only I think it's a funny name. You see Pompton sounds so much like pumpkin."

"Do you think so, Miss?"

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter about a name, anyway. Tell me about your people. Have you any little boys and girls?"

"No, Miss; I never was married, Miss. And I ain't overly fond of children."

"Really, aren't you, Pompton? Well, you'll have to begin being fond of them, because you see, us Maynard children just can't stand anybody around who isn't fond of us. Though of course we've never tried, for everybody who has lived with us has always been terribly fond of us."

"Maybe it'll be a pleasant change then, Miss, to try another sort." Pompton's eyes twinkled good-naturedly as he said this, and Marjorie instinctively recognized that he was trying to joke.

"Ah, you're fond of us already, Pompton, and you needn't say you're not! It's a funny thing," she went on, confidentially, "but everybody loves us Maynards, -- and yet we're such a bad lot."

"A bad lot, Miss?"

"Well, full of the old scratch, you know; always cutting up jinks. Do you know what jinks are, Pompton?"

"No, Miss; what are they?"

"Why they're just jinks; something to cut up, you know."

"Cut up, Miss?"

"Oh, Pompton, you're just like a parrot! You just repeat what I say! Don't you know anything?"

"Very little, Miss."

But as they rode along, and Marjorie asked her interminable string of questions about the car, or about the trees or flowers they were passing, or about sundry roadside matters, she found that Pompton was a very well-informed man, indeed, as well as being kind and obliging in answering questions.

As they spun along a bit of straight road, Marjorie saw, some distance ahead, a girl sitting on a large stone by the roadside. The girl's face was so weary and pained-looking that Marjorie felt a sudden thrill of pity for her, and as a second glance showed that the girl was lame, she impulsively begged Pompton to stop a moment that they might speak to her.

The chauffeur turned around to see if the order were corroborated by the older people, and Mrs. Maynard said, "Yes, Pompton, let us stop and see what the poor girl wants."

So the car stopped, and Marjorie impetuously jumped out, and ran to speak to the girl, who seemed ill and suffering. Mr. Maynard joined them at once, and they listened to the girl's story.

She said her name was Minnie Meyer, and that she had to walk to the neighboring town to buy some provisions for her mother. But being lame she had become so tired that she sat down to rest by the way.

"How far have you to go, child?" asked Mr. Maynard, kindly.

"I have already walked a mile, sir, and it's two miles more to Pelton, where I must go. I have often walked the distance, but my foot is very bad just now, and it is hard going. I have been ill, and I am not yet very strong."

"I should think not!" exclaimed King, who had jumped out to see what was going on. "Look here, Father, we're going directly to Pelton; it is a straight road, and I can't miss the way. You let this girl take my place in the car, and I'll walk."

"Now that's good of you, King," said his father with an approving glance at the boy, "for this poor child is pretty well tired out. How can you get home again, Minnie?"

"Oh, sir, I shall have a ride home. A neighbor of ours will take me; but I have to walk over to Pelton and get my things by the time he's ready to start."

"And what time does he start for home?"

"About two o'clock, sir."

The child's face was very white, and her eyes were large and dark. Though probably no older than Marjorie, she looked careworn and troubled beyond her years.

"You are a good boy, King," his mother called out from the car, "and I think, Ed, we had better take the girl with us. Kingdon won't mind a two miles' walk, I know, when it is in such a good cause."

"I'm going with King," announced Marjorie; "I shan't mind the walk, either, and it will be fun for both of us to be together, while it would be awful lonesome for King all alone."

"Good for you, Mopsy Midget!" cried King, "you're a trump! Come on, we'll get there before the car does." King grasped his sister's hand, and they set off merrily at a good pace along the straight road to Pelton.

Meantime, Mr. Maynard had assisted the lame girl into the car, and Kitty tucked rugs and shawls around her to make her comfortable.

Minnie Meyer was both awestruck and delighted. She had never been in an automobile before, and it had all happened so quickly she scarcely realized her good fortune.

"I think you must all be angels," she said; "and I'm sorry the young lady and gentleman have to walk so far, and all just for me."

"But they're better able to walk than you are," said practical Kitty.

"That may be, Miss, but it seems queer for the likes of me to be riding in their place. My! But it goes fast!"

The car passed King and Marjorie, who waved their hands gaily, and watched it rapidly disappear along the road in front of them.

"I'm glad we're doing a deed of charity, Midget," said her brother, "for if we weren't I shouldn't relish this long walk very much."

"Now, King, don't go and spoil your noble deed by growling about it! It was lovely of you to let that girl ride in your place, but if you're going to kick about walking, you'll spoil it all."

"I'm not kicking. And anyway, Mops, you were the noble one yourself. You walked just so I shouldn't be lonesome."

"'Course I did! What's lots of fun for two is awful poky for one. Come on, I'll race you to that big sticking-out tree!"

They flew along the road with their heels kicking out behind, and though King reached the tree first, he was only a few steps ahead of Marjorie, who came up panting, and threw herself on the grass by his side.

"We mustn't do that again," she said, "it makes us too much out of breath, and we can't walk afterward. Now let's rest a minute, and then walk on just middling fast, -- because it's a long way yet. What time do you suppose we'll get there?"

"Pomp said if we'd walk straight along we ought to get to the inn by half-past twelve. They won't have lunch till we get there."

"You bet they won't! Do you know where the inn is?"

"Well, I've never been there, but when we get to Pelton I rather guess we can find the inn! Come on, Mops, if you're rested, we'd better get a move on!"

Then they trudged on together, finding the way very pleasant, and many things to interest them as they passed along.

The road was a public highway, and there were many motor cars and much other traffic.

But as the children kept on a grassy path by the side of the road they were in no danger, and there was no possibility of losing their way.

"It's just a matter of keeping at it," said King, "but it does seem longer than I thought. We're not halfway yet."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause Pomp said when we came to the sign-board pointing to Mossville we'd be halfway, and we haven't come to that yet."

"What makes you call him Pomp?"

"Oh, just for short; and besides he's kind of pompous, you know, -- sort of stuffy and English."

"Yes, he is. I like him, though, and I think he's going to like us, but he doesn't understand us yet. I hope Father will ask that lame girl to lunch with us. I think she looked hungry."

"She looked awful poor, and I s'pose poor folks are always hungry. It must be awful to be always hungry, Mops!"

"Well, I'm 'most always hungry myself."

"Oh, that isn't real hunger; that's just wanting something to eat. Hello, here's the Mossville sign now! See it?"

"Yes; so now we must be halfway. I'm not tired, are you?"

"No, not a bit. I'd like a drink of water, though. Perhaps we'll come to a brook."

But they walked on considerably further without seeing any brook, or even a farmhouse where they might stop for a drink of water. But when they were about half a mile from Pelton, King saw a little bridge off toward the right, and exclaimed, "That bridge must be over water of some sort. If you want to, Midget, we can go over and see if it's clean enough to drink."

"Come on, then; it won't take long, and I'm 'most choked to death."

They walked across an intervening field, and came to the little bridge which did cross a small but clear and sparkling brook.

"What can we drink out of?" asked Midget.

"Have to drink out of our hands, I guess; wish we had a cup or something. Oh, look at that man!"

Midget looked in the direction King pointed, and saw a man seated on the ground, busily working at something which seemed to be made of long rushes of reeds.

"He's making a basket," cried King, greatly interested. "Let's go and look at him."

They trotted over to the man, and King said, politely, "Is that a basket you're making, sir?"

"Yes," came the answer in a gruff voice, and when the man looked up at them, they saw he was a strange-looking person indeed. His complexion was dark, his coarse black hair rather long, and his black eyes had a shrewd expression, but were without kindliness. "What do you want?" he said, still in his gruff voice.

"We don't want anything p'ticular," said Marjorie, who did not wish to be intrusive; "we did want a drink of water out of the brook, but we had nothing to drink from, and then we saw you building a basket, and we just came over to look at you. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, I don't mind," and the man's voice was a little less gruff as he looked at Marjorie's pretty smiling face. Then he gave her another look, somewhat more scrutinizing, and then he looked again at King. "You want a drink of water, do you?" and the look of interest in his round black eyes seemed to become intensified. "Well, I'll tell you what to do; you go right straight along that little path through the grass, and after a few steps, you'll find some people, and they'll give you a drink of water with pleasure, and a nice cup to drink it out of."

"Is it far?" asked Marjorie, for she couldn't see any signs of habitation, and did not wish to delay too long.

"No; 'tain't a dozen steps. Just behind that clump of trees yonder; you can't miss it."

"A farmhouse, I suppose," said King.

"Well, not just exactly a farmhouse," said the man, "but you go on, you youngsters, and whoever you see when you get there, tell 'em Jim sent you."

"We will; and thank you, Jim," said Marjorie, suddenly remembering her manners.

"You're welcome," said the man, and again his voice was gruff as at first.

"Somehow I don't like it, Mops," said King, who had a troubled look on his face as they walked swiftly along the path indicated.

"Don't like what?"

"His sending us over here. And I don't like him; he didn't look right."

"I thought he was very kind to tell us about the farmhouse, and if his voice is sort of gruff, I s'pose he can't help that."

"It isn't that exactly; but I think he's a, -- a -- "

"A what?"

"Never mind; here we are at the place. Why, Mops, it isn't a house at all! It's a tent, -- a lot of tents."

"So it is! It must be an encampment. Do you think there are soldiers here?"

"Soldiers? No! I only wish they were soldiers."

As King was speaking, a young woman came walking toward them, smiling in an ingratiating way. Like the man, Jim, she was dark-haired and dark-skinned. Her black eyes flashed, and her smiling red lips showed very white teeth as she spoke kindly to the children.

"Come in," she said, in a wheedling voice; "come in; I love little boys and girls. What do you want?"

Marjorie began to say, "We want a drink of water," when King pinched her elbow as a sign to be quiet, and he spoke to the woman himself. "We don't want anything," he said, "we're just passing by on our way to Pelton. Good-morning."

Grasping Marjorie's arm he turned to go away, but the woman stopped him, saying, "Oh, don't go so quickly; come in and rest a moment, and I will give you a drink of milk, and then you can go on to Pelton."

"Yes, let's do that, King," said Marjorie, looking at her brother, amazed at his ungracious actions.

But King persisted in his determination. "No, thank you," he said to the woman in a decided way; "you're very kind, but we don't care for any milk, and we must go right on to Pelton."

"And I say you must stay right here," said the woman, in much sterner tones than she had used before, and taking the children each by an arm, she pushed them ahead of her inside of the largest tent.



Chapter V

Held Captive


Then King's fears were realized. He had suspected these people were gypsies, and now he discovered that they were. Inside the tent were three or four men and women, all of the dark, gypsy type, and wearing the strange, bright-colored garments characteristic of their tribe. They did not seem ill-disposed toward the visitors, but welcomed them cordially, and one of the women went at once for a pitcher of milk, and brought it, with two glasses, which she set on the table.

King was not exactly frightened, for they all seemed pleasant and kind enough, but he couldn't help remembering how gypsies were credited with the habit of stealing children, and holding them for ransom. "But only babies," he thought to himself; "I don't believe they ever steal such big kids as Marjorie and me."

King was fifteen, and tall for his age, and as he looked at Marjorie he realized that she was a big girl, too, and he felt sure they were beyond the age of being kidnapped. But as he noted the furtive glances which were cast at them by the gypsies, he again felt alarmed, and glanced at Marjorie to see if her thoughts were like his own.

But they were not. Marjorie was chatting gaily with the good-looking young woman who had brought her into the tent, and she was accepting an invitation to have a glass of milk and a cracker.

As an old gypsy woman poured the milk from the pitcher into the glass, she turned her back to Marjorie, but King's alert eyes could see her shaking a small portion of white powder into the milk.

Like a flash it came to King what it all meant! They were kidnappers, these wicked gypsies, and they meant to put some drug in the milk that the children drank, so they would go to sleep, and then the kidnappers would carry them away!

King thought rapidly. He couldn't let Marjorie drink that milk, -- and yet if he made a fuss about it, they could easily overpower him. He determined to use strategy.

"Let me pass the glass to my sister," he said, jumping up, and going to take the glass from the old woman who had poured it. Unsuspectingly, she let him take it, but as he turned, he stumbled, purposely, against the table leg, and spilled all the milk on the ground.

"Oh, excuse me," he said, politely. "Now we shall have to go without a drink of milk! But we are just as much obliged, and we bid you good-morning. Come, Midget."

Marjorie was at a loss to understand King's actions, but she knew her brother well enough to know that his tone and his look meant that something very serious was the matter, and she was quite ready to obey him without knowing why.

But though he grasped her arm, and endeavored to lead her out of the tent, they were suddenly stopped. Two stalwart men who had been sitting in shadow at the back of the tent came forward, and grasping the children's shoulders, pushed them back into their seats rather roughly.

"You set down there!" said one of the men, "and don't you move till you're told to! We ain't decided just what to do with you yet, and when we see fit, we'll tell you, and not till then, so you just keep still!"

Marjorie suddenly sensed the situation. These people were enemies, not friends! She understood King's efforts to get her away, and she remembered, too, his misgivings as they were on their way across the field.

Moreover, it was she who had insisted on coming, and so she felt, in a way, responsible for what had happened to them. She jumped to her feet as soon as the man let go of her shoulder, and cried, with flashing eyes, "I will not keep still! What do you mean by treating me like that? Don't you know who I am? We're Maynards! We're Edward Maynard's children, -- and everybody loves the Maynards!"

"Oh, they do, do they!" said the man who had spoken before. "Then that's a mighty good reason why we should keep you here a little while."

"Keep us here!" stormed Marjorie, not at all realizing that they were being kidnapped, but merely thinking these people were playing some sort of a joke upon them. "Why should you keep us here? We want to go on."

"You want to go on, do you?" And the man fairly snarled at them; "well, you can't go on, and you may as well understand that! Didn't Jim send you?"

"Yes, Jim sent us," said Marjorie, remembering what the man who was weaving the basket had said.

"Then if Jim sent you, you're here to stay. And as it's just impossible for you to get away, there's small use in your trying! So you may as well make the best of it, and if you don't want your bread and milk you needn't eat it, but if you do, you can have it. There, now, I'm speaking fair by you, and you may as well behave yourselves."

"Speaking fair by us!" exclaimed Marjorie, who was as yet more indignant than frightened. "Do you call it speaking fair by us to tell us that we must stay here when we want to go on! You are bad, wicked men!"

"Yes, little Miss," was the answer, with a shout of laughter, "we are bad, wicked men! Now what are you going to do about it? You don't fancy for a minute that you can get away, do you?"

This silenced Marjorie, for there was no answer to such a question. Her rage had spent itself in her impetuous speech, and she knew of course that two children could not get away from this band of villains if they were not allowed to do so. But she did not cry. Her feelings were too wrought up for that. She sat where they had placed her, and tried bravely to conceal the fright and fear that were every moment growing stronger within her. She gave one imploring glance at King, and he came over and sat beside her. He took her hand in a tight clasp, implying that whatever happened they would face it together.

"Keep 'em there for the present," growled the man who seemed to be the spokesman, and then he and the other man went away, leaving the children in care of the three gypsy women.

Although apparently the women paid little attention to their young prisoners, King and Midget could easily see that the eyes of their jailers were ever alert, and watching their slightest movement. Had they tried to cut and run, they would have been caught before they reached the door. But no heed was paid when they whispered together, and so they were able to hold a long conversation which was unheard, and even unnoticed by the others.

"You know, Mops, what has happened?" whispered King.

"No, I don't; what do they want of us?"

"Why, we're kidnapped and held for ransom. Those men have probably gone out now to send letters to Father about the ransom money."

"Oh, then Father'll pay it, and we'll get away."

"It isn't so easy as that. They have lots of fussing back and forth. We may be here a long time. I say, Mops, you're a brick not to cry."

"I'm too mad to cry. The idea of their keeping us here like this! It's outrageous! Why, King, by this time we would have been in Pelton. Just think how worried Father and Mother must be!"

"Don't think about that, Mops, or you will cry sure. And I will, too! Let's think how to get away."

But thinking was of little use, as there was no way to get away but to run out at the door, and an attempt at that would be such certain failure that it was not worth trying.

So the children sat there in dumb misery, silently watching the gypsy women as they moved about preparing the mid-day meal.

Occasionally they spoke, and their manner and words were kindly, but King and Midget could not bring themselves to respond in the same way.

"King," whispered Marjorie, "how far do you suppose we are from the road?"

"Too far to run there, if that's what you mean. We'd be caught before we started," was the whispered reply.

"That isn't what I mean; but how far are we?"

"Not very far, Midget; after we crossed the little bridge, the path to this place was sort of parallel to the road."

"Well, King, I've got an idea. Don't say anything, and don't stop me."

With a stretch and a yawn as of great weariness, Marjorie slowly rose. Immediately the three women started toward her. "You sit still!" said one, sharply.

"Mayn't I walk about the room, if I promise not to go out the door?" said Marjorie; "I'm so cramped sitting still."

"Move around if you want to," said the youngest of the women, a little more gently; "but there's no use your trying to run away," and she wagged her head ominously.

"Honest, I won't try to run away," and Marjorie's big, dark eyes looked gravely at her captor.

The women said nothing more, and Marjorie wandered about the tent in an apparently aimless manner. But after a time she came near to a small slit in the side of the tent that served as a sort of window, and here she paused and examined some beads that hung near by. Then choosing a moment when the women were most attentive to their household duties, she put her head out through the window and yelled. Now Marjorie Maynard's yell was something that a Comanche Indian might be proud of. Blessed with strong, healthy lungs, and being by nature fond of shouting, she possessed an ability to scream which was really unusual.

As her blood-curdling shouts rent the air, the three women were so stupefied that for a moment they could say or do nothing. This gave Marjorie additional time, and she made the most of it. Her entire lung power spent itself in successive shrieks more than a dozen times, before she was finally dragged away from the window by the infuriated gypsy women.

Marjorie turned upon them, unafraid.

"I told you I wouldn't try to run away," she said, "and neither I didn't. But I had a right to yell, and if anybody heard me, I hope he'll come right straight here! You are bad, wicked women!"

The child's righteous indignation had its effect on the women, and they hesitated, not knowing exactly what to do with this little termagant.

And strange to say, Marjorie's ruse had succeeded.

For when the Maynards reached Pelton, and had found the inn where they were to lunch, Pompton, the chauffeur, had expressed himself as unwilling to sit there quietly and await the arrival of King and Marjorie.

"The poor children will be done out," he said to Mr. Maynard, "and by your leave, sir, I'll just take the car, and run back a few rods and pick them up."

"That's good of you, Pompton," said Mr. Maynard, appreciatively. "They can't be far away now, but they'll be glad of a lift."

So Pompton turned the car about, and started back along the road he had just come. To his surprise, he did not meet the children as soon as he had expected, and as he continued his route without seeing them, he began to be really alarmed. He passed the halfway sign, and went nearly to the place where he had left them and had taken in the lame girl.

"There's something happened to them," he said to himself. "My word! I knew those children ought not to be left to themselves! They're too full of mischief. Like as not they've trailed off into the woods, and how can I ever find them?"

Wondering what he had better do, Pompton turned the car around, and slowly went back toward Pelton. At every crossroad or side path into the woods he paused and shouted, but heard no response. When at last he came near the place where the children had really turned off toward the brook, he stopped and looked about. Seeing smoke issuing from among the trees at a little distance, he thought, "That's a gypsy camp. Now wouldn't it be just like those youngsters to trail in there? Anyway it's the most likely place, and I'm going to have a look."

Leaving his car by the side of the road, Pompton struck into the field, and soon came to the little bridge just beyond which the old basket-weaver still sat.

"Have you seen anything of two children?" Pompton inquired, civilly.

"No," growled the man, looking up and frowning a little.

"Well, I'm fairly sure they came in here from the road about half an hour ago. Perhaps you didn't notice them. I'll just take a look round." He started in the direction of the camp, but the man called him back.

"I tell you no children have been near here," he said, in a voice slightly less surly. "If they had, they'd have had to cross this bridge, and I couldn't miss seeing them. I've been here two hours."

This seemed conclusive, and Pompton had no reason to think the man was not telling the truth. But he was without doubt a gypsy, and Pompton had small respect for the veracity of the gypsy. He waited a few moments, pretending to be interested in the man's basketry, but really considering whether to insist on going on to the camp hidden in the trees, or whether to believe the man's statement.

And it was at this moment that Marjorie's shrieks rang out.

"Good heavens!" cried Pompton. "What is that?"

The basket-weaver neither heard nor answered him, for the shrieks continued, and Pompton set off at a run in the direction whence they came. He was not quite sure it was Marjorie's voice, but there was certainly somebody in distress, and Pompton was of a valiant nature.

The smoke issuing above the trees was sufficient guide, and his flying steps soon brought him to the encampment. Flinging open, indeed almost tearing down the flapping door of the tent, he strode inside.

"What's the matter here?" he began, but he could get no further, for with a glad cry the two Maynard children flung themselves into his out-stretched arms.



Chapter VI

At Grandma Sherwood's


Aside from his threatening face, red with rage, and stormy with indignation, Pompton's terrifying aspect was increased by the chauffeur's costume which he wore. His goggles were pushed up on his brow, but his eyes darted vengeance, and the three gypsy women were completely cowed at the sight of him.

"You shall pay for this outrage!" he exclaimed; "and don't think you will be let down easy! Kidnapping is a crime that is well punished, and your punishment shall be to the full! I shall take these children away now, but don't think you can escape! I will see to that! Where are your men folks?"

Pompton was a large man, more than six feet high, and heavy in proportion, and as he towered above the frightened gypsy women, they could find no words to answer him.

"I'll find them for myself!" he exclaimed, and taking the children by either hand, he hurried them out of the tent.

As Pompton had surmised, the men had run away to the woods, and hidden themselves, for no trace of them could be seen. The old basket-maker, too, had disappeared, and there was nothing to prevent their departure.

"Miss Marjorie, you're a wonder!" Pompton exclaimed, as they crossed the little bridge and made for the road. "Now, how did you think to shout the very lungs out of you like that?"

"It was the only thing to do, Pompton; they wouldn't let us run away, so there was nothing to do but holler. My! but I'm glad you came!"

"Me, too!" cried King. "I felt awful to sit there and not do anything to rescue Mops, but I couldn't think of a thing to do. I never thought of yelling to beat the band!"

"Of course you didn't, King," said Marjorie. "A boy wouldn't do that. And, anyway, you can't screech like I can."

"I didn't suppose anybody could, Miss Marjorie; I'm sure such screams were never heard before, outside of Bedlam!"

"Well, we're safe now, anyway," cried Marjorie, skipping along gaily by Pompton's side; "and here's our dear, blessed car! Oh, King, I'm so glad we're safe!"

In a reaction of joy, Marjorie threw her arms around her brother's neck, and the tears came to her eyes.

"There, there, Mops," and King patted her shoulders, while there was a suggestion of emotion in his own voice; "it's all right now! Hop in, old girl!"

"Yes, hop in, both of you," said Pompton, "and I'll get you back to Pelton pretty quick, and then I'll set somebody on the track of those villains. They'll not get away!"

The trip to Pelton took but a short time, for Pompton drove as fast as the law allowed. But even so, they found a very much alarmed group waiting for them on the veranda of the little inn.

"Where have you been?" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, as Marjorie flung her arms around her mother's neck, and burst into violent sobs. The realization that she was safe brought a nervous reaction, and though she had been plucky and brave in the hour of danger, she now collapsed with emotion.

"I'll tell you all about it," said King, grasping his father's hands. "Midget was the bravest, pluckiest girl, and she saved both our lives."

"What!" cried Mr. Maynard, "have you been in danger?"

Marjorie stopped her sobs a moment, and lifted her head from her mother's shoulder.

"It was P-Pompton saved us! I didn't do any saving, -- I only s-screeched!"

"And you screeched good and plenty, Miss Marjorie," said the chauffeur, "which was what saved the day; and, Mr. Maynard, by your leave, I'll take the car a minute, to see if there's anybody in authority in this village. I've a matter to put in their hands."

Without waiting for further explanation, Pompton whizzed away in the big car to find the public officials, and set them on trail of the gypsies. For though unsuccessful, their base attempt at kidnapping ought not to go unpunished.

Kingdon told a straightforward story of all that had happened. Unlike Marjorie, he was not overcome by emotion, and though somewhat excited after the experience they had had, he gave a clear and direct account of it all.

Mrs. Maynard held Marjorie closer as she heard of the danger they had been in, and Mr. Maynard laid his hand on the shoulder of his tall son, and heartily exonerated him from all blame in the matter.

"I suppose," King said, a little dubiously, "we ought not to have gone on to the camp; but Mops, -- I mean, we were both thirsty, -- and we thought it was a farmhouse."

"Of course you did," said Mrs. Maynard; "you did nothing wrong whatever."

"I did," said Midget, penitently; "after we passed the horrid basket-man, King sort of thought he was a gypsy, and he thought we'd better turn back, but I insisted on going on."

"Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed King. "Mops isn't a bit to blame! I did think maybe the man was a gypsy, -- and I ought to have insisted on going back."

"Well, well," said Mr. Maynard, "don't strive so hard for the honor of being to blame. It's all over now, and for the present let's forget it, while we eat our luncheon, because it might interfere with our digestion. We're truly thankful to have you back, and we're going to show our thankfulness by not worrying or lamenting over what might have been."

Mr. Maynard's gaiety, though it was really a little forced, had a good effect on the others. For, had he taken a melancholy attitude, they were quite ready to follow suit.

As it was, they all cheered up, and with bright faces followed Mr. Maynard to the dining-room. Kitty slipped her hand in Marjorie's as they went along. She had said little while the story was being told, but as Marjorie well knew, silence with Kitty was always indicative of deep emotion.

The inn, though modern, was copied after a quaint old plan, and the low-ceiled, raftered dining-room greatly pleased the children. There were seats along the wall -- something like church pews, -- with long tables in front of them. Mr. Maynard had ordered a dainty and satisfying luncheon, and Marjorie and King soon found that thrilling experiences improve the appetite.

Led by Mr. Maynard, the table talk was gay, light, and entertaining; and though Mrs. Maynard could not quite play up to this key, yet she did her best, and carefully hid the tremors that shook her as she looked at her two older children.

"What became of Minnie Meyer?" asked Marjorie, suddenly, for in the stress of circumstances she had almost forgotten the lame girl.

"I tried my best to persuade her to lunch with us," said Mrs. Maynard, "but she would not do so. She was very shy and timid, and though very glad to have the ride, she was unwilling to let us do more for her. She had many errands to attend to, and she was sure of a ride home, so she said we need not worry about her."

"I'm glad she had the ride," said Marjorie, thoughtfully; "and of course it wasn't her fault that the morning turned out as it did."

"No, it wasn't," said King, "and it wasn't our fault either! It wasn't anybody's fault; it just happened."

"And now it happens that it's all over," said his father, still insistently cheerful, "and the incident is closed, and it's past history, and we've all forgotten it. Have some more chicken, King?"

"Yes," said King, "these forgotten experiences make a fellow terribly hungry!"

The subject of the morning's disaster was not again referred to, and Mr. Maynard triumphantly succeeded in his determination to eliminate all thought of it.

By two o'clock Pompton was at the door with the car, and they started gaily off to continue their journey.

Mr. Maynard sat in front with the chauffeur, and if they indulged in some whispered conversation it was not audible to those in the tonneau.

Midget and King themselves had quite recovered their good spirits, and were ready to enjoy the ride through the country.

They went rather fast, as they had started a bit later than they intended, but not too fast to enjoy the scenery or the interesting scenes on either side.

On they went, through towns and villages, past woods and meadows, and up and down moderately high hills. As they neared Morristown, where Grandma Sherwood lived, the hills were higher and the views more picturesque.

It was not yet dusk when they reached Grandma Sherwood's house, and they found the wide gate hospitably open for them. They swung into the driveway, and in another moment they saw Grandma and Uncle Steve on the veranda, waiting to welcome them.

The impetuous Maynard children tumbled out of the car all at once, and fairly swarmed upon their relatives.

"Which is which?" cried Uncle Steve. "Kitty has grown as big as Marjorie was, -- and Marjorie has grown as big as King was, -- and King has grown as big as, -- as a house!"

"And me growed!" cried Rosamond, not wanting to be left out of the comparison.

"You're the biggest of all!" exclaimed Uncle Steve, catching the baby up and seating her on his shoulder, so she could look down on all the others.

"Yes, me biggest of all," she declared, contentedly, as she wound her fat arms around Uncle Steve's neck; "now me go see schickens!"

"Not just now, Rosy Posy," said her mother, "let's all go in the house and see what we can find there."

Easily diverted, the baby went contentedly with her mother, but the mention of chickens had roused in the other children a desire to see the farmyard pets, and King said: "Come on, Mops and Kit, let's us go and see the chickens; come on, Uncle Steve."

"Eliza first!" cried Marjorie, remembering the old cook's friendliness toward them all; "come on!"

Following Midget's lead, the trio went tearing through the house to the kitchen.

Uncle Steve paused in the library where the others were, and said to his sister, "They're the same Maynard children, Helen, if they are a year older. We enjoyed Marjorie last summer, and I know we'll enjoy Kitty this year, -- but how you can live with them all at once I can't understand!"

"It's habit," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling, "you know, Steve, you can get used to 'most anything."

"It seems to agree with you, Helen, at any rate," said Grandma Sherwood, looking at her daughter's pink cheeks and bright eyes.

Meanwhile, the younger Maynards had reached the kitchen, and were dancing round Eliza, with shouts of glee.

"Are you glad to see me again, Eliza?" asked Marjorie, flinging herself into the arms of the stout Irishwoman.

"Glad is it, Miss Midget? Faith, I'm thot glad I kin hardly see ye fer gladness! Ye've grow'd, -- but I do say not so much as I expicted! But Masther King, now he's as high as the church shpire! And as fer Miss Kitty, -- arrah, but she's the dumplin' darlin'! Stan' out there now, Miss Kitty, an' let me look at yez! Och! but yer the foine gurrul! An' it's ye thot's comin' to spend the summer. My! but the toimes we'll be havin'!"

It was a custom of the Maynards for one of the children to spend each summer at Grandma Sherwood's, and as Marjorie had been there last year, it was now Kitty's turn.

"Yes, I'm coming, Eliza," she said, in her sedate way, "but I'm not going to stay now, you know; we're all going on a tour. But I'll come back here the first of June, and stay a long time."

"Any cookies, Eliza?" asked King, apropos of nothing.

"Cookies, is it? There do be, indade! But if yez be afther eatin' thim now, ye'll shpoil yer supper, -- thot ye will! Here's one a piece to ye, and now run away, and lave me do me worruk. Be off with yez!"

After accepting a cookie apiece, the children bounced out the back door and down into the garden in search of Carter.

"We've come, Carter; we've come!" cried Marjorie, flinging open a door of the green-house in which Carter was busy potting some plants.

"You don't say so, Miss Mischief! Well, I'm right down glad to see you! And is this Master King? And Miss Kitty? Well, you all grow like weeds after a rain, but I'll warrant you're as full of mischief as ever!"

"Kitty isn't mischievous," said Marjorie, who was proud of the sedate member of the family.

"And it's Miss Kitty who's to spend the summer, isn't it? Well, then, I won't have the times I had last year, pulling children up from down the well, -- and picking them up with broken ankles after they slid down the roof! Nothing of that sort, eh?" Carter's eyes twinkled as he looked at Marjorie, who burst into laughter at reminiscences.

"No, nothing of that sort, Carter; but we're all going to be here for a few days, and we're going to give you the time of your life. Will you take us out rowing in the boat?"

"I'll go along with you to make sure you don't drown yourself; but I think you're getting big enough to do your own rowing. I'm not as young as I was, Miss Midget, and I'm chock-full of rheumatism."

"Oh, we'd just as lieve row, Carter; King's fine at it, and I can row pretty well myself."

But Kitty said: "I'm sorry you have rheumatism, Carter; I'll ask Mother to give you something for it."

"Now that's kind and thoughtful of you, Miss Kitty. Miss Mischief, here, would never think of that!" But, as Carter spoke, his eyes rested lovingly on Marjorie's merry face.

"That's so, Carter," she said, a little penitently, "but do you know, I think if you did take us rowing, it would limber up your arms so you wouldn't have rheumatism!"

"Maybe that's so, Miss Mischief, -- maybe that's so. Anyway, I'll try both plans, and perhaps it'll help some. But I hear Eliza calling you, so you'd all better skip back to the house. It's nearly supper time."

With a series of wild whoops, which were supposed to be indicative of the general joy of living, the three Maynards joined hands, with Kitty in the middle, and raced madly back to the house.

They all tried to squeeze through the back door at once, which proceeding resulted in an athletic scrimmage, and a final burst of kicking humanity into Eliza's kitchen.

"Howly saints! but ye're the noisy bunch!" was Eliza's greeting, and then she bade them hurry upstairs and tidy themselves for supper.



Chapter VII

An Early Escapade


Marjorie and Kitty occupied the room that had been Marjorie's the summer before. Another little white bed had been put up, and as the room was large, the girls were in no way crowded.

Kitty admired the beautiful room, but in her quiet way, by no means making such demonstrations of delight as Marjorie had when she first saw it. Also Kitty felt a sort of possession, as she would return later and occupy the room for the whole summer.

"Lots of these things on the shelf, Midget, I shall have taken away," she said, as the girls were preparing for bed that same night; "for they're your things, and I don't care about them, and I want to make room for my own."

"All right, Kit, but don't bother about them now. When you come back in June, put them all in a big box and have them put up in the attic until I come again. I only hope you'll have as good a time here as I had last summer. Molly Moss and Stella Martin are nearer my age than yours, but you'll like them, I know."

"Oh, I know Molly, but I don't remember Stella."

"You'll prob'ly like Stella best, though, 'cause she's so quiet and sensible like you. Molly's a scalawag, like me."

"All right," said Kitty, sleepily, for she was too tired to discuss the neighbors, and very soon the two girls were sound asleep.

It was very early when Marjorie awoke the next morning. Indeed, the sun had not yet risen, but the coming of this event had cast rosy shadows before. The east was cloudily bright, where the golden beams were trying to break through the lingering shades of night, and the scattering clouds were masses of pink and silver.

When Marjorie opened her eyes, she was so very wide awake that she knew she should not go to sleep again, and indeed had no desire to. The days at Grandma's would be few and short enough anyway, and she meant to improve every shining minute of them, and so concluded to begin before the minutes had really begun to shine.

She hopped out of bed, and, not to wake Kitty, went very softly to the window, and looked out. Across the two wide lawns she could see dimly the outlines of Stella's house, half-hidden by trees, and beyond that she could see the chimneys and gables of Molly's house. She watched the sun poking the tip edge of his circumference above a distant hill, and the bright rays that darted toward her made her eyes dance with sympathetic joy.

"Kitty," she whispered, not wanting to wake her sister, yet wishing she had somebody to share with her the effect of the beautiful sunrise.

"You needn't speak so softly, I'm wide awake," responded Kitty, in her matter-of-fact way; "what do you want?"

"I want you, you goosey! Hop out of bed, and come and see this gorgiferous sunrise!"

Slowly and carefully, as she did everything, Kitty folded back the bedcovers, drew on a pair of bedroom slippers, and then put on a kimona over her frilled nightgown, adjusting it in place and tying its blue ribbon.

"Gracious, Kit! What an old fuss you are! The sun will be up and over and setting before you get here!"

"I'd just as lieve see a sunset as a sunrise, anyway," declared Kitty, as she walked leisurely across the room, just in time to see the great red gold disc tear its lower edge loose from the hill with what seemed almost to be a leap up in the air.

But once at the window, she was as enthusiastic in her enjoyment of the breaking day as Marjorie, though not quite so demonstrative.

"Put on a kimona, Midget," she said at last; "you'll catch cold flying around in your night dress."

"Kit," said her sister, unheeding the admonition, and sitting down on the edge of her bed as she talked, "I've the most splendiferous plan!"

"So've I," said Kitty; "mine is to go back to bed and sleep till breakfast time."

"Pooh! you old Armadillo! Mine's nothing like that."

"Why am I an Armadillo?" asked Kitty, greatly interested to know.

"Because you want to sleep so much."

"That isn't an Armadillo, that's an Anaconda."

"Well, you're it anyway; and it ought to be Armadillo, because it rhymes with pillow! But now, you just listen to my plan. Seem's if I just couldn't wait any longer to see Molly and Stella, and I'm going to dress right, straight, bang, quick! and go over there. Come on."

"They won't be awake."

"Of course they won't; that's the fun of it! We'll throw little pebbles up at their windows, and wake them up, and make them come out."

"Well, all right, I will." Kitty reached this decision after a few moments' consideration, as Marjorie felt sure she would. Kitty usually agreed to her older sister's plans, but she made up her mind slowly, while Midget always reached her conclusions with a hop, skip, and jump.

So the girls began to dress, and in a very few minutes they were buttoning each other's frocks and tying each other's hair ribbons.

Marjorie had invented a way by which they could tie each other's hair ribbons at the same time, but as it oftenest resulted in pulled hair and badly made bows, it was not much of a time-saver after all.

"But I do think, Kit," she said, "being in such haste this morning, we might manage to button each other's dresses at the same time. Stand back to back and let's try."

The trial was a decided failure, and resulted only in a frolic, after which the buttoning was done separately and successfully.

"And anyway, we're not in such a hurry," commented Kitty, "and don't ever try that stunt again, Mopsy. My arms are nearly twisted off!"

"All right, Kit, I won't. Now are you ready? Come on; don't make any noise; we don't want to wake anybody."

They tiptoed downstairs, and as a greater precaution against waking the sleeping grownups, they went through the kitchen, and out at the back door, which they easily unbolted from the inside.

"We'll have to leave this door unfastened," said Marjorie. "I hope no burglars will get in."

"Of course they won't; burglars never come around after sunrise. Oh, isn't it lovely to smell the fresh morningness!"

Kitty stood still, and sniffed the clear, crisp air, while the exhilarating effects of the atmosphere caused Marjorie to dance and prance in circles round her quieter sister.

"When you've sniffed enough, come on, Kit," she said, dancing away toward Stella's house.

Kitty came on, and soon they stood on the greensward directly beneath Stella's bedroom window.

The morning was very still, and the Martins' house looked forbidding, with its silent, closed-up air. It was not yet half-past five, and not even the servants were stirring.

Marjorie's courage failed her. "I guess we won't try Stella first," she whispered to Kitty. "Stella's so scary. Once I just said 'boo' at her, and she cried like fury. If we fire pebbles at her window, like as not she'll think it's a burglar and have yelling hysterics."

"Burglars don't throw pebbles to wake people up."

"Well, Stella's just as likely to think they do. You never can tell what Stella's going to think, or what she's going to do, either. Anyway, let's go to Molly's first; you can't scare her."

"All right," agreed Kitty, and hand in hand the two girls trudged on to the next house.

"I believe I'll get up every morning at five o'clock," said Marjorie; "it is so fresh and green and wet."

"Yes, it's awful wet," said Kitty, looking at her shoes; "but it's a delicious kind of a wetness. Dew is awful different from rain."

"Yes, isn't it; dew makes you think of fairies and, -- "

"And spiders," said Kitty, kicking at one of the spider webs with which the grass was dotted.

"Well, I think spiders are sort of fairies," said Marjorie, looking lovingly at the glistening webs; "They must be to weave such silky, spangly stuff."

"They weave it for the fairies, Mops. They weave it in the night; and then about sunrise, the fairies come and gather up the silky, spangly stuff, and take it away to make their dresses out of it. See, they're most all gone now."

"Pooh! the sun dried them up."

"No, he didn't; the fairies came and took them away. Of course you can't see the fairies, and that's why people think the sun dries up the webs." Kitty spoke as one with authority, and into her eyes came the faraway look that always appeared when her imagination was running riot. For a really practical child, Kitty had a great deal of imagination, but the two traits never conflicted.

"This is Molly's window," said Marjorie, dismissing the question of fairies as they reached Mr. Moss's house.

"Why don't you whistle or call her?" suggested Kitty.

"No, that might wake up her father and mother. And besides, throwing pebbles is lots more fun. Let's get a handful from the drive. Get both hands full."

In a moment four little hands were filled with pebbles.

"Wait a minute," said thoughtful Kitty; "let's pick out the biggest ones and throw them away. Some of these big stones might break a window."

So the girls sat down on the front steps and carefully assorted their pebbles until at last they had their hands filled with only the tiniest stones.

"Now the thing is to throw straight," said Marjorie.

"You throw first," said Kitty, "and then I'll follow."

Like a flash, Marjorie's right hand full of pebbles clattered against Molly's window, and was swiftly followed by a second shower from Kitty's right hand. Then they shifted the pebbles in their left hand to their right, and, swish! these pebbles followed the others.

But though the Maynard children were quick, Molly Moss was quicker. At the first pebbles she flew out of bed and flung up the window, raising the sash just in time to get the second lot distributed over her own face and person.

"Oh, Molly, have we hurt you?" called out Kitty, who realized first what they had done.

"No, not a bit! I knew the minute I heard the pebbles it was you girls. I'm awful glad to see you! Shall I get dressed and come out?"

"Yes, do!" cried Marjorie, who was hopping up and down on one foot in her excitement. "Will it take you long to dress?"

"No, indeed; I'll be down in a jiffy. Just you wait a minute."

It might have been more than a minute, but it wasn't much more, when the girls heard a rustling above them, and looked up to see Molly, fully dressed, climbing out of the window.

"Oh, Molly, you'll break your neck!" cried Kitty, for Molly was already descending by a rose trellis that was amply strong enough for a climbing rose, but which swayed and wabbled frightfully tinder the weight of a climbing girl.

However, Molly didn't weigh very much, and she had the scrambling ability of a cat, so in a few seconds she was down on the ground, and embracing the two Maynard girls both at once.

"You're perfect ducks to come over here so early! How did you get away?"

"Slid out the back door," said Marjorie; "isn't it larky to be around so early in the morning?"

"Perfectly fine! How long are you girls going to stay?"

"Not quite a week, I think," said Kitty, and Marjorie added, "So we want to cram all the fun we can into these few days, and so we thought we'd begin early."

"All right," said Molly, taking her literally, "let's begin right now."

"Oh, we can't do anything now," said Marjorie, "that is, nothing in p'ticular."

"Pooh! yes, we can! It's only about half-past five, and we don't have breakfast till eight, do you?"

"Yes, Grandma has it at eight," said Marjorie, "but, gracious, I'll be starved to death by that time! I'm so hungry now I don't know what to do!"

"I'll tell you what," began Kitty, and upon her face there dawned that rapt expression, which always appeared when she was about to propose something ingenious.

"What?" cried Midget and Molly, both at once.

"Why," said Kitty, impressed with the greatness of her own idea, "let's have a picnic!"

"Picnic!" cried Marjorie, "before breakfast! At half-past five in the morning! Kit, you're crazy!"

"No, I'm not crazy," said Kitty, seriously, and Molly broke in, "Of course she isn't! It's a grand idea!"

"But you can't have a picnic without things to eat," objected Marjorie.

"We'll have things to eat," declared Kitty, calmly.

"Where'll you get 'em?"

"Kitchen."

"Kit, you're a genius! Prob'ly Eliza's pantry is just chock-a-block with good things! And as I know they were made for us, we may as well eat some now."

Then Molly had an inspiration. "I'll tell you what," she cried, "let's go on the river! in the boat!"



Chapter VIII

An Exciting Picnic


Molly's suggestion was so dazzling that Midget and Kitty were struck dumb for a moment. Then Marjorie said, "No, Grandma won't let us girls go on the river alone, and Carter isn't up yet."

"Let's throw pebbles and wake him up," said Molly.

"No," said Kitty, "it's too bad to wake him up early, because he needs his rest. He has to work hard all day, and he has the rheumatism besides. But I'll tell you what," and again Kitty's face glowed with a great idea; "let's go and throw pebbles at King's window, and make him take us out rowing."

"Kitty, getting up early in the morning agrees with your brain!" declared Marjorie. "We'll do just that, -- and while King is dressing, we'll pack a basket of things to eat. Oh, gorgeous! Come on, girls!"

And clasping hands, the three ran away toward Grandma Sherwood's house.

"What about Stella?" asked Marjorie, as they passed her house.

"Oh, don't try to get her," said Molly; "she'd be scared to death if you pebbled her, and her mother and father would think the house was on fire or something."

So Stella was not included in the picnic, and the three conspirators ran on, and never paused until they were beneath King's window.

"You don't need a whole handful for him," advised Kitty. "I expect he's awake, anyway, and one pebble will make him come to the window. See, the window's open anyway; we can just fling a pebble in."

"If we can aim straight enough," said Molly.

After one or two vain attempts, Kitty sent a good-sized pebble straight through the open window, and it landed on the floor straight beside King's bed.

In another moment a tousled head and a pair of shoulders, humped into a bathrobe, appeared at the window.

Seeing the girls, King's face broke into a broad grin. "Well, you do beat all!" he cried. "Have you been out all night?"

"No," called Kitty, "we're just playing around in the morning. It's perfectly lovely out, King, and we're going to have a picnic, rowing on the river. But we can't go unless you'll come too, so bob into your clothes and come, won't you?"

"You bet I will! Isn't anybody up?"

"Nobody but us," said Marjorie; "so don't make any noise. Slide down the back stairs and through the kitchen."

"Got any feed for your picnic?"

"We're going to get some. You hurry down and we'll be ready."

"All right," and the tousled head disappeared. The girls went noiselessly into the kitchen and on through into the pantry. As Marjorie had surmised, the pantry shelves were well-stocked, and they found doughnuts, little pies, and cold chicken in abundance. Kitty found a goodly-sized basket, and remembering King's appetite, they packed it well.

"Here's some hard-boiled eggs," cried Marjorie, "let's take these."

"I 'spect Eliza wants them for salad or something," said Kitty, "but she can boil more. We must take some milk, Midget."

"Yes, here's a big pitcher full. Let's put it in a tin pail to carry it. The milkman will be here in time for breakfast."

And so when King came softly downstairs, with his shoes in his hand, he found the luncheon basket packed, and the feminine portion of the picnic all ready to start.

"Good work!" he said, approvingly, as he lifted the basket, greatly pleased with its size and weight.

Molly carried the milk pail, Kitty some glasses and Marjorie some napkins and forks, for she was of a housewifely nature, and liked dainty appointments.

"Maybe we ought to leave a note or something," said Kitty, as they started.

"Saying we've eloped," said King, grinning.

"Don't let's bother," said Marjorie; "they'll know we're just out playing somewhere, and we'll be back by breakfast time, -- it isn't six o'clock yet."

"You won't want any breakfast after all this stuff," said Molly, whose appetite was not as robust as the Maynards'.

"'Deed we will!" declared King; "this little snack is all right for six o'clock, but I have an engagement at eight in the dining-room."

They trudged along to the boathouse, and, as they might have expected, found it locked.

"I'll get it," said Molly; "I'm the swiftest runner, and I know where the key hangs in Carter's workshop."

King watched Molly admiringly as she flew across the grass, her long, thin, black legs flinging out behind her with incredible quickness.

"Jingo, she can run!" he exclaimed, and indeed it seemed but a moment before Molly flashed back again with the key.

The quartet was soon in the boat, and with a few strokes, King pulled out into mid-stream.

"Let's have the picnic first," he said, shipping his oars. "I can't row when I'm so hungry. This morning air gives a fellow an appetite."

"It does so," agreed Marjorie; "and we girls have been out 'most an hour. I'm 'bout starved."

So they held a very merry picnic breakfast, while the boat drifted along with the current, and the cold chicken and biscuits rapidly disappeared.

"Now, where do you girls want to go?" asked King, as, the last crumb finished, Kitty carefully packed the napkins and glasses back in the basket.

"Oh, let's go to Blossom Banks," said Marjorie, "that is, if there's time enough."

"We'll go down that way, anyhow," said King, "and if it gets late we'll come back before we get there. Anybody got a watch?"

Nobody had, but all agreed they wouldn't stay out very long, so on they went, propelled by King's long, strong strokes down toward Blossom Banks.

It was a delightful sensation, because it was such a novel one. To row on the river at six o'clock in the morning was a very different proposition from rowing later in the day. Molly and Marjorie sat together in the stern, and Kitty lay curled up in the bow, with her hands behind her head, dreamily gazing into the morning sky.

"Do you remember, Molly," said Midget, "how we went out with Carter one day, and he scolded us so because we bobbed about and paddled our hands in the water?"

"Yes, I remember," and Molly laughed at the recollection. "Let's dabble our hands now. May we, King?"

"Sure! I guess I can keep this boat right side up if you girls do trail your hands in the water."

And so the two merry maidens dabbled their hands in the water, and growing frolicsome, shook a spray over each other, and even flirted drops into King's face. The boy laughed good-naturedly, and retaliated by splashing a few drops on them with the tip end of his oar.

King was fond of rowing, and was clever at it, and being a large, strong boy, it tired him not at all. Moreover, the boat was a light, round-bottomed affair that rowed easily, and was not at all hard to manage.

King's foolery roused the spirit of mischief in the two girls, and faster and faster flew the drops of water from one to another of the merrymakers.

"No fair splashing!" cried King. "Just a spray of drops goes."

"All right," agreed Marjorie, who was also a stickler for fair play, and though she dashed the water rapidly, she sent merely a flying spray, and not a drenching handful. But Molly was not so punctilious. She hadn't the same instinct of fairness that the Maynards had, and half intentionally, half by accident, she flung a handful of water straight in King's face.

This almost blinded the boy, and for a moment he lost control of his oar. An involuntary move on his part, due to the shock of the water in his face, sent the blade of one oar down deep, and as he tried to retrieve it, it splashed a whole wave all over Molly.

But Molly thought King intended to do this, and that it was merely part of the game, so with one of her lightning-like movements, she grasped the blade of the oar in retaliation. The oar being farther away than she thought, and rapidly receding, caused her to lean far over the boat, and in his effort to get his oar again in position, King, too, leaned over the side.

The result was exactly what might have been expected. The narrow, clinker-built boat capsized, and in a moment the four children were struggling in the water.

Even as the boat went over, King realized what had happened, and realized, too, that he was responsible for the safety of the three girls. With fine presence of mind he threw his arm over the keel of the upturned boat and shouted, "It's all right, girls! Just hang on to the boat this way, and you won't go down."

Marjorie and Molly understood at once, and did exactly as King told them. They were terribly frightened, and were almost strangled, but they realized the emergency, and struggled to get their arms up over the boat in the manner King showed them.

But Kitty did not so quickly respond to orders. She had not been paying any attention to the merry war going on in the stern of the boat, and when she was suddenly thrown out into the water, she could not at first collect her scattered senses. King's words seemed to convey no meaning to her, and to his horror, the boy saw his sister sink down under the water.

"Hang on like fury, you two girls!" he shouted to Marjorie and Molly, and then he made a dive for Kitty.

King was a good swimmer, but, hampered by his clothing, and frightened terribly by Kitty's disappearance, he could not do himself justice. But he caught hold of Kitty's dress, and by good fortune both rose to the surface. King grabbed for the boat, but it slipped away from him, and the pair went down again.

At this Marjorie screamed. She had been trying to be brave, yet the sight of her brother and sister being, as she feared, drowned, was too much for her.

"Hush up, Marjorie!" cried Molly. "You just keep still and hang on! I can swim!"

With an eel-like agility Molly let go of the boat, and darted through the water. She was really a good swimmer, and her thin, muscular little limbs struck out frantically in all directions. Diving swiftly, she bumped against Kitty, and grasping her arm firmly, she began to tread water rapidly. As King was doing this on the other side of Kitty, the three shot up to the surface, and King and Molly grasped the boat with firm hands, holding Kitty between them.

Kitty was limp, but conscious; and though King was exhausted, he held on to Kitty, and held on to the boat, with a desperate grip.

"Wait a minute, girls," he gasped, sputtering and stammering; "I'll be all right in a minute. Now as long as you hold fast to the boat, you know you can't drown! How are you getting along, Mops?"

"All right," called Marjorie from the other side of the boat; "but I want to come over there by you."

"Don't you do it! You stay there and balance the boat. It's lucky you're a heavyweight! Now you girls do exactly as I tell you to."

King did not mean to be dictatorial, but he was getting his breath back, and he knew that although their heads were above water, still strenuous measures were necessary.

"What shall we do?" shouted Marjorie.

"Well, we must try to get this boat to shore. And as we're much nearer the other shore than our own side, we'll try to get it over there, for we don't want to cross the river. Now hang on tight, and wiggle your feet like paddles. If you kick out hard enough, I think we can get the old thing ashore."

It wasn't an easy task, nor a quick one, but after a while, by vigorous kicking, in accordance with King's continued directions, they did succeed in reaching shallow water.

"Now we can walk," said King, "but we may as well hang on to the boat and not let her drift away."

So half scrambling, half crawling, the children pushed through the shallow water and up on to the shore, dragging the upturned boat with them. The shore just here was shelving and sandy, otherwise it is doubtful if they could have reached it at all. But at last four shivering, dripping children stood on solid ground, and looked at each other.

"You're an old trump, King," cried Marjorie, flinging her arms around her brother's neck, and kissing his wet cheeks; "you're a hero, and a life-saver, and a Victoria Cross, and everything!"

"There, there, Midget, come off! I didn't do anything much; Molly here did the most, but, thank goodness, we all got out alive! Now what shall we do next?"

Kitty had recovered entirely from her dazed and stunned feeling, and was again her practical and helpful self.

"We must run," she said, "we must run like sixty! That's the only way to keep from catching cold in these wet clothes!"

"Can't we build a fire, and dry ourselves?" asked Molly, who was shivering with cold.

"No, of course not," said Kitty, "for we haven't any matches, and if we had they'd be soaked. No, we must run as hard as we can tear along this bank until we get opposite Grandma's house, and then they'll have to come over and get us somehow."

"How'll they know we're there?" asked Molly.

"I'll yell," said Marjorie, quite confident of her powers in this direction. "I'll yell, -- and I just know I can make Carter hear me!"

"I'll bet you can!" said King. "Come on then, let's run. Take hold of hands."

With King and Midget at either end of the line, and the other two between, they ran!



Chapter IX

Ancient Finery


When the children reached the big open field that was just across the river from Grandma Sherwood's, although their clothes had ceased dripping, they were far from dry, and they all shivered in the keen morning air.

"Yell away, Mopsy," cried King. "You can make Carter hear if anybody can."

So Marjorie yelled her very best ear-splitting shrieks.

"Car-ter! Car-ter!" she screamed, and the others gazed at her in admiration.

"Well, you can yell!" said Molly. "I expect my people will hear that!"

After two or three more screams, they saw Carter come running down toward the boathouse. Looking across the river, he saw the four children frantically waving their hands and beckoning to him.

"For the land's sake! What is going on now?" he muttered, hurrying down to the bank as fast as his rheumatic old legs would carry him.

"And the boat's gone!" he exclaimed; "now, however did them children get over there without no boat? By the looks of their wet clothes they must have swum over, but I don't believe they could do that. Hey, there!" he shouted, making a megaphone of his hands.

"Come over and get us," Marjorie yelled back, and beginning to realize the situation, Carter went into the boathouse and began to take out the other boat. This was an old flat-bottomed affair, which had been unused since Uncle Steve bought the new boat.

"Most prob'ly she leaks like a sieve," he muttered, as he untied the boat and pushed it out; "but I've nothing else to bring the young rascals home in. So they'll have to bail while I row."

Carter was soon in the old boat, and pulling it across the river. As he had expected, it leaked badly, but he was sure he could get the children home in it.

"Come on now!" he cried, as he beached the boat, and jumped out. "For the land's sake, how did you get so wet? But don't stop to tell me now! Just pile in the boat, and let me get you home to a fire and some dry clothes. You'll all have to bail, for she leaks something awful."

Not waiting for a second invitation, the damp quartet scrambled into the boat, and Carter pulled off. The old man had provided tin cans, and the children bailed all the way over, for it was necessary to do so to keep the boat afloat.

As they went, Marjorie told Carter the whole story, "and you see," she concluded, "we didn't do anything wrong, for we're always allowed to go in a boat if King is with us."

"Oh, no, Miss Mischief, you didn't do anything wrong! Of course it wasn't wrong to jump about in the boat and carry on until you upset it! It's a marvel you weren't all drowned."

"It is so!" said King, who realized more fully than the others the danger they had been in. "Why, there's Uncle Steve on the dock, and Father, too; I wonder if they heard Midget scream."

"If they were within a mile and not stone deaf they couldn't help hearing her," declared Carter. He rowed as fast as he could, and he made the children keep hard at work bailing, not only to get the water out of the boat, but because he feared if they sat still they'd take cold.

At last they reached the dock, and Uncle Steve and Mr. Maynard assisted them out of the boat.

It was no time then for questions or comments, and Uncle Steve simply issued commands.

"Molly," he said, "you scamper home as fast as you can fly! We have enough to attend to with our own brood. Scoot, now, and don't stop until you reach your own kitchen fire, and tell your mother what has happened. As for you Maynards, you fly to Grandma's kitchen, and see what Eliza can do for you."

Molly flew off across the lawns to her own house, running so swiftly that she was out of sight in a moment. Then the Maynards, obeying Uncle Steve's command, ran to the kitchen door, and burst in upon Eliza as she was just finishing the breakfast preparations.

"Howly saints!" she cried. "If it wasn't that I always ixpict yees to come in drownded, I'd be sheared to death! But if yees weren't in this mess, ye'd be in some other. Such childher I niver saw!"

Eliza's tirade probably would have been longer, but just then Grandma and Mrs. Maynard came into the kitchen.

"Been for a swim?" asked Mrs. Maynard, pleasantly.

"Almost been drowned," said Kitty, rushing into her mother's arm, greatly to the detriment of her pretty, fresh morning dress.

As soon as Mrs. Maynard realized that her brood had really been in danger, she gathered all three forlorn, wet little figures into her arms at once, thankful that they were restored to her alive.

Then breakfast was delayed while Grandma and Mother Maynard provided dry clothing, and helped the children to transform themselves once more into respectable citizens.

"Now tell us all about it, but one at a time," said Uncle Steve, as at last breakfast was served, and they all sat round the table. "King, your version first."

"Well, we all went out for an early morning row, and somehow we got to carrying on, and that round-bottomed boat tipped so easily, that somehow we upset it."

"It's a wonder you weren't drowned!" exclaimed Grandma.

"I just guess it is!" agreed Marjorie; "and we would have been, only King saved us! Kitty was 'most drowned, and King went down in the water and fished her up, and Molly helped a good deal, and I stayed on the other side and balanced the boat."

"The girls were all plucky," declared King, "and the whole thing was an accident. It wasn't wrong for us to go out rowing early in the morning, was it, Father?"

"I don't think it was the hour of the day that made the trouble, my son. But are you sure you did nothing else that was wrong?"

"I did," confessed Marjorie, frankly. "I splashed water, and then the others splashed water, and that's how we came to upset."

"Yes, that was the trouble," said Mr. Maynard; "you children are quite old enough to know that you must sit still in a boat. Especially a round-bottomed boat, and a narrow one at that."

"It was Molly's fault more than Midget's," put in Kitty, who didn't want her adored sister to be blamed more than she deserved.

"Well, never mind that," said Marjorie, generously ignoring Molly's part in the disaster. "There's one thing sure, Kitty wasn't a bit to blame."

"No," said King, "Kit sat quiet as a mouse. She wouldn't upset an airship. Mopsy and I were the bad ones, as usual, and I think we ought to be punished."

"I think so, too," said Mr. Maynard, "but as this is a vacation holiday I hate to spoil it with punishments, so I'm going to wait until you cut up your next naughty trick, and then punish you for both at once. Is that a good plan, Mother?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Maynard, looking fondly at the culprits, "but I want to stipulate that the children shall not go out in the boat again without some grown person with them."

"I'm glad of that," said Marjorie, "for no matter how hard I try I don't believe I could sit perfectly still in a boat, so I'll be glad to have some grownup go along."

"That's my chance," exclaimed Uncle Steve, "I'll take you any time you want to go, Midget, and I'll guarantee to bring you back without a ducking."

"Thank you, Uncle Steve," said Marjorie; "shall we go right after breakfast?"

"Not quite so soon as that, but perhaps to-morrow. By the way, kiddies, what do you think of having a little party while you're here? That would keep you out of mischief for half a day."

"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Uncle Steve, you do have the beautifullest ideas! What kind of a party?"

"Any kind that isn't a ducking party."

"But we don't know anybody much to invite," said Kitty.

"Yes, I know quite a few," said Marjorie, "and King knows several boys; and anyway, Molly and Stella will help us make out a list. How many shall we have, Uncle Steve?"

"About twenty, I think, and I'll have a hand at that list myself. I know most of the children around here. This afternoon get Molly and Stella to come in after school, and we'll make the list. We can send the invitations to-night, and have the party day after to-morrow. That's warning enough for such young, young people."

"It seems to be your party, Steve," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling; "can't I help you with the arrangements?"

"Yes, indeed; you and Mother can look after the feast part of it, but the rest I'll attend to myself."

After breakfast the children were advised to stay indoors for a while, lest they get into more mischief, and also until their elders felt that there was no danger of their taking cold.

"Lucky we didn't have Rosy Posy with us," said King, picking up his smallest sister, and tossing her up in the air.

"Don't speak of it," said his mother, turning pale at the thought; "and don't ever take the baby on your escapades. She's too little to go through the dangers that you older ones persist in getting into."

"Oh, we don't persist," said Marjorie, "the dangers just seem to come to us without our looking for them."

"They do seem to, Midget," agreed Uncle Steve. "But you all seem to have a happy-go-lucky way of getting out of them, and I think you're a pretty good bunch of children after all."

"Listen to that!" exclaimed King, proudly, strutting about the room, elated with the compliment. "It's worth while having an uncle who says things like that to you," and the others willingly agreed with him.

Kept in the house, the children wandered about in search of amusement. Kitty curled herself up on a sofa, with a book, saying she was determined to keep out of mischief for once.

"Let's go up in the attic," said Midget to King, "and hunt over our old toys that are put away up there. We might find some nice game."

"All right, come on," and in a minute the two were scrambling up the attic stairs.

"Gracious! look at that big chest. I never saw that before. Wonder what's in it," said Marjorie, pausing before a big cedar chest.

"Is it locked?" said King, and lifting the lid he discovered it wasn't.

But it was filled to the brim with old-fashioned garments of queer old Quaker cut.

"Wouldn't it be fun to dress up in these," cried King.

"Yes," assented Marjorie, "but I'm not going to do it, until we ask Grandma. I've had enough mischief for one day."

So King ran downstairs and asked Grandma, and soon came running back.

"She says we may," he announced briefly, "so let's choose our rigs."

They lifted out the quaint, old-fashioned clothes, and found there were both men's and women's garments among them.

"Where do you suppose they came from?" asked Marjorie.

"Grandma said some old relative in Philadelphia sent her the chest, some time ago, but she's never opened it."

They tried on various costumes, and pranced around the attic, pretending they were ladies and gentlemen of bygone days.

Finally King tried on a woman's dress. It just fitted him, and when he added a silk Shaker bonnet and a little shoulder shawl, the effect was so funny that Marjorie screamed with laughter.

"All you want," she said, "is some false hair in the front of that bonnet, and you'll be a perfect little old lady."

Then Marjorie ran down to Grandma, and asked her for some of her false puffs, and getting them, flew back to the attic again, and deftly pinned them inside of King's bonnet, transforming him into a sweet-faced Quaker lady.

Then Marjorie arrayed herself as another Quaker lady, drawing her hair down in smooth bands over her ears, which greatly changed the expression of her face, and made her look much older. Each carried an old-fashioned silk reticule, and together they went downstairs. After parading before their admiring relatives, they decided to play a joke on Eliza. She had not yet seen them, so they slipped downstairs and out the front door, and then closing it softly behind them, they rang the bell.

Eliza came to the door, and utterly failed to recognize the children.

"Does Mrs. Sherwood live here?" asked King, in a thin, disguised voice.

"Yes, ma'am," said Eliza, not knowing the children, "but -- " gazing in surprise at the quaint, old-fashioned dresses and bobbing bonnets.

"Please tell her her two aunts from Philadelphia are here," said Marjorie, but she could not disguise her voice as well as King, and Eliza suddenly recognized it.

"Two aunts from Phillydelphy, is it?" she said. "More likes it's too loonytics from Crazyland! What will ye mischiefs be cuttin' up next! But, faith, ye're the bonny ould ladies, and if ye'll come in and take a seat, I'll tell the missus ye're here."

But, having fooled Eliza, the fun was over in that direction, and the Quaker ladies trotted away to make a call on Carter.

Just at first he didn't know them, and thought the two ladies were coming to see him. But in a moment he saw who they were, and the good-natured man entered at once into the game.



Chapter X

Calling At The Schoolhouse


"Good-morning, ladies," he said, bowing gravely, "I'm very pleased to see you. May I ask your names?"

"Mrs. William Penn and Mrs. Benjamin Franklin," said Marjorie, "and we have come to look at your flowers."

"Yes, ma'am; they do be fine this year, ma'am. Happen you raise flowers yourself?"

"No, not much," said King, "we don't raise anything."

"Except when you raise the mischief," declared Carter, laughing at the prim faces before him. "I'm thinkin' if you'd always wear those sober-colored dresses you mightn't lead such a rambunctious life."

"That's so," said King, kicking at his skirts. "But they're not easy to get around in."

"I think they are," said Marjorie, gracefully swishing the long folds of her silk skirt. "Come on, King, let's go over and see Stella; we haven't seen her yet."

"Miss Stella's gone to school," Carter informed them. "I saw her go by with her books just before nine o'clock. And if you ladies can excuse me now, I'll be going back to my work. If so be ye fall in the river or anything, just you scream, Miss Marjorie, and I'll come and fish you out."

"We don't fall in twice in one day," said Marjorie, with dignity, and the two Quaker ladies trailed away across the lawn.

They went down into the orchard, to pay a visit to Breezy Inn. This was Marjorie's tree-house which Uncle Steve had had built for her the year before.

But the rope ladder was not there, so they could not go up, and they wandered on, half hoping they might meet somebody who would really think they were Quaker ladies. Crossing the orchard, they came out on one of the main streets of the town, and saw not far away, the school which Stella and Molly attended.

Marjorie had a sudden inspiration. "Let's go to the school," she said, "and ask for Stella and Molly!"

"Only one of them," amended King; "which one?"

"Stella, then. We'll go to the front door, and we'll probably see the janitor, and we'll ask him to call Stella Martin down."

"I think we'd better send for Molly."

"No, Molly would make such a racket. Stella's so much quieter, and I don't want to make any trouble."

They reached the schoolhouse, which was a large brick building of three or four stories. The front door was a rather impressive portal, and the children went up the steps and rang the bell.

"You do the talking, King," said Marjorie. "You can make your voice sound just like an old lady."

The janitor appeared in answer to their ring, and looked greatly amazed to see two old Quaker ladies on the doorstep. The children kept their heads down, and the large bonnets shaded their faces.

"We want to see Miss Stella Martin," said King, politely, and the clever boy made his voice sound like that of an elderly lady.

"Yes'm," said the janitor, a little bewildered. "Will you come in?"

"No," said King, "we won't come in, thank you. Please ask Miss Stella Martin to come down here. Her two aunts from Philadelphia want to see her."

The janitor partly closed the door, and went upstairs to Stella's classroom.

"We fooled him all right!" chuckled King, "but what do you suppose Stella will say?"

"I don't know," said Midget, thoughtfully; "you never can tell what Stella will do. She may think it's a great joke, and she may burst out crying. She's such a funny girl."

In a moment Stella came down. The janitor was with her, and opened the door for her. As she saw the two Quaker figures her face expressed only blank bewilderment.

"Who are you?" she asked, bluntly. "I haven't any aunts in Philadelphia."

"Oh, yes, you have," said King, in his falsetto voice, "Don't you remember your dear Aunt Effie and Aunt Lizzie?"

"No, I don't," declared Stella, and then as she showed signs of being frightened, and perhaps crying, Marjorie came to the rescue.

She hated to explain the joke before the janitor, but he looked good-natured, and after all it was only a joke. So she threw back her head, and smiled at Stella, saying, "Then do you remember your Aunt Marjorie Maynard?"

"Marjorie!" exclaimed Stella. "What are you doing in such funny clothes? And who is this with you, -- Kitty?"

"No," said King, "it's Kingdon. I'm Marjorie's brother, and we're out on a little lark."

"How did you ever dare come here?" and Stella's startled gaze rested on them, and then on the janitor.

The janitor was a good-natured man, but he felt that this performance was not in keeping with school discipline, and he felt he ought to send the children away at once. But Marjorie smiled at him so winningly that he could not speak sternly to her.

"I guess you'd better run along now," he said; "the principal wouldn't like it if he saw you."

"Yes, we're going now," said Marjorie, "but I just wanted to speak to Stella a minute. We're going to have a party, Stella, and I want you to come over this afternoon and tell us who to invite."

"All right," said Stella; "I'll come right after school. And now do go away. If my teacher should see you she'd scold me."

"She'd have no right to," said King. "You couldn't help our coming."

"No, but I can help staying here and talking to you. Now I must go back to my classroom."

"Skip along, then," said Marjorie, and then turning to the janitor, she added, "and will you please ask Miss Molly Moss to come down."

"That I will not!" declared the man. "I've been pretty good to you two kids, and now you'd better make a getaway, or I'll have to report to the principal."

"Oh, we're going," said Marjorie, hastily; "and don't mention our call to the principal, because it might make trouble for Stella, though I don't see why it should."

"Well, I won't say anything about it," and the janitor smiled at them kindly as he closed the door.

The pair went home chuckling, and when they reached the house it was nearly lunch time. So they came to the table in their Quaker garb, and created much merriment by pretending to be guests of the family.

Stella and Molly both came after school, and the list for the party invitations was soon made out. Uncle Steve wrote the invitations, and sent them to the mail, but he would not divulge any of his plans for the party, and though Midget was impatient to know, she could get no idea of what the plays or games were to be.

But it was not long to wait for the day of the party itself. The guests were invited from three to six in the afternoon, and though the Maynards knew some of them, there were a number of strangers among the company. However, Stella and Molly knew them all, and it did not take long for the Maynards to feel acquainted with them.

The first game was very amusing. Uncle Steve presented each child with a Noah's Ark. These were of the toy variety usually seen, but they were all empty.

"You must find animals for yourselves," said Uncle Steve, who was never happier than when entertaining children. "They are hidden all about, in the drawing-room, library, dining-room, and hall. You may not go upstairs, or in the kitchen, but anywhere else in the house you may search for animals to fill your arks. Now scamper and see who can get the most."

The children scampered, and all agreed that hunting wild animals was a great game. It was lots more fun than a peanut hunt, and they found elephants, lions, and tigers tucked away behind window curtains and sofa pillows, under tables and chairs, and even behind the pictures on the walls.

There were so many animals that each one succeeded in filling his or her ark, and after they had declared they could find no more, each child was told to take the ark home as a souvenir of Marjorie's party.

"The next game," said Uncle Steve, as they all sat round, awaiting his directions, "is out of doors, so perhaps you had better put on your coats and hats."

"Oh, Uncle Steve," said Marjorie, "the air is so soft and warm, I'm sure we don't need wraps."

"Yes, you do," said Uncle Steve; "this is a peculiar game, and you must have your coats on."

So the children trooped upstairs, and soon returned garbed for outdoors, and two by two they followed Uncle Steve in a long procession. Mr. Maynard was with them, too, but Uncle Steve was general manager, and told everybody what to do.

He led them across the lawns, down through the orchard, and then they came to a large plot of soft, newly-dug earth. It was a sandy soil and not at all muddy, and the children wondered what kind of a game could take place in a ploughed field.

"It has just been discovered," Uncle Steve began, "that this field you see before you is the place where Captain Kidd buried his treasures! For many years the site was undiscovered, but documents have been found recently, proving beyond all doubt that the greater part of his vast treasure was concealed in this particular piece of ground. Of course, if this were generally known, all sorts of companies and syndicates would be formed to dig for it. But I have carefully kept it secret from the world at large, because I wanted you children to be the first ones to dig for it. Bring the spades, please, Carter, and let us set to work at once."

So Carter brought twenty small spades, and gave one to each child present.

"Now," said Uncle Steve, "dig wherever you like, all over the field, and when you find any buried treasure, dig it up, but if it is tied up in a parcel, do not open it. Every one finding any treasure must bring it, and put it in this wheelbarrow, and then, if you choose, you may go back and dig for more."

This was indeed a novel game, and girls and boys alike began to dig with enthusiasm.

Marjorie worked like mad. The dirt flew right and left, and she dug so hard and fast that she almost blistered her palms.

"Slow and sure is a better rule, Midget," said her uncle, who was watching her. "Look at Kitty, she has dug quite as much as you without making any fuss about it."

"Oh, I have to work fast, Uncle Steve, 'cause I'm having such a good time! If I didn't fling this spade around hard, I couldn't express my enjoyment; and oh, Uncle, I've struck a treasure!"

Sure enough, Marjorie's spade had come in contact with what seemed to be a tin box. It was quite a large box and was strongly tied with lots of cord, and on it was pasted a paper with the legend, "This treasure was buried by Captain Kidd. It is of great value."

"It is a treasure, it is!" cried Marjorie, and eagerly she wielded her spade to get the box free. At last she succeeded, and picking it up from the dirt, carried it to the wheelbarrow.

Two or three other children also brought treasures they had found, and this encouraged the others so that they dug deeper.

Shouts of glee rang out from one or another as more and more boxes of treasure were unearthed, and the pile of boxes in the wheelbarrow grew higher every moment. The boxes were of all shapes and sizes. They were all carefully tied up with lots of string and paper, and they all bore testimony in large printed letters that they had been buried by Captain Kidd and his band of pirates. King unearthed a large box two or three feet square, but very flat and shallow. He could not imagine what it might contain, but he piled it on the wheelbarrow with the others.

After twenty pieces of treasure had been dug up, Uncle Steve declared that they had emptied the field, and he led the children back to the house. Carter followed with the wheelbarrow, and they all gathered in the little enclosed porch that had been furnished especially for Marjorie the summer before. With a whiskbroom, Carter brushed off any dirt still clinging to the treasures, and piled them up on a table.

Then calling the children by name. Uncle Steve invited each one to select a box of treasure for his or her very own. As it was impossible to judge by the shape of the box what it contained, great merriment was caused by the surprises which ensued.

The treasures were all dainty and pretty gifts; there were books, games, toys, fancy boxes, and pretty souvenirs of many sorts. If a boy received a gift appropriate for a girl, or vice versa, they made a happy exchange, and everybody was more than satisfied.

After this, they were summoned to the dining-room for the feast, and a merry feast it was. Eliza had used her best skill in the making of dainty sandwiches and little cakes with pink and white icing. Then there were jellies and fruits, and, best of all, in Kitty's eyes, most delightful ice cream. It was in individual shapes, and each child had a duck, or a chicken, or a flower, or a fruit beautifully modelled and daintily colored.

The guests went away with a box of treasure under one arm and a Noah's ark under the other, and they all declared, as they said good-bye, that it was the nicest party they had ever seen, and they wished the Maynard children lived at their Grandmother's all the year around.



Chapter XI

A Chance Acquaintance


All of the Maynards were sorry when the time came to leave Grandma Sherwood's. But they had still three weeks of their trip before them, and many places yet to be visited. Kitty was almost tempted to stay, since she was coming back in June anyway, and she wasn't quite so fond of travelling about as King and Midget were. But they would not hear of this, and persuaded Kitty to go on the trip, and return to Grandma Sherwood's later.

So on a fair, sunshiny May morning, the big car started once more on its travels, with half a dozen Maynards packed in it. They were waving good-byes, and calling back messages of farewell, and the car rolled away, leaving Grandma and Uncle Steve watching them out of sight.

Their next destination was New York City, where they were to make a short visit at Grandma Maynard's.

"Isn't it funny," Marjorie said, voicing the sentiment of many older travellers, "that when you leave one place you sort of forget it, -- and your thoughts fly ahead to the next place you're going."

"It's so long since I've been at Grandma Maynard's," said Kitty, "and I was so little when I was there, that I hardly remember it at all."

"It isn't half as much fun as Grandma Sherwood's," declared King, and then Marjorie, afraid lest her father should feel hurt, added quickly, "But it's very nice indeed, and Grandma and Grandpa Maynard are lovely. The only reason we have more fun at Grandma Sherwood's is because we don't have to be quite so careful of our manners and customs."

"Well, it won't hurt you, Midget," said her mother, "to have a little experience in that line; and I do hope, children, you will behave yourselves, and not go to cutting up any of your mischief or jinks."

"Kit will be our star exhibit," said King, "she'll have to do the manners for the family."

"I'll do my share," said Kitty, taking him literally, "but unless you two behave, I can't do it all. If you go to pulling hair-ribbons and neckties off each other, Grandma Maynard will think you're Hottentots!"

"I will be good, dear Mother," said King, with such an angelic expression on his face that Mrs. Maynard felt sure he was in a specially roguish mood; and though she thought her children were the dearest in the world, yet she knew they had a propensity for getting into mischief just when she wanted them to act most decorously.

But she said no more, for very often special admonitions resulted in special misbehavior.

They were spinning along a lovely country road, which ran across that portion of New Jersey, and the children found much to interest them in the scenes they passed. Mr. Maynard liked to travel rather slowly, and as it neared noon they stopped at a hotel for luncheon. Here they stayed for some time, and the children were delighted to find that there were several other children living at the hotel, and they soon became acquainted.

One girl, about Marjorie's age, named Ethel Sinclair, seemed an especially nice child, and Mrs. Maynard was glad to have Marjorie play with her.

She was sitting on the veranda embroidering, and this interested Marjorie, for all the girls she knew of her own age liked to run and play better than to sit and sew.

But when Ethel showed them her work, Kitty and Marjorie, and even King, took an interest in looking at it. It was a large piece of white linen, about a yard square, neatly hemstitched, and all over it were names of people.

Ethel explained that she asked any one whom she chose to write an autograph on the cloth in pencil, and then afterward she worked them very carefully with red cotton, taking very small stitches that the names might be clear and legible.

"But what's it for?" asked King, with a boy's ignorance of such matters.

"It's a teacloth," said Ethel, "to cover a tea table, you know."

"But you don't have afternoon tea, do you?" asked Marjorie, for Ethel, like herself, was only twelve.

"No, but I'm going to use it for a tablecover in my bedroom, and perhaps when I grow older I can use it for a teacloth."

Ethel was a prim-mannered child, and had apparently been brought up in a conventional manner, but Marjorie liked her, and stayed talking with her, while King and Kitty went off to explore the gardens.

"I wish I could make one," went on Marjorie to Ethel, "where did you get the linen?"

"There's a little shop just down the road, and they have the squares already hemstitched. It would be nice for you to make one, for you could get so many names as you go on your trip."

"So I could; I'm going to ask mother if I may buy one. Will you go with me, Ethel?"

Ethel went gladly, and when the girls showed the teacloth to Mrs. Maynard, she approved of the whole plan, for she wanted Marjorie to become more fond of her needle, and this work would be an incentive to do so.

So she gave Marjorie the money for the purchase, and the two girls trotted away to the little shop which was not far from the hotel.

Marjorie found a square just like Ethel's, and bought it with a decidedly grownup feeling.

"I don't like to sew much," she confessed to Ethel, as they walked back. "I've tried it a little, but I'd rather read or play."

"But this isn't like regular sewing, and it's such fun to see the names grow right under your eyes. They're so much prettier after they're worked in red than when they're just written in pencil."

"Wouldn't they be prettier still worked in white?" asked Marjorie.

"No; I saw one that way once, and the names don't show at all, -- you can hardly read them. Red is the best, and it doesn't fade when it's washed."

Marjorie had bought red cotton at the shop, and she showed her purchases to her mother with great delight.

"They're fine," said Mrs. Maynard, approvingly. "Now why don't you ask Ethel to write her name, and then you can always remember that hers was the first one on the cloth."

"Oh, that will be lovely!" cried Marjorie. "Will you, Ethel?"

"Yes, indeed," and getting a pencil, Ethel wrote her name in a large, plain, childish hand.

"You must always ask people to write rather large," she advised, "because it's awfully hard to work the letters if they're too small."

Then Ethel lent Marjorie her needle and thimble so that she might do a few stitches by way of practice.

But it was not so easy for Marjorie as for Ethel, and her stitches did not look nearly so nice and neat. However, Mrs. Maynard said that she felt sure Marjorie's work would improve after she had done more of it, and she thanked Ethel for her assistance in the matter.

Then Ethel's mother appeared, and the two ladies were made acquainted, and then it was luncheon time, and the Maynards all went to the dining-room.

"I think the most fun of the whole trip is eating in restaurants," said Kitty. "I just love to look around, and see different tables and different people at them."

"It is fun," agreed King; "but I wouldn't want to live in a hotel all the time. I think it's more fun to be at home."

"So do I," said Marjorie. "Somehow, in a hotel, you feel sort of stiff and queer, and you never do at home."

"You needn't feel stiff and queer, Marjorie," said her father; "but of course there is a certain conventional restraint about a public dining-room that isn't necessary at home. I want you children to become accustomed to restaurants, and learn how to act polite and reserved, without being what Marjorie calls stiff and queer."

"Don't we act right, Father?" inquired Kitty, anxiously.

"Yes, you do very nicely, indeed. Your table manners are all right, and the less you think about the subject the better. This trip will give you a certain amount of experience, and anyway you have all your life to learn in. But I will ask you, children, to be on your good behavior at Grandma Maynard's. She is more difficult to please than Grandma Sherwood, but I want her to think my children are the best and the best-behaved in the whole world."

"How long shall we stay there, Father?" asked Marjorie.

"About three days. I'm sure you can exist that long without falling in the water or cutting up any pranks in the house."

"Is there any water to fall in?" asked King.

"No, there isn't. I used that as a figure of speech. But I'm sure if you try to be quiet and well-behaved children you can easily succeed."

"I'm sure we can," said Marjorie, heartily, and deep in her heart she registered a vow that she would succeed this time.

After luncheon was over, Pompton brought the car around, and they started off again. Marjorie bade Ethel good-bye with a feeling of regret that she did not live nearer, so she might have her for a friend. But she had her autograph as a souvenir, and she intended to work her tablecloth very neatly, so it would look as good as Ethel's.

The afternoon ride was not a long one, and before four o'clock they came in sight of the tall towers of the New York buildings.

The children had never approached the city in a motor car before, and were enthusiastic over the view of it. Mr. Maynard pointed out the different business buildings, some of which they already recognized. They had to cross a downtown ferry, and soon they were speeding north through the streets of crowded traffic.

As they neared Grandma Maynard's house in Fifth Avenue, Mrs. Maynard looked over her brood carefully to see if they were in proper order for presentation.

Except for slight evidences of travel, they all looked neat and tidy, and the girls' pretty motor garb was becoming and correct. Rosy Posy as usual, looked the pink of perfection, for the child had a knack of keeping herself dainty and fresh even in difficult circumstances.

Satisfied with her inspection, Mrs. Maynard gave them final injunctions to behave correctly, and then they reached the house.

The children had been there before, but they did not go often, and for the last two years the elder Maynards had been travelling abroad. So they felt almost like strangers as they entered the lofty and dimly lighted hall, to which they were admitted by an imposing-looking footman in livery.

Ushered into the reception room, the visitors found themselves in the presence of their host and hostess.

Grandma and Grandpa Maynard were most worthy and estimable people; but they were not very young, and they had lived all their lives in an atmosphere of convention and formality. They did not realize that this was different from the mode of living preferred by their son's family, and indeed they were so accustomed to their own ways that it never occurred to them that there were any others.

Mr. and Mrs. Maynard appreciated and understood all this, and accepted the situation as it stood.

But the children, impressed by the admonitions of their parents, and oppressed by the severe and rigid effects of the house, turned into quiet little puppets, quite different from their usual merry selves.

Although the elder Maynards' greetings were formal, Mr. and Mrs. Maynard, Jr., were cordial in their manner. Mr. Maynard shook his father heartily by the hand, and kissed his mother tenderly, and Mrs. Maynard did the same.

Marjorie endeavored to do exactly as her parents did, but as she began to chatter to her grandfather, Grandma Maynard told her that children should be seen and not heard, and bade her sit down on a sofa. The old lady had no intention of hurting Marjorie's feelings, but she meant exactly what she said, and it irritated her to hear a child chatter.

"And now," said Grandma Maynard, after the greetings were all over, "you would like to go to your rooms, I'm sure, and make ready for tea."

Decorously the children filed upstairs and were put in charge of maids who assisted them with their toilets.

Marjorie and Kitty were in the same room, but owing to the maids' presence, they could make no comments.

As the trunks had been sent ahead, they had fresh frocks in plenty, and soon, attired in stiff white kilted piqué, they went downstairs again.

Grandma Maynard nodded approval, and told them to sit down on the divan.

"Of course, you little girls don't drink tea," she said, as she seated herself behind the elaborately appointed tea-tray which the butler had brought in. "So I have milk for you."

This was entirely satisfactory, and as there were plenty of lovely little cakes and dainty sandwiches, the children felt there was no fault to be found with Grandma's hospitality, even though they were not allowed to talk.

King adapted himself rather more easily than the girls to this order of things, and he sat quietly in his chair, speaking only when he was spoken to; and though Marjorie knew he was fairly aching to shout and race around, yet he looked so demure that he almost made her laugh.

Not that she did! No, indeed, she knew better than that; but though she tried very hard to appear at her ease, her nature was so sensitive to mental atmosphere, that her cakes almost choked her.

Rosy Posy was perfectly at ease. The midget sat quietly, and accepted with benign grace the milk and crackers fed to her by one of the maids.

But at last the tea hour was over and the Maynards discovered that virtue is sometimes rewarded.

"You are most pleasant and amiable children," said Grandma Maynard, looking judicially at the quartet, "and you certainly have very good manners. I'm glad to see, Ed, that you have brought them up to be quiet and sedate. I detest noisy children."

"Yes, you are sensible, and not annoying to have around," agreed Grandpa Maynard, and the three older children smiled respectfully at the compliment, but offered no reply.

"And now," went on Grandpa Maynard, "I think that you should be amused for an hour. They don't sit up to dinner, of course, my dear?" he added, turning to his wife.

"Yes, we do!" was on the tip of Marjorie's tongue, but she checked the speech just in time, and said nothing.

"No, of course not," replied Grandma Maynard; "our dinner hour is eight, and that is too late for children. Besides, I have invited some guests to meet Ed and Helen. So the children will have supper in the small breakfast-room at half-past six, and meantime, as you say, we must give them some amusement."

King greatly wondered what these grandparents' idea of amusement would be, but Marjorie and Kitty had so little hope that it would be anything very enjoyable that they took little interest in it.

However, when it proved that the amusement was to be a ride in the park, it sounded rather attractive.



Chapter XII

At Grandma Maynard's


The ride in the park, though conducted under rather formal conditions, proved very enjoyable to the four young Maynards.

Grandpa Maynard's equipage was a Victoria with a span of fine horses. On the high front seat sat the coachman and footman in livery, who looked sufficiently dignified and responsible to take care of a merry flock of children.

But, impressed by their surroundings, the children were not very merry, and Marjorie sat decorously on the back seat with Rosy Posy beside her, while King and Kitty sat facing them.

It was a lovely afternoon, and the park drives were crowded with vehicles of all sorts. Marjorie secretly thought carriage driving rather tame after motoring, but there was so much to look at that it was really desirable to go rather slowly.

As they passed the lake, Parker, the footman, turned around, and asked them if they would like to get out and see the swans.

They welcomed this opportunity, and the footman gravely assisted them from the carriage. He selected a bench for them, and the four sat down upon it without a word.

At last the funny side of the situation struck King, and as he looked at his three demure sisters, he couldn't stand it another minute. "I'll race you down to that big tree," he whispered to Marjorie, and like a flash the two were off, with their; heels flying out behind them.

Parker was scandalized at this performance, but he said nothing, and only looked at Kitty and Rosamond, still sitting demurely on the bench.

"They'll come back in a minute," said Kitty, and the footman answered respectfully, "Yes, Miss."

"Did you ever see anything like it?" said King to Marjorie, as they reached the big tree almost at the same time.

"It's awful funny," Midget returned, "but just for a day or two, I don't mind it. It's such a new experience that it's rather fun. Only it's such a temptation to shock Grandpa and Grandma Maynard. I feel like doing something crazy just to see what they would do. But we promised not to get into any mischief. Shall we go back now?"

"Might as well; if we stay much longer it will be mischief. I'll race you back to the carriage."

Back they flew as fast as they had come, and when they reached the others, their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling with the exercise.

The impassive footman made no comments, and in fact, he said nothing at all, but stood like a statue with the carriage robe over his arm.

So Marjorie assumed command, and said quietly, "We will go back now, Parker," and the man said, "Yes, ma'am," and touched his hat, quite as if she had been Grandma Maynard herself.

But the very fact of being in a position of responsibility made Marjorie more audacious, and as the man put them into the carriage, she said, "On the way home, we will stop somewhere for soda water."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Parker, and he took his place on the box.

The others looked at Marjorie a little doubtfully, but greatly pleased at the suggestion. And after all it certainly was not mischievous to get soda water, a treat which they were often allowed at home.

They left the park, and drove down Fifth Avenue, and after a while the carriage stopped in front of a large drug shop.

Parker assisted them from the carriage, and ushered them into the shop, which had a well-appointed soda fountain. Then Parker proceeded to select four seats for his charges, and after he had lifted Rosamond up on to her stool, and the rest were seated, he said to Marjorie, "Will you give the order, Miss Maynard?"

Feeling very grownup, Marjorie asked the others what flavors they would like, and then she gave the order to the clerk. The footman stood behind them, grave and impassive, and as there was a large mirror directly in front of them, Marjorie could see him all the time. It struck her very funny to see the four Maynards eating their ice cream soda, without laughing or chatting, and with a statuesque footman in charge of them! However, the Maynards' enjoyment of their favorite dainty was not seriously marred by the conditions, and when at last they laid down their spoons, Marjorie suddenly realized that she had no money with her to pay for their treat.

"Have you any money, King?" she asked.

"Not a cent; I never dreamed of having any occasion to use it, and I didn't bring any with me."

"What shall we do?" said Kitty, who foresaw an embarrassing situation.

"If you have finished, I will pay the check," said Parker, "and then, are you ready to go home, Miss Maynard?"

"Yes, thank you," said Marjorie, delighted to be relieved from her anxiety about the money.

So Parker paid the cashier, and then marshalled his charges out of the shop, and in a moment they were once again on their way home.

"Pretty good soda water," said Marjorie.

"Yes; but you might as well drink it in church," said King, who was beginning to tire of the atmosphere of restraint.

"I wish they did serve soda water in church," said Kitty; "it would be very refreshing."

And then they were back again at Grandpa Maynard's, and were admitted with more footmen and formality.

But Marjorie, with her adaptable nature, was beginning to get used to conventional observances, and, followed by the other three, she entered the drawing-room, and went straight to her Grandmother. "We had a very pleasant drive, thank you," she said, and her pretty, graceful manner brought a smile of approbation to her grandmother's face.

"I'm glad you did, my dear. Where did you go?"

"We drove in the park, and along the avenue," said King, uncertain whether to mention the soda water episode or not.

But Marjorie's frankness impelled her to tell the story, "We stopped at a drug shop, Grandma, on our way home, and had soda water," she said; "I hope you don't mind."

"You stopped at a drug shop!" exclaimed Grandma Maynard. "You four children alone!"

"We weren't alone," explained Marjorie "Parker went in with us, and he paid for it. Wasn't it all right, Grandma?"

"No; children ought not to go in a shop without older people with them."

"But Parker is older than we are," said Kitty, who was of a literal nature.

"Don't be impertinent, Kitty," said her grandmother. "I do not refer to servants."

Now Kitty had not had the slightest intention of being impertinent, and so the reproof seemed a little unfair.

Unable to control her indignation, when she saw Kitty's feelings were hurt, Marjorie tried to justify her sister.

"Kitty didn't mean that for impertinence, Grandma Maynard," she said. "We didn't know it wasn't right to go for soda water alone, for we always do it at home. The only thing that bothered me was because I didn't have the money to pay for it."

"The money is of no consequence, child; and I suppose you do not know that in the city, children cannot do quite the same as where you live. However, we will say no more about the matter."

This was a satisfactory termination of the subject, but Grandma's manner was not pleasant, and the children felt decidedly uncomfortable.

Their own parents had listened to the discussion in silence, but now their father said, "Don't be too hard on them, Mother; they didn't mean to do anything wrong. And they are good children, if not very conventional ones."

But Grandma Maynard only said, "We need not refer to the matter again," and then she told the children to go to their supper, which was ready for them.

As the four sat down to a prettily-appointed table, they were not a happy looking crowd. Rosamond was too young to understand what it was all about, but she knew that the other three were depressed and that was a very unusual state of things.

"I don't want any supper," began Kitty, but this speech was too much for King. Kitty was very fond of good things to eat, and for her to lose her appetite was comical indeed!

A pleasant-faced maid waited on them, and when Kitty saw the creamed sweet-breads and fresh peas and asparagus, with delightful little tea biscuits, her drooping spirits revived, and she quite forgot that Grandma had spoken sharply to her.

"You're all right, Kit," said King, approvingly. "I was frightened when you said you had lost your appetite, but I guess it was a false alarm."

"It was," said Kitty. "I do love sweet-breads."

"And there's custard pudding to come, Miss Kitty," said the maid, who smiled kindly on the children. In fact, she smiled so kindly that they all began to feel more cheerful, and soon were laughing and chatting quite in their usual way.

"What is your name, please?" inquired Marjorie, and the maid answered, "Perkins."

"Well, Perkins, do you know what we are to do to-morrow? Has Grandma made any plans for us?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Marjorie; she made the plans some weeks ago, as soon as she heard you were coming. She is giving a children's party for you to-morrow afternoon."

"A children's party! How kind of her!" And Marjorie quite forgot Grandma's disapproving remarks about the soda water escapade.

"Oh, I don't know," said King. "I expect a children's party here will be rather grownuppish."

"Oh, no, Master King," said Perkins; "there are only children invited. Young boys and girls of your own age. I'm sure it will be a very nice party."

"I'm sure of it, too," said Marjorie, "and I think it was awfully good of her, as we're to be here such a short time."

"Well, she needn't have said I was impertinent, when I wasn't," said Kitty, who still felt aggrieved at the recollection.

"Oh, never mind that, Kit," said good-natured Marjorie. "As long as you didn't mean to be, it doesn't really matter."

When the supper was over, Rosamond was sent to bed, and the other three were allowed to sit in the library for an hour. The ladies were dressing for dinner, but Grandpa Maynard came in and talked to them for a while.

At first they were all very grave and formal, but by a lucky chance, King hit upon a subject that recalled Grandpa's boyish days, and the old gentleman chuckled at the recollection.

"Tell us something about when you were a boy," said Marjorie. "I do believe, Grandpa, you were fond of mischief!"

"I was!" and Grandpa Maynard smiled genially. "I believe I got into more scrapes than any boy in school!"

"Then that's where we inherited it," said Marjorie. "I've often wondered why we were so full of capers. Was Father mischievous when he was a boy?"

"Yes, he was. He used to drive his mother nearly crazy by the antics he cut up. And he was always getting into danger. He would climb the highest trees, and swim in the deepest pools; he was never satisfied to let any other boy get ahead of him."

"That accounts for his being such a successful man," said King.

"Yes, perhaps it does, my boy. He was energetic and persistent and ambitious, and those qualities have stood by him all his life."

"But, Grandpa," said Marjorie, who had suddenly begun to feel more confidential with her grandfather, "why, then, do you and Grandma want us children to be so sedate and poky and quiet and good? At home we're awfully noisy, and here if we make a breath of noise we get reprimanded!"

"Well, you see, Marjorie, Grandma and I are not as young as we were, and we're so unused now to having children about us, that I dare say we do expect them to act like grown people. And, too, your grandmother is of a very formal nature, and she requires correct behavior from everybody. So I hope you will try your best while you're here not to annoy her."

"Indeed, we will try, Grandpa," said Marjorie. "I think she's very kind to make a party for us to-morrow, and I'm sure we ought to behave ourselves. But, Grandpa, you don't know what it is to have to sit so stiff and still when you're accustomed to racing around and yelling."

"Yes, I suppose that is so; though I didn't know that you were noisy children. Now I'll tell you what you can do. You can go up in the big billiard room on the top floor of the house, and there you can make all the noise you like. You can play games or tell stories or do whatever you choose."

"Oh! that's lovely, Grandpa," and Marjorie threw her arms around his neck. "And won't anybody hear us if we make an awful racket?"

"No, the room is too far distant. Now run along up there, and you can have a pillow-fight if you want to. I believe that's what children enjoy."

"Well, you come with us, Grandpa, and show us the way," said Kitty, slipping her hand in his.

And with Marjorie on the other side, and King close behind, they all went upstairs. The billiard room, though not now used for its original purpose, was large and pleasant. There was not much furniture in it, but a cushioned seat ran nearly all round the room with many pillows on it. As soon as they were fairly in the room, Marjorie picked up a soft and fluffy pillow, and tossed it at her grandfather, hitting him squarely in the back of the neck.

The others were a little frightened at Marjorie's audacity, and Grandpa Maynard himself was startled as the pillow hit him. But as he turned and saw Marjorie's laughing face, he entered into the spirit of the game, and in a moment pillows were flying among the four, and shouts of merriment accompanied the fun.

Grandpa Maynard took off his glasses, and put them in his pocket for safekeeping, and soon he was the merriest one of all.

But suddenly he recollected that it was time for him to attend to his own duties as host.

"You young rascals," he said, "I don't know how you inveigled me into this disgraceful performance! Here I am all dishevelled, and in a few moments I must preside at dinner!"

"Oh, you're all right," said Marjorie, patting his necktie; "just brush your hair over again, and put your glasses on, and you'll look fine. And we're much obliged to you, Grandpa, for playing so jolly with us."

"Well, well; I'm surprised at myself! But remember this kind of play is only to be indulged in when you're up here. When you're downstairs, you must be polite and quiet-mannered, or else Grandma won't be pleased."

"All right," said Marjorie. "We promise we will," and all the others agreed.



Chapter XIII

A Children's Party


The next day the children tried very hard to be good. It was not easy, for Grandma seemed especially punctilious, and reprimanded them for every little thing. She told them of the party in the afternoon, and taught them how to make curtseys to greet the guests.

"I know how to curtsey," said Marjorie. "I always do it at home, when mother has callers. But I don't curtsey to children."

"Yes, you must," said Grandma. "I don't want my grandchildren behaving like a lot of rustics."

This speech greatly offended Marjorie, and it was with difficulty that she refrained from answering that they were not rustics. But she controlled herself, and said that of course she would curtsey to the young guests if Grandma wished her to.

"Now that's a little lady," said Grandma, approvingly, and Marjorie felt glad that she hadn't given way to her irritation.

"What time is the party, Grandma?" asked Kitty.

"From four to six, Kitty; but you children must be dressed, and in the drawing-room at quarter before four."

The day dragged along, as there was nothing especial to do and no way to have any fun. Grandpa Maynard had gone out with their father, and though the children went up in the billiard room they didn't feel just like romping.

"I hate this house!" said King, unable to repress the truth any longer.

"So do I!" said Kitty. "If we stay here much longer, I'll run away."

This surprised the other two, for Kitty was usually mild and gentle, and rarely gave way to such speech as this.

"It's Grandma Maynard that makes the trouble," said King. "She's so pernickety and fussy about us. I'd behave a great deal better if she'd let me alone. And Grandpa wouldn't bother about us if Grandma didn't make him."

"I don't think you ought to talk like that, King," said Marjorie. "Somehow, it doesn't seem right. It isn't respectful, and all that, and it doesn't seem a nice thing to do."

"That's so, Mops; you're just right!" said King, taking the reproof in good part, for he knew it was merited. "It's a whole lot worse to be disrespectful about your grandpeople than to carry on and make a racket, I think."

"Yes, it is," said Marjorie, "and I say the rest of the time we're here, let's try to do just right. Because it's only two or three days anyway. I think we're going on day after to-morrow."

So they all agreed to try afresh to behave correctly, and on the whole succeeded pretty well.

Promptly at quarter of four that afternoon they presented themselves in the drawing-room for Grandma's inspection.

"You look very well," Grandma said, nodding her head approvingly at the girls' frilly white dresses and King's correct clothes. "Now I trust you'll behave as well as you look."

"What do you want us to do, Grandma?" asked Marjorie. "I mean to entertain the boys and girls."

"Oh, nothing of that sort, child; the entertainment will be provided by a professional entertainer. You have only to greet the guests properly, and that is all you need do."

Marjorie did not know quite what a professional entertainer was, but it sounded interesting, and she was quite sure she could manage to greet the guests politely.

Although Marjorie's mother was in the room, she had little to say, for Grandma Maynard was accustomed to dominate everything in her own house. And as her ideas were not entirely in accord with those of her daughter-in-law, the younger Mrs. Maynard thought it wise not to obtrude her own opinions.

Promptly at four o'clock the children began to come. The Maynards stood in a group at one end of the long room, and as each guest arrived, a footman stationed at the doorway announced the name in a loud voice. Then each little guest came and curtsied to the receiving party, and after a few polite remarks, passed on, and was ushered to a seat by another footman.

The seats were small, gilt chairs with red cushions, arranged all round the wall, and there were about forty.

In a short time the guests were all in their places, and then the Maynards were shown to their seats.

Then the professional entertainer arrived. She proved to be a pretty and pleasant young lady, and she wore a light blue satin gown and a pink rose in her hair.

First, she sang a song for them, and then she told a story, and then she recited a poem.

Then she asked the children what they would like to have next. At first no one responded, and then a little girl said, "Won't you sing us another song, please. You sing so delightfully."

Marjorie looked in amazement at the child who talked in such grownup fashion. But the entertaining lady did not seem to think it strange, and she replied, "Yes, I will sing for you with pleasure."

So she sang another song, but though it was pretty music, Marjorie could not understand the words, and she began to think that the programme was rather tiresome.

The lady kept on telling stories and reciting poems, and singing, until Marjorie almost had the fidgets. It seemed so unlike her notion of a children's party, to sit still and listen to a programme all the afternoon, and she grew cramped and tired, and longed for it to be over. But the city children did not seem to feel that way at all. They sat very demurely with their hands clasped, and their slippered feet crossed, and applauded politely at the proper times. Marjorie glanced at King and Kitty, and their answering glances proved that they felt exactly as she did herself. However, all three were determined to do the right thing, and so they sat still, and tried to look as if they were enjoying themselves.

At half-past five the programme came to an end, and the children were invited to go out into the dining-room for the feast.

The dining-room was transformed into a place of beauty. Small tables accommodated six guests each, and at each place was a lovely basket of flowers with a big bow of gauze ribbon on the handle. Each table had a different color, and the flowers in the basket matched the ribbon bow. Marjorie's basket was filled with pink sweet peas, while at another table Kitty had lavender pansies, and King found himself in front of a basket of yellow daisies.

The feast, as might have been expected at Grandma Maynard's, was delicious, but the Maynard children could not enjoy it very much because of their environment. They were not together, and each one being with several strangers, felt it necessary to make polite conversation.

King tried to talk on some interesting subject to the little girl who sat next him.

"Have you a flower garden?" he said.

"Oh, no, indeed; we live in the city, so we can't very well have a flower garden."

"No, of course not," agreed King. "You see, we live in the country, so we have lots of flowers."

"It must be dreadful to live in the country," commented the little girl, with a look of scorn.

"It isn't dreadful at all," returned King; "and just now, in springtime, it's lovely. The flowers are all coming out, and the birds are hopping around, and the grass is getting green. What makes you say it's dreadful?"

"Oh, I don't like the country," said the child, with a shrug of her little shoulders. "The grass is wet, and there aren't any pavements, and everything is so disagreeable."

"You're thinking of a farm; I don't mean that kind of country," and then King remembered that he ought not to argue the question, but agree with the little lady, so he said, "But of course if you don't like the country, why you don't, that's all"

"Yes, that's all," said the little girl, and then the conversation languished, for the children seemed to have no subjects in common.

At her table, Marjorie was having an equally difficult time. There was a good-looking and pleasant-faced boy sitting next to her, so she said, "Do you have a club?"

"Oh, no," returned the boy; "my father belongs to clubs, but I'm too young."

"But I don't mean that kind," explained Marjorie; "I mean a club just for fun. We have a Jinks Club, -- we cut up jinks, you know."

"How curious!" said the boy. "What are jinks?"

Marjorie thought the boy rather silly not to know what jinks were, for she thought any one with common sense ought to know that, but she said, "Why, jinks are capers, -- mischief, -- any kind of cutting up."

"And you have a club for that?" exclaimed the boy, politely surprised.

"Yes, we do," said Marjorie, determined to stand up for her own club. "And we have lovely times. We do cut up jinks, but we try to make them good jinks, and we play all over the house, and out of doors, and everywhere."

"It must be great fun," said the boy, but he said it in such an uninterested tone that Marjorie gave up talking to him, and turned her attention to the neighbor on her other side.

When the supper was over, the young guests all took their leave. Again the Maynards stood in a group to receive the good-byes, and every child expressed thanks for the afternoon's pleasure in a formal phrase, and curtsied, and went away.

When they had all gone, the Maynard children looked at each other, wondering what to do next.

"You may go up to the billiard room and play, if you like," said Grandma, benignly. "You will not want any other supper to-night, I'm sure; so you may play up there until bedtime."

Rosy Posy was carried away by the nurse, but the three other children started for the billiard room. Marjorie, however, turned back to say, "We all thank you, Grandma Maynard, for the party you gave us."

Kitty and King murmured some sort of phrase that meant about the same thing, but as they had not enjoyed the party at all they didn't make their thanks very effusive, and then the three walked decorously upstairs. But once inside the billiard room, with the door shut, they expressed their opinions.

"That was a high old party, wasn't it?" said King.

"The very worst ever!" declared Kitty. "I never got so tired of anything in my life, as I did listening to that entertaining person, or whatever they call her."

"It was an awful poky party," said Marjorie, "but I think we ought to give Grandma credit for meaning to give us pleasure. Of course she's used to children who act like that, and she couldn't even imagine the kind of parties we have at home, where we frolic around and have a good time. So I say don't let's jump on her party, but remember that she did it for us, and she did it the best she knew how."

"You're a good sort, Mopsy," said King, looking at his sister affectionately. "What you say is all right, and it goes. Now let's cut out that party and try to forget it."

There were some quiet games provided for the children, and so they played parcheesi and authors until bedtime, for though the billiard room was hardly within hearing of their grandparents, yet they did not feel like playing romping games.

"I don't think I shall ever holler again," said King. "I'm getting so accustomed to holding my breath for fear I'll make too much noise that I'll probably always do so after this."

"No, you won't," said practical Kitty. "As soon as you get away from Grandma Maynard's house you'll yell like a wild Indian."

"I expect I will," agreed King. "Come on, let's play Indians now."

"Nope," said Marjorie; "we'd get too noisy, and make mischief. I'm going to bed; I'm awfully tired."

"So'm I," said Kitty. "Parties like that are enough to wear anybody out!"

They all went downstairs to their bedrooms, but as Marjorie passed the door of her grandmother's room, she paused and looked in.

"May I come in, Grandma?" she said. "I do love to see you in your beautiful clothes. You look just lovely."

Marjorie's compliment was very sincere, for she greatly admired her grandmother, and in spite of her formality, and even severity, Marjorie had a good deal of affection for her.

The maid was just putting the finishing touches to Mrs. Maynard's costume, and as she stood; robed in mauve satin, with sparkling diamond ornaments, she made a handsome picture. Mrs. Maynard was a beautiful woman, and exceedingly young-looking for her age. There was scarcely a thread of gray in her dark brown hair, and the natural roses still bloomed on her soft cheeks.

Marjorie had not seen her grandmother before in full evening attire, and she walked round, gazing at her admiringly.

"I don't wonder my father is such a handsome man," she said. "He looks ever so much like you."

Grandma Maynard was pleased at this naïve compliment, for she knew Marjorie was straightforward and sincere. She smiled at her little granddaughter, saying, "I'm glad you're pleased with your family's personal appearance, and I think some day you will grow up to be a pretty young lady yourself; but you must try to remember that handsome is as handsome does."

Marjorie's adaptable nature quickly took color from her surroundings and influences, and gazing at her refined and dignified grandmother, she said earnestly, "When I grow up, Grandma, I hope I'll look just like you, and I hope I'll behave just like you. I am rather a naughty little girl; but you see I was born just chock-full of mischief, and I can't seem to get over it."

"You are full of mischief, Marjorie, but I think you will outgrow it. Why, if you lived with me, I believe you'd turn my hair white in a single night."

"That would be a pity, Grandma," and Marjorie smiled at the carefully waved brown locks which crowned her grandma's forehead.

"Now I'm going down to dinner, Marjorie, -- we have guests coming. But if you like, you may amuse yourself for a little while looking round this room. In that treasure cabinet are many pretty curios, and I know I can trust you to be careful of my things."

"Thank you, Grandma; I will look about here for a little while, and indeed I will be careful not to harm anything."

So Grandma's satin gown rustled daintily down the stairs, and Marjorie was left alone in her beautifully appointed bedroom.

She opened the treasure cabinet, and spent a pleasant half hour looking over the pretty things it contained. She was a careful child, and touched the things daintily, putting each back in its right place after she examined it.

Then she locked the glass doors of the cabinet, and walked leisurely about the room, looking at the pretty furnishings. The dainty toilet table interested her especialty, and she admired its various appointments, some of which she did not even know the use of. One beautiful carved silver affair she investigated curiously, when she discovered it was a powder box, which shook out scented powder from a perforated top. Marjorie amused herself, shaking some powder on her hand, and flicking it on her rosy cheeks. It was a fascinating little affair, for it worked by an unusual sort of a spring, and Marjorie liked to play with it.

She wandered about the room with the powder-box still in her hand, and as she paused a moment at Grandma's bedside, a brilliant idea came to her.

The bed had been arranged for the night. The maid had laid aside the elaborate lace coverlet and pillow covers, had deftly turned back the bed clothing in correct fashion, and had put Grandma's night pillow in place.

For some reason, as Marjorie looked at the pillow, there flashed across her mind what Grandma had said about her hair turning white in a single night, and acting on a sudden impulse, Marjorie shook powder from the silver box all over Grandma's pillow. Then chuckling to herself, she replaced the powder-box on the dressing table, and went to her own room.



Chapter XIV

A Merry Joke


The next morning, while Marjorie was dressing, she heard a great commotion in the halls. Peeping out her door she saw maids running hither and thither with anxious, worried faces. She heard her grandmother's voice in troubled accents, and Grandfather seemed to be trying to soothe her.

Naughty Marjorie well knew what it was all about, and chuckled with glee as she finished dressing, and went down to breakfast.

She found the family assembled in the breakfast room, and Grandma Maynard telling the story. "Yes," she said, "I knew perfectly well that to have these children in the house, with their noise and racket, would so get on my nerves that it would turn my hair white, and it has done so!"

Marjorie looked at Grandma Maynard's hair, and though not entirely white, it was evenly gray all over. As she had laid her head on her plentifully-powdered pillow, and perhaps restlessly moved it about, the powder had distributed itself pretty evenly, and the result was a head of gray hair instead of the rich brown tresses of the night before.

Her son and daughter-in-law could not believe that this effect was caused by the disturbance made by their own children; but far less did they suspect the truth of the matter. Whatever opinions the various members of the family held as to the cause of the phenomenon, not one of them suspected Marjorie's hand in the matter.

As for Midget herself, she was convulsed with glee, although she did not show it. Never had she played a joke which had turned out so amazingly well, and the very fact that neither Kitty nor King knew anything about it lessened the danger of detection.

"It seems incredible," Grandma went on, "that this thing should really happen to me, for I've so often feared it might; and then to think it should come because the visit of my own grandchildren was so upsetting to my nerves!"

"Nonsense, Mother," said her son, "it couldn't have been that! It isn't possible that the children, no matter how much they carried on, would have any such effect as that!"

"You may say so, Ed; but look at the effect, and then judge for yourself; what is your explanation of this disaster that has come to me?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, Mother, -- but it couldn't be what you suggest. I've heard of such an accident happening to people, but I never believed it before. Now I'm forced to admit it must be true. What do you think, Helen?"

Mrs. Maynard looked thoughtful. "I don't know," she said slowly, "but it must be the symptom of some disease or illness that has suddenly attacked Mother Maynard."

"But I'm perfectly well," declared the older lady; "and a thing like this doesn't happen without some reason; and there's no reason for it, except some great mental disturbance, and I've had nothing of that sort except the visit of these children! Ed, you'll have to take them away."

"I think I shall have to," said Mr. Maynard, gravely. It was a great trial to him that his parents could not look more leniently upon his children. He had rarely brought them to visit their grandparents, because it always made his mother nervous and irritable. But it was too absurd to think that such nervousness and irritation could cause her brown hair to turn almost white, a proceeding which he had always thought was a mere figure of speech anyway.

Breakfast proceeded in an uncomfortable silence. It was useless to try to console Grandma Maynard, or to make her think that the gray hair was becoming to her. Indeed, everything that was said only made her more disconsolate about the fate which had overtaken her, and more annoyed at the children, whom she considered to blame.

At last, sharp-eyed, practical Kitty volunteered the solution. She had sat for some time watching her grandmother, and at last she felt sure that she saw grains of powder fall from the gray hair to the shoulder of Grandma's gown. When she was fully convinced that this was the case, she looked straight at the victim of misfortune and said, "Grandma, I think you are playing a trick on us. I think you have powdered your hair, and you are only pretending it has turned gray."

"What do you mean, Kitty, child?" said her father, in amazement, for it almost seemed as if Kitty were rebuking her grandmother.

"Why, just look, Father! There is powder shaking down on Grandma's shoulder."

"Nonsense!" cried Grandma, angrily. "I'd be likely to do a thing like that, wouldn't I, Miss Kitty? And indeed, if it were powder, and could be brushed out, and leave my hair its natural color, I should be only too grateful!"

This was Marjorie's chance. She loved to make a sensation, and laying down her knife and fork, she said, quietly, "Kitty is right, Grandma; it is nothing but powder, and I put it there myself."

"What!" exclaimed Grandma. "Do you mean to say, Marjorie, that you powdered my hair? How did you do it? Oh, child, if you are telling me the truth, if it is really only powder, I shall be so relieved that I will make you a handsome present!"

This was a new turn of affairs, indeed! Marjorie had had misgivings as to the results of her practical joke, but it had seemed to her merely a harmless jest, and she had hoped that it might be taken lightly. But when Grandma expressed such consternation at her whitened hair, Marjorie had been shaking in her shoes, lest she should be punished, rather than laughed at for her trick. And now to be offered a beautiful present was astonishing, truly! The ways of grownups were surely not to be counted upon!

With lightened spirits, then, and with sparkling eyes, Marjorie completed her confession. "Yes," she went on, "after you said last night that you b'lieved us children could turn your hair white in a single night, I thought I'd make believe we did. So, -- and you know, Grandma, you told me I could stay around in your room for a while, and look at your pretty things, -- so, when I saw that queer sort of a powder-shaker I couldn't help playing with it. And then when I saw your bed all fixed so nice for the night, I thought it would be fun to powder your pillow. I've heard of people doing it before. I didn't make it up myself. So I shook the powder all over your pillow, and then of course you put your head on it, and of course it made your hair white."

Marjorie's parents looked aghast, for to them it seemed as if she had simply played a practical joke on her grandmother, and one not easily forgiven, but Grandpa Maynard expressed himself in a series of chuckles.

"Chip of the old block," he said. "Chip of the old block! Just what you would have done, Ed, when you were a boy, if you had thought of it! Marjorie, practical jokes run in the family, and you can't help your propensity for them! I don't approve of them, mind you, I don't approve of them, but once in a while when one works out so perfectly, I can't help enjoying it. What do you say, Mother?"

He turned to his wife, and to the surprise of all, she was beaming with joy. It was not so much her enjoyment of the joke as her relief at finding that her hair had not turned gray, and could easily be restored to its beautiful brown.

"I'm quite sure I ought to be annoyed," she said, smiling at Marjorie. "I'm almost certain I ought to be very angry, and I know you ought to be punished. But none of these things are going to happen. I'm so glad that it is only a joke that I forgive the little jokemaker, and as I promised, I will give you a present as an expression of my gratitude."

And so the breakfast ended amid general hilarity, and afterward Grandma took Marjorie up to her own room, and they had a little quiet talk.

"I don't want you to misunderstand me, dear," she said, "for practical jokes are not liked by most people, and they're not a nice amusement for a little girl. But, I'm afraid, Marjorie, that I have been too harsh and stern with you, and so I think we can even things up this way. I will pass over the rudeness and impertinence of your deed, if you will promise me not to make a practice of such jokes throughout your life. Or at least, we will say, on older people. I suppose a good-natured joke on your schoolfellows now and then does no real harm; but I want you to promise me never again to play such a trick on your elders."

"I do promise, Grandma; and I want to tell you that your kindness to me makes me feel more ashamed of my naughty trick than if you had punished me. You see, Grandma, I do these things without thinking, -- I mean without thinking hard enough. When the notion flies into my head it seems so funny that I just have to go on and do it! But I am trying to improve, and I don't cut up as many jinks as I used to."

"That's a good girl. Marjorie, I believe you'll make a fine woman, and I wish I could have the training of you. How would you like to come and live with me?"

"That's funny, Grandma," said Midget, laughing, "after all you've said about your not wanting us children in the house."

"I know it; and I can't stand the whole lot of you at once, but I really do believe, Marjorie, that I'll take you and bring you up. I shall speak to your father and mother about it at once."

"Oh, Grandma, don't!" And Marjorie clasped her hands, with a look of horror on her face. "Don't ask me to leave Mother and Father! And King, and Kitty, and the baby! Why, Grandma, I couldn't do it, any more than I could fly!"

"Why not? You don't realize all I could do for you. We live much more handsomely than you do at home, and I would give you everything you wanted."

"But, Grandma, all those things wouldn't make any difference if I had to leave my dear people! Why, do you really s'pose I'd even think of such a thing! Why, I couldn't live without my own father and mother! I love you and Grandpa, and since you've been so kind and forgiving this morning, I love you a lot more than I did; but, my goodness, gracious, sakes, I'd never live with anybody but my own special particular bunch of Maynards!"

"It's a question you can't decide for yourself, child. I shall speak to your parents about it, and they will appreciate better than you do the advantages it would mean for you to follow out my plan. Now I will give you the present I promised you, and I think it will be this very same silver powder-box. You probably do not use powder, but it is a pretty ornament to set on your dressing table, and I want you to let it remind you of your promise not to play practical jokes."

"Oh, thank you, Grandma," said Marjorie, as she took the pretty trinket; "I'm glad to have it, because it is so pretty. And I will remember my promise, and somehow I feel sure I'm going to keep it."

"I think you will, dear, and now you may run away for the present, as I am going to be busy."

Marjorie found King and Kitty in the billiard room, waiting for her.

"Well, you are the limit!" exclaimed King. "How did you ever dare cut up that trick, Mops? You got out of it pretty lucky, but I trembled in my boots at first. I don't see how you dared play a joke on Grandma Maynard of all people!"

"Why didn't you tell us about it?" asked Kitty. "Oh, did she give you that lovely powder-box?"

"Yes," laughed Marjorie, "as a reward for being naughty! And she's going to reward me further. What do you think? She's going to take me to live with her!"

"What!" cried King and Kitty, in the same breath. And then King grasped Marjorie by the arm. "You shan't go!" he cried. "I won't let you!"

"I won't either!" cried Kitty, grasping her other arm. "Why, Mops, we simply couldn't live without you!"

"I know it, you old goosey! And I couldn't live without you! The idea! As if any of us four Maynards could get along without any of each other!"

"I just guess we couldn't!" exclaimed King, and then as far as the children were concerned, the subject was dropped.



Chapter XV

A Ride In May


At the breakfast table, the next morning, Grandma Maynard announced her intention of keeping her oldest grandchild with her as her own.

Marjorie's mother looked up with a frightened glance at this declaration, and she turned her face appealingly toward her husband. But when she saw the twinkle in his eye, she knew at once there was not the slightest danger of her losing her oldest daughter in this way.

But, apparently by way of a joke, Mr. Maynard saw fit to pretend to approve of his mother's plan.

"Why, Mother," he said, "wouldn't that be fine! This big house needs a young person in it, and as we have four, we ought to be able to spare one. You'll have grand times, Midget, living here, won't you?"

If Marjorie had not been so overcome at the very thought of leaving her own family, she would have realized that her father was only joking; but she had been so truly afraid that her grandmother's wishes might possibly be granted that she couldn't realize her father's intent.

"Oh, Father!" she cried, with a perfect wail of woe; and then, jumping from her seat at the table, she ran to her mother's side, and flung herself into her arms, where she gave way to one of her tumultuous crying spells.

Poor little Marjorie was not greatly to blame. She had lain awake the night before, fearing that this thing might happen, and so was in no mood to appreciate a jest on the subject.

Unwilling to have such a commotion at the breakfast table, Mrs. Maynard rose, and with her arm round the sobbing child, drew her away to an adjoining room, where she reassured her fears, and told her that her father did not at all mean what he had said.

"Now, you see, Mother," Mr. Maynard went on, "how Midget feels about the matter. Well, my feelings are exactly the same, only I choose a different mode of expression. I'm sorry the child is so upset because I jokingly agreed to the plan, but she'll get over it in a few minutes, with her mother's help. And as you must know, Mother, we appreciate how fine it would be for Marjorie to live here, and be the petted darling of you two dear people, but you must also know that it is just as much out of the question for us to give you one of our children as it would be to give you the whole four!"

"That's a gift I wouldn't care for," said Grandma Maynard, smiling at the other three; "but I have taken a great fancy to Marjorie, and I know I could make her love me."

At this moment Marjorie and her mother returned, both with smiling, happy faces. Marjorie heard her grandmother's last words, and running to her, she threw her arms around the old lady's neck.

"I do love you, Grandma," she cried, "but of course you must know that I couldn't leave my own Maynards. Why, we're the 'votedest family you ever did see! We couldn't spare any one of each other! And, Grandma, when you were a little girl twelve years old, you wouldn't have gone away from your father and mother to live, would you?"

"No, Marjorie, I don't suppose I would," admitted Grandma Maynard, patting the little girl's cheek; "but perhaps when you're older, dear, you may change your mind about this."

Marjorie looked thoughtful a moment, and then she said, "Grandma, I don't truly think I will, but if I should I'll let you know."

"I hadn't an idea the child would come to live with us," said Grandpa Maynard, "but how's this for a suggestion? Let her come to visit us for a time every year. I believe she makes long visits to her other grandmother."

Marjorie smiled involuntarily at the thought of the difference between the homes of the two grandmothers, but she said nothing, knowing from what her mother had told her that she would not be sent away from home unless she chose.

"Oh, Midget doesn't visit Grandma Sherwood every year," said Marjorie's father. "She only goes there once in four years. So to even matters up, suppose we let Marjorie come here and make a little visit next winter, with the understanding that if she gets homesick, she's to be sent home at once."

Everybody agreed to this, and though Marjorie felt a positive conviction that she would get homesick about the second day, yet Grandma Maynard made a silent resolve that she would make everything so attractive to Marjorie that the visit would be a long one.

So the matter was settled for the present, and if King and Kitty felt a little chagrined at Grandma Maynard's preference for Marjorie's company over their own, they said nothing about it.

*    *    *    *    *

That same afternoon, directly after luncheon, the Maynard family started once more on their automobile trip.

As the big car drew up in front of the house, the children saw it with joy, but they did not express their feelings, as that would not be polite to their grandparents.

But they were secretly delighted to see the big car again, with Pompton, whom they had not seen since they had been in New York, in his seat waiting for them.

Then good-byes were said, and Grandma affectionately reminded Marjorie that she was to visit her in the winter, and then in a few moments the motor party was speeding away.

They were scarcely a block from the house before the children began to express their relief at being released from the uncongenial atmosphere of their grandparents' home.

"I do declare," said King. "It was just like being in jail!"

"Have you ever been in jail?" asked Kitty, who was nothing if not literal.

"Well, no," returned her brother, "and I hope I never shall be after this experience. Grandpa and Grandma Maynard are the limit! If I had stayed there another day, I should have run away!"

Mr. Maynard, who was sitting in front with Pompton, turned round to the children.

"My dear little Maynards," he said, "unless you want to hurt your father's feelings very badly indeed, you will stop this severe criticism of your grandparents. You must remember that they are my father and mother, and that I love them very dearly, and I want you to do the same. If their ways don't suit you, remember that children should not criticise their elders, and say nothing about them. If there is anything about them that you do like, comment on that, but remain silent as to the things that displeased you."

The Maynard children well knew that when their father talked seriously like this, it was intended as a grave reproof, and they always took it so.

"Father," said King, manfully, "I was wrong to speak as I did, and I'm sorry, and I won't do it again. We didn't any of us like to be at Grandma Maynard's, but I was the only one who spoke so disrespectfully. Midge and Kitty were awfully nice about it."

"No, we weren't," confessed Kitty. "At least, I wasn't. Midget said lots of times that we oughtn't to be disrespectful, but I guess I was. But, you see, Father, it was awfully hard to please those people."

"We didn't understand them," said Marjorie, thoughtfully. "When I tried to be good I got scolded, and when I cut up jinks they gave me a present for it! Who could know what to do in a house like that?"

Mr. Maynard smiled in spite of himself.

"I think you've struck it. Midget," he said. "Grandma and Grandpa Maynard are a little inconsistent, and don't always know exactly what they do want. But that is largely because they are not very young, and they live alone, and are all unused to the vagaries of children. But these facts are to be accepted, not criticised, and I want you to remember, once for all, that you're not to say anything further disrespectful or unkind about your grandparents. And I think I know you well enough to know that you'll understand and obey these instructions without any more scolding on my part."

"We will, Fathery," said Midget, pounding on his arm with her little fists, by way of affectionate emphasis.

"Yes, we will!" agreed King, heartily. "And so now let's cut it out and have a good time."

And have a good time they did. Swiftly traversing the upper part of New York City, they continued along delightful roads; sometimes passing through towns, sometimes getting views of the shining waters of Long Island Sound, and sometimes travelling through the green, open country.

Partly because of the repression of the past few days, and partly because of the exhilaration of the fresh spring air and the fast speeding motor, the four young Maynards were in a state of hilarity. They sang and they shouted and they laughed, and often they would grab each other with affectionate squeezes from sheer joy of living.

"I guess we couldn't let old Mopsy go out of this bunch!" exclaimed King, as with a clever agility he pulled off both Midget's hair-ribbons at once.

This called for retaliation, and in a flash, Marjorie tweaked off his necktie.

Nobody knew exactly the particular fun in this performance, for it only meant an immediate readjustment of the same ribbons, but it was a frequent occurrence, and usually passed unnoticed.

"And old Mopsy couldn't stay away from this bunch, either," returned Marjorie, in response to her brother's remark. "Why, if I just tried it, I'm sure it would kill me!"

"I'm sure so, too," agreed Kitty. "We just have to have each other all the time, we do! Oh, Mops, there are some marshmallows; mayn't we get some, Mother?"

Sure enough, the big pink blooms showed on the marshmallow bushes, and in a minute the children had scrambled out to get some.

It was a muddy performance, for marshmallows have a way of growing in very swampy places, but the little Maynards didn't mind that, or at least, they didn't stop to think whether they did or not. Splash and paddle they went into the mud, but they succeeded in getting several of the beautiful flowers, and returned with them in triumph.

"Those are fine specimens," said Mr. Maynard, "but I can't possibly let those six muddy shoes get into this car that Pompton keeps so beautifully clean! Would you mind walking on to New Haven?"

The three looked at their shoes, and discovered that they were simply loaded with mud. Even when wiped off on the grass, they presented a most untidy appearance.

But King came to his sisters' rescue.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "You girls take off your shoes as you get in, and I'll take off mine as I get in, and then I'll take some newspaper, and polish them all up."

This really was a good idea, and King worked diligently away until he had rubbed the muddy shoes into a fair state of civilization.

Mr. Maynard, as he often did, composed a song for the occasion, and after once hearing it, the children took up the strain and sang heartily:

"Old King Cole Rubbed a muddy old sole And a muddy old sole rubbed he; For he polished each shoe Of his sisters two, And his own shoes, they made three! Hurray, hurroo, hurree! And his own shoes, they made three!"

Mr. Maynard's doggerel was always highly appreciated by the children, and they sang the pleasing ditty over and over, while King rubbed away at the shoes in time to the chorus.

The sun was setting as they neared New Haven. The approach, along the shores of the beautiful harbor, was most picturesque, and both the children and their parents were impressed by the beauty of the scene. The setting sun turned the rippling water to gold, and the shipping loomed against the sky like a forest of bare tree-trunks.

"Oh," exclaimed Marjorie, clasping her hands, "isn't it lovely to go motor-carring with your own dear family, and see such beautiful landscapes on the river?"

"Your expressions are a little mixed," said her father, laughing, "but I quite agree with your sentiments. And, now, who is ready for a good dinner?"

"I am," declared Kitty, promptly; and they all laughed, for Kitty was always the first in the dining-room.

The automobile stopped in front of a large hotel which overlooked the College Green. While Mr. Maynard was engaging rooms, Mrs. Maynard and the children lingered on the veranda. The beautiful trees of the City of Elms waved high above their heads, and across the Green they could see the stately college buildings.

"Can we go over there?" asked King, who was interested, because he hoped, himself, some day to go to college.

"Not to-night," said his father, who had just rejoined the group; "to-morrow morning, King, we will all go through the college grounds and buildings. But now we will go to our rooms and freshen up a bit, and then we must get some dinner for our poor, famishing Kitty."

Kitty laughed good-naturedly, for she was used to jokes about her appetite, and didn't mind them a bit.

They went upstairs to a pleasant suite of rooms, one of which was for the use of Midge and Kitty.

"You must change your frocks for dinner," said Mrs. Maynard to the girls. "The suitcases will be sent up, and you may put on your light challies."

So Marjorie and Kitty made their toilettes, stopping now and then for frantic expressions of joy and delight at the fun they were having; and soon, with ribbons freshly tied, and dainty house slippers, they were ready to go downstairs.



Chapter XVI

At The Circus


The next morning the Maynard family visited Yale College.

As Mrs. Maynard had seen most of the buildings before, she only cared to visit the newest ones, and so she and Rosy Posy spent most of the time wandering about the grounds or sitting on the benches beneath the Elms. Marjorie and Kitty rambled about as they liked, sometimes going through the buildings with their father and King, and sometimes staying with Mrs. Maynard and the baby.

At luncheon time, Mr. Maynard asked the children what they would like best to do for an afternoon's amusement.

"Aren't we going on to Boston this afternoon?" asked Marjorie, in surprise.

"No," said her father, "it's a long trip, and so we'll start to-morrow morning. Now you children may choose what you'd like to do this afternoon, for your mother and I are going to call on some friends, and we don't want to take you with us."

"Well," said Marjorie, "I can't think of anything we could do in New Haven, unless you or Mother were with us; so I suppose we'll just stay here at the hotel, and, -- "

"And cut up jinks," put in King.

Mr. Maynard smiled. "That's exactly what you would do if I left you here by yourselves! So what do you think of this plan? As we shall be gone all the afternoon, I think I will let Pompton take you four infants to the circus."

"Oh, goody, goody!" cried Marjorie. "That will be perfectly gorgeous! King, won't it be fine to go to the circus?"

"Yes, indeed! And it's a big circus, -- I saw the posters yesterday on our way here."

"There are lovely wild animals!" said Kitty, ecstatically. "I saw pictures of lions and tigers, -- terrific ones!"

"Me loves tigers," commented Rosy Posy. "They eat peoples all up!"

"These don't," said Kitty. "They're trained ones, and they do tricks. Why, the man who trains them puts his hand right in their mouths!"

"Ugh!" said Marjorie, with a shudder. "I don't like that part of it. I wish they didn't have the wild beasts. I like the people who swing on a long swing, -- "

"Trapeze," said her father.

"Yes, a trapeze; and they swing and catch each other by the feet. Oh, I love to see them!"

"So do I," said Kitty. "I love it all, -- but I love the tigers best."

"You must promise to behave yourselves," said Mrs. Maynard. "Marjorie, I shall put the baby in your especial care, though of course Pompton will look out for you all. And you must all obey him, and do exactly as he tells you."

"There isn't much obeying to do," said King. "We just sit on seats and watch the show, don't we?"

"Oh, we walk around and see the side-shows," said Marjorie.

"Whatever you do," said Mr. Maynard, "stay with Pompton, and do just as he tells you. He is a very intelligent man, and he will take care of you all right, and you must be kind and polite to him. Now scamper along and get ready."

The children were soon ready, and went gaily off with Pompton, waving good-byes to their parents, who stood on the hotel veranda.

They did not go in their own automobile, but in a trolley-car, and the four children seated themselves demurely, side by side, with Pompton at the end, next to Rosy Posy.

The ride was through a pleasant part of town, and on to the outskirts, where they soon came in sight of the circus tents.

Pompton ushered his charges through the entrance, and they found themselves in what seemed like a wilderness of tents, both large and small. As it was not yet time for the performance, they walked round, visiting the side-shows, and looking at the collection of "freaks," which is considered an important part of every circus.

"Mayn't we have some popcorn, Pomp?" asked Marjorie, as they passed a stand where that delectable refreshment was sold.

"Your ma said you were to have that after the show, Miss Marjorie. At least, that's how I understood it." Pompton always took the children's requests very seriously, and only granted them when he could do so conscientiously.

"Oh, she wouldn't care, whether we had it before or after," said King; "but I'll tell you what, Pomp, let's have half now and half after the show."

"Very well, Master King. I don't suppose it does make any great matter. Will you have pink or white?"

"Both," said Kitty, who was authority on these matters; "and then we'll have pink lemonade."

"But you've just had your luncheon, Miss Kitty."

"That doesn't matter; this is a sort of dessert. And of course if we have popcorn, we must have lemonade. Popcorn is so choky."

So the children had their refreshment, and then it was time to go to see the performance.

Pompton took Rosy Posy in his arms, and the others following, they went into the big tent and were ushered to their places.

Mr. Maynard had told Pompton to take a box, as in the small enclosure it was easier to keep an eye on the children, and make sure they did nothing they ought not to. For the little Maynards were impulsive, and though Pompton was wise and sensible, he was not entirely accustomed to their mischievous ways.

"Isn't this fun!" exclaimed Marjorie, as the usher showed them the small wooden enclosure with six hard chairs in it.

"Perfectly splendid!" agreed Kitty. "And we can have this extra chair for our wraps and things."

So with great content they settled in their places to watch the circus.

It began, as circuses usually do, with the chariot races, and these were Marjorie's especial delight. She had been to the circus several times, and she always enjoyed the classic-looking ladies who drove tumultuous horses, while they stood in gorgeously painted but very rattle-te-bang chariots.

"I should think they'd fall out behind," commented Kitty.

"They would if the horses stopped suddenly," said King.

"No, they wouldn't," said Marjorie. "If the horses stopped, they'd pitch over the dashboard; but the horses aren't going to stop! Oh, there comes the blue one again! Isn't she a dandy? King, I'd love to drive one of those chariots!"

"Don't you try it on now. Miss Marjorie," said Pompton, on hearing this speech.

"Of course, I won't, Pomp," said Marjorie, laughing. "I only said I'd like to. Oh, now that's all over, and they're going to have the ladies and gentlemen who ride tip-toe on their horses. I think I like that next best to the trapeze people."

"I like it all," said contented little Kitty, whose nature it was to take things as they came.

Fascinated, they all watched the bare-back riding, and after that the acrobats, and then the trapeze performers.

"Wow! but they're wonders!" exclaimed King, as the trapezists swayed through the air, and caught flying rings or swings, and seemed every time to escape missing them only by a hairs-breadth. But they always caught them, and swung smilingly back, as if living up in the air were quite as pleasant as walking about on the ground.

"Oh, I'd like to do that!" cried Marjorie, as with sparkling eyes she watched a young girl do a swinging specialty.

King laughed. "You'd like to do lots of these stunts, Midget, but let me advise you if you're ever a circus performer, don't try trapeze work; you're too heavy. When you came down, you'd go smash through the net! If you must be in a circus, you'd better stick to your chariot driving."

"Now the trapeze number is over," said Kitty, looking at her programme, "and next will be the wild animals! I do love to see those."

"And I don't," said Marjorie, with a shudder. It was not exactly fear, but the child had a special aversion to watching the feats of trained wild animals, and had often shut her eyes when such a performance was going on.

The lions and tigers came in and took their places, and Kitty and King watched with interest as they obeyed the trainer's word, and did as he bade them.

But after a little time, Marjorie felt she could stand it no longer. "Pomp," she said, "I can't bear to look at those animals another minute! This is the last number, and I'm going out. I'll wait for you right by the door, just where we came into the tent."

Pompton looked at the child, kindly. Her face was white, and he saw that it really distressed her to watch the wild animals.

"Very well, Miss Marjorie," he said; "it's but a few steps, so go on, if you like, and stay just outside the door until we come. Don't wander away now."

"No, Pompton, I won't wander away, but I must get away from here."

Marjorie left the box, and went quietly out of the door of the tent. It was only a few steps, as their box was very near the entrance.

There was a bench just outside the door, and the little girl sat down upon it, delighted to be away from the sights she did not care for. The fresh air and bright sunshine brought the color back to her cheeks, and she looked around her with interest. There was little to see, for the audience were all inside the great tent, and the performers were either on the stage or in their own dressing rooms. A pleasant-faced attendant spoke to her, and asked where her people were.

"They're inside," answered Marjorie, "they're coming out in a few moments, but I didn't like this act, and I'm going to wait for them here."

"All right, little one; sit there as long as you like. I'll be about here all the time, and if you want anything, you call me. My name's Bill."

"Thank you," said Marjorie, and Bill went off whistling. He was a big, burly young man, with a kind voice and manner, and he seemed to be a hard-working circus hand. He was clearing up the place, and once in a while he glanced at Marjorie, as if to make sure she was all right.

Marjorie sat still on the bench, her thoughts all on the performances she had seen. She wondered if the circus people were like other people, for they seemed to her to be of a different race.

As she was thinking, a young girl came out of a small tent nearby. She had a long cloak wrapped round her, but her gaily-dressed hair with silver stars pinned in it, made Marjorie feel sure she was one of the performers. She had a very pretty face, and she smiled pleasantly at Marjorie, as she said, "What are you doing here, little girl?"

"I'm waiting for my people," said Marjorie. "They're coming out in a minute, but I couldn't stand those fierce animals any longer."

"How funny," said the young lady, and she sat down in the seat beside Marjorie. "Do you know I always shiver when I look at the wild animals, too. I've been with the circus a year, and I can't get used to those lions and tigers. I always think they're going to spring at me, though I know perfectly well they're not. Is that the way you feel?"

"Yes, I feel just like that, and I know it's silly, but I can't help it. What do you do in the circus?"

The girl partly flung open her long cloak, and disclosed her costume of spangled pink satin.

"I'm one of the trapeze performers; you probably saw me swing this afternoon."

"Oh, are you really one of those swinging ladies? Do tell me about it, won't you? Don't you get dizzy, swinging through the air upside down?"

"No, we never get dizzy; that would never do! Why, we'd fall and break our necks, and I assure you we don't want to do that!"

"Don't you ever fall?"

"Oh, of course accidents have happened, but much more rarely than most people think. Trapeze performers are a very careful lot, and we seldom have an accident."

"Are all those trapeze people your family?" asked Marjorie, for the troupe was billed as one family.

"Many of them are, but not all. I have one sister who is an acrobat. She is really one of the best I ever saw for her age. She's only twelve, and she can do wonderful feats for such a child."

"I'm twelve," said Marjorie, smiling, "but my brother says I'm too fat to do anything like that."

"Yes, you are," and the young lady smiled, showing her even, white teeth. She was a very pretty girl, and had a sweet, refined voice, which surprised Marjorie, as she had not thought circus people were like this.

"You do weigh too much to be very agile; my sister is slender, but very muscular. Would you like to see her? She's right over there in our tent, with Mother."

"Oh, I'd love to see her, but I mustn't go away from here, for I told Pomp where to find me. He'll be out soon."

"Yes, the performance will be over in about five minutes. But I'd like you to see my sister. Her name is Vivian, and she's so sweet and pretty! But of course if you think you'd better stay here, I don't want to persuade you. I must go back now myself. We're really not allowed out here at this time."

Marjorie wanted very much to go in to the tent with the young lady, and to see the little sister, and she wondered if she could in any way get word to Pompton telling him where she was. Just then Bill came round that way again, and smiled at her.

"Oh, Bill," cried Marjorie, impulsively, "you said if I wanted anything to ask you. Now I want to go into the tent with this lady, -- she says I may, -- and won't you please go in the big tent, and tell my people where I've gone? You can't miss them, they're in Box number five. An Englishman named Pompton, who is our chauffeur, -- and three children with him. Will you, Bill, 'cause I want to see this lady's little sister?"

"Sure, I'll 'tend to it, Miss. They won't let me in myself, but I'll fix it with the doorman, and it'll be all right. Why, bless you, the tent isn't a step away. Run along with Mademoiselle Cora."

"Is that your name? What a pretty name," said Marjorie, and giving Mademoiselle Cora her hand, the two crossed over to the little tent.



Chapter XVII

Little Vivian


It was about ten minutes later when Pompton and his three charges came out of the circus tent. There was a great crowd, and not seeing Marjorie at first, Pompton waited until most of the people had gone away, and then began to look around for her.

"I know she wouldn't go very far away," said King. "She must be quite near here."

"I'm not so sure," said Kitty. "You know how Marjorie runs off if she chooses, without thinking of other people."

"I'm greatly worried, Master King," said Pompton. "I suppose I ought not to have let the child come out here alone. But she was so anxious to come, and she promised she'd stay right here by the door. I couldn't come with her, and look after the rest of you at the same time now, could I?"

"Of course you couldn't, Pompton," said Kitty. "You did quite right. And I don't believe Marjorie is very far away; I think she'll be back in a minute or two."

But they waited several minutes, and the people who had been in the circus tent all went away. The grounds about were entirely cleared, and save for a few workmen, there was no one in sight. Uncertain what to do, Pompton appealed to the doorman, who just then came out with his hands full of tickets.

"Do you know anything about a little girl, about twelve years old, who came out of the tent a short time ago?" asked Pompton.

"Naw," returned the man, curtly, paying little attention to the inquiry.

"But you must have seen her come out," said King. "She came out alone, before the performance was over. She had on a long tan-colored coat."

"Aw, that kid? Yes, I seen her, but I don't know where she went to."

"But we must find her! She's my sister!" said Kitty, and the tears came into her eyes.

The doorman looked at Pompton. "You ought to keep yer kids together, an' not let yer party get sep'rated."

"It wasn't Pompton's fault at all!" cried King, indignantly. "My sister came out here to wait for us, and of course she's around here somewhere. She must be in one of the tents. May we go and look for her?"

"Sure! Go where you like. I s'pose she's pokin' around somewhere to see what's goin' on."

"Of course she's in one of the tents," said Kitty, brightening at the idea. "Where shall we look first, King?"

Just then the man named Bill came along.

"Hello, youngsters," he said. "Lookin' fer that kid sister of yours? She told me to tell you where she'd gone, but, bless my soul, I forgot all about it!"

"Oh, where is she?" cried Kitty, clasping her hands, and looking up at Bill with pleading eyes.

"There, there, little one! There ain't no use gettin' weepy about it. Sister's all right. She just went in that there tent with Mademoiselle Cora."

Bill pointed to the tent, and King and Kitty made a dash for it.

They fairly burst in at the door, and sure enough, there was Marjorie sitting on a big packing box, watching a little girl who was performing most remarkable athletic feats.

"Oh, hello," cried Marjorie, "I'm so glad you've come! Just sit down here beside me, and watch Vivian. Mademoiselle Cora, this is my brother and sister."

King pulled off his cap, and felt a little uncertain as to what sort of etiquette this very strange situation demanded. But he bowed politely, and as Mademoiselle Cora smiled, and asked the two newcomers to be seated, and as there were plenty of packing boxes, King and Kitty sat down.

"This is Vivian," said Marjorie, waving her hand toward the little acrobat, who was turning double somersaults with lightning rapidity. "She's only twelve, isn't she wonderful?"

The experience was so novel, it is scarcely to be wondered at that King and Kitty fell under the spell, as Marjorie had done, and the three sat breathlessly watching Vivian.

Mademoiselle Cora smiled at the enraptured audience, and in a far corner of the tent sat a placid-looking woman knitting a shawl. This was the mother of the two girls, but she took little interest in the visitors, and except for an occasional glance at them, devoted herself to her knitting.

After waiting a few moments, and seeing that the children did not reappear, Pompton decided to go into the tent himself. He hesitated about taking Rosamond in, but there was no help for it, so carrying the child in his arms, he pushed aside the canvas flap which formed the tent door, and stepped inside.

"My word!" he exclaimed, as he saw the youthful performer, and the interested audience. "You children are the most surprising! I think you had better come away now."

"I think so, too," remarked Vivian's mother, looking up for a moment from her knitting. "Are there many more of you to come?"

"Now don't be uncivil, Mother," said Cora, with her pretty smile. "It does no harm for these children to see Vivian perform. You know she wasn't on the programme to-day."

"I'm only a beginner," said Vivian, standing on her feet once more, and speaking to Marjorie and Kitty. "I've had quite a good deal of training, and now I'm on the programme afternoons twice a week. Next year I'll be on every afternoon."

"Do you like it?" asked Kitty, fascinated by this strange child. Vivian was a pretty little girl, and she wore a garment of pink muslin, shaped like children's rompers. She wore pink stockings and pink kid sandals, and her golden hair was short, and curled all over her little head.

"Yes, I like it," replied Vivian, but a wistful look came into her blue eyes. Gently, almost timidly, she touched Marjorie's pretty coat and straw hat with her slender little fingers. "I like it, -- but I think I'd rather be a little home-girl like you."

"Cora, send those children away," said the mother, sharply. "They upset Vivian completely when she sees them."

"I like to see them," said Vivian, and she sat down between Kitty and Midget. "I like to see your pretty dresses, and real shoes and stockings. Do you go to school?"

Marjorie felt strangely drawn to this little girl who seemed so to want the privacy of a home life. She spoke to her very gently. "Yes, Vivian, we all go to school, -- though I don't go to a regular school, do you?"

"No, I don't. Mother and Cora say they'll teach me every day, while we're on the road, but they never get time. And I have to practise a great deal."

Marjorie looked around for a piano, and then suddenly realized that Vivian meant she must practise her gymnastic exercises.

"Come, Miss Marjorie, we must be going," said Pompton, who felt moved himself by the pathetic face of the little circus girl.

"Well, perhaps you'd better go now," said Cora, who had received imperative glances from her mother. "But we've enjoyed seeing you, and we thank you for your call."

Mademoiselle Cora had very polite manners, but she seemed to be under the rule of her mother, and it was with evident reluctance that she bade the visitors good-bye.

"I'll give you my picture," said Vivian to Marjorie, as they parted, "because I want you to remember me. I would like to have your picture, but Mother won't let me have little girls' photographs. She thinks it makes me feel envious to see pictures of little home-girls."

"Well, I'll give you something to remember me by," said Marjorie, impulsively, and she took from her neck a string of blue beads, and clasped it round Vivian's throat.

"Oh, thank you," said Vivian, with sparkling eyes. "I shall wear them always, and love them because you gave them to me. Good-bye, dear, dear little home-girl!"

The tears came into Marjorie's eyes at the tremor in Vivian's voice, and she kissed her affectionately, and then bidding good-bye to Mademoiselle Cora they followed Pompton out of the tent.

They were all rather silent as they trudged along to the trolley-car, and then Kitty said slowly, "Isn't it awful to be like that? I suppose she never has any home-life at all."

"Of course she hasn't, Miss Kitty, as she has no home," said Pompton; "it's wicked to put a child like that in a circus, it certainly is! She's a sweet little girl, and her sister is a fine young lady, too."

"The mother is horrid," said King. "She was awful cross about our being there."

"Well," said Kitty, who sometimes saw deeper than the rest, "you mustn't blame her too much. Couldn't you see she didn't want us there, because just the sight of happy home-children makes little Vivian feel sorry that she has to live in a circus?"

"Yes, that was it," said Marjorie. "I suppose they haven't any other way to earn their living."

The children could scarcely wait to get home to tell their parents of this wonderful experience.

They found Mr. and Mrs. Maynard waiting for them at the hotel, and wondering a little because they were late.

"Oh," cried Marjorie, flinging herself into her mother's arms, "we've had a most 'stonishing time! We visited a little circus girl in her own tent, and here's her picture!"

Marjorie held up to her mother's amazed view the picture of little Vivian. It was taken in stage costume, and represented Vivian in one of her clever acrobatic feats. Her pretty child-face wore a sweet smile, and the whole effect of the photograph was dainty and graceful. Across a corner was scrawled the word "Vivian" in large, childish letters.

"Did you buy this?" asked Mrs. Maynard, knowing that circus performers often sold their photographs.

"Oh, no, indeed, Mother; she gave it to me. And what do you think, Mother? The poor little thing has to live in a tent, and she wants to live in a home! And it made her awful sad to see us, 'cause we have a home, and we can wear regular dresses and shoes, and she has to wear queer bloomer things, -- and sandals on her feet!"

"But I don't understand, Marjorie," said Mrs. Maynard. "How do you know all this? Did you talk with the child?"

"Oh, yes, Mother; we went in her tent, and saw her mother and sister. I don't think they mind being in the circus so much. But Vivian feels just awful about it! And she's such a sweet little thing; and, Mother, I have the loveliest plan! Don't you think it would be nice for us to 'dopt her, and let her live with us?"

"Midget, what are you talking about?" and Mrs. Maynard's face showed so plainly her dissent to the proposition that Marjorie jumped out of her lap, and ran across to her father, in the hope of better success.

"Now, Father," she said as she threw her arms around his neck, and drew his arms around her; "do please pay 'tention to my plan! You know we ought to do some good in this world, and what could be better than rescuing a poor little sad circus girl, and letting her live in our own happy home with us? It wouldn't cost much, -- she could have half of my clothes, and half of Kitty's, -- we could each get along with half, I know. And we could both eat less, -- that is, I could, -- I don't know about Kit. But anyway, Father, won't you think about it?"

"Yes, dear," said Mr. Maynard, looking fondly at his impetuous daughter; "I'll think about it right now, -- and I'll express my thoughts aloud, as I think them. I think, first, that you're a generous and kind-hearted little girl to want to give this poor child a home. And I think next, that having made your suggestion, you must leave it to Mother and me to decide the matter. And our decision is that four children are quite enough for this family, and we don't want to adopt any more! Besides this, Marjorie, it is far from likely that the little girl would be allowed to come to us. She is being trained for her profession, and though I feel sorry that the child is not happy, yet she is with her own people, and they are responsible for the shaping of her life and career. Just now, you are carried away by sympathy for the little girl, and I don't blame you at all, for it is a sad case. But you must trust your father's judgment, when he tells you that he does not think it wise to follow out your suggestion."

Marjorie looked disappointed, but she well knew that when her father talked thus seriously, there was no use in pursuing the subject; so she only said, "All right, Father; I know you know best. But it does seem too bad for Vivian not to have any home pleasures, when I have so many!"

"It does seem too bad, Marjorie, but since you can't help her in any way, turn your thoughts to feeling glad and grateful that you yourself have a happy home, and can wear button boots."

Marjorie laughed at her father's last words, but she knew that "button boots" stood for the civilized dress of the home-child, as contrasted with the stage trappings of the little Vivian.

So she put the photograph away among her treasures, and often looked at it, and wondered if Vivian still longed for the sort of happy home-life that meant so much to Marjorie.



Chapter XVIII

In Boston


The next day the Maynards started for Boston. That is, their destination was Boston, but Mr. and Mrs. Maynard had decided to go by very short stages, and stop several times on the way.

And so they spent one night at New London, two or three more at Newport and Narragansett Pier, and so on to Boston.

It was too early in the season for the summer crowds at the watering places, but though the gay life was absent, they enjoyed their stay at each place.

It was all so novel to the children that the days passed like a swiftly moving panorama, and they went from one scene to another, always sure of experiencing some new pleasure.

*    *    *    *    *

One warm and pleasant afternoon the big car swung into Boston, and deposited its occupants at a pleasant hotel on a broad and beautiful avenue.

As Mr. Maynard registered at the office, the clerk handed him a budget of mail. It was not unusual for him to find letters awaiting him at the various hotels, but this time there were also four post-cards for the children.

"Who can have written to us?" exclaimed Marjorie, as she took hers. "I don't know this hand-writing; I'm sure I never saw it before."

She turned the card over, and saw a picture of the State House, one of Boston's principal places of interest. Beneath the picture was written:

"Please come and visit me; I am the place you want to see."

"How funny," said Marjorie. "Who could have sent it? Is it an advertisement, Father?"

"No, Midget, The State House doesn't have to advertise itself! What is yours, King?"

"Mine is a picture of the Public Library, and this has a verse under it, too. It says:

"How do you think you like my looks? Beautiful pictures and wonderful books!"

"These are lots of fun, whoever sent them," said Kitty. "Listen to mine. It's a picture of Faneuil Hall. Under it is written:

"Do not think you have seen all Until you have visited Faneuil Hall!"

"And Rosy Posy has one, too," said Marjorie. "Let sister read it, dear."

"Yes, Middy wead my post-card," and the baby handed it over.

"This is a lovely one," said Marjorie. "See, it's all bright-colored flowers, and it says:

"The Boston Common's bright and gay, With tulips in a brave array."

"Sure enough," said Mrs. Maynard, "the tulips must be in bloom now, and to-morrow we must go to see them."

"Oh, what lovely times we are having!" cried Marjorie. "How long are we going to stay in Boston, Father?"

"Long enough, at any rate, to see all these sights suggested by your post-cards. And I may as well tell you, children, that the cards were sent by Mr. Bryant, a friend of mine in Cambridge; and we are going to visit at his house when we leave here."

"Have we ever seen him?" asked Marjorie.

"Only when you were very small children; not since you can remember. But they are delightful people, and indeed are distant cousins of your mother. I can assure you you'll have a good time at their home."

"We seem to have good times everywhere," said Marjorie, with a happy little sigh of content. "This has been the most beautiful May ever was! And a real Maynard May, because we've all been together all the time!"

"May for the Maynards, and the Maynards for May," sang King, and they all repeated the line, which was one of their favorite mottoes.

"Maytime is a lovely time, anyway, isn't it, Father?" said Marjorie.

"Yes, unless it rains," Mr. Maynard replied, smiling.

"Well, we've had awful little rain since we started," commented Marjorie; "just a little shower now and then, and that's all."

"Maytime is playtime for us this year, sure enough," said her father; "I hope you children realize that these are all Ourdays, and you're piling up enough of them to last for two or three years ahead."

"Oh, they don't count that way, do they?" cried Kitty, in such dismay that her father laughed.

"Don't worry, Kitsie," he said. "I guess we can squeeze out a few Ourdays in the future. Meantime, enjoy your Maytime while you may."

And this the Maynard family proceeded to do. They spent several days in Boston, seeing the sights of the town, and making little excursions to the suburbs and nearby places of interest.

They visited the Public Library, and studied the wonderful paintings there. They went to the State House, and Faneuil Hall, and Mr. Maynard showed the children so many interesting relics, and taught them so much interesting New England history that Marjorie declared he was quite as good a teacher as Miss Hart.

They spent much time in the Public Gardens and on the Common, for the Maynard children dearly loved to be out of doors, and the flowers in their masses of bloom were enchanting.

Indeed, there was so much of interest to see that Marjorie felt almost sorry when the time came to go to Cambridge for their visit at Mr. and Mrs. Bryant's. But her father told her that on their return from Cambridge they could, if they wished, spend a few more days in Boston.

And so, one afternoon, the Maynards drove away from the hotel in their car, and crossed the Charles River to Cambridge.

The Bryants' home was a fine, large estate not far from Harvard College.

"Another college!" exclaimed Marjorie, as they passed the University Buildings. "Can we go through this one, Father, as we did through Yale?"

"Yes," said Mr. Maynard, "and then King can make a choice of which he wants to attend."

"I think I know already," returned King; "but I won't tell you yet, for I may change my mind."

As they turned in at the gateway of the Bryants' home they found themselves on a long avenue, bordered with magnificent trees. This led to the house, and on the veranda their host and hostess stood awaiting them.

"You dear people! I'm so glad to see you; jump right out, and come in," exclaimed Mrs. Bryant, as the car stopped. She was a pretty, vivacious little lady, with cordial hospitality beaming from her gray eyes, and Mr. Bryant, a tall, dark-haired man, was no less enthusiastic in his greetings.

"Hello, Ed," he cried. "Mighty glad to see you here! Hope we can give you a good time! I know we can make it pleasant for you grownups, but it's the kiddies I'm thinking about. I told Ethel she must just devote herself to their entertainment all the time they're here. She's laid in a lot of playthings for them, and they must just consider that the house is their own, and they can do whatever they like from attic to cellar! How many? Four? That's what I thought. I don't know their names, but I'll learn them later. Here, jump up, Peter, Susan, Mehitabel, -- or whatever your names are, -- and let me see how you look!"

As jovial Mr. Bryant had been talking, he had lifted the children from the car. He paid little attention to them individually, seeming to think they were mere infants.

Mrs. Bryant was chatting away at the same time. "Is this Marjorie?" she said. "My, what a big girl! When I last saw her she was only six or seven. And Kingdon, -- almost a young man, I declare! Kitty, I remember, -- but this little chunk of sweetness I never saw before!"

She picked up Rosy Posy in her arms, and the little one smiled and patted her cheek, for Mrs. Bryant had a taking way with children, and they always loved her.

Marjorie couldn't help thinking what a contrast this greeting was to their reception at Grandma Maynard's, but she also realized that the Bryants were much younger people, and apparently were very fond of children.

Altogether, it was a most satisfactory welcome, and the Maynards trooped into the house, with that comfortable feeling always bestowed by a warm reception.

"Now, I'll take you girlies upstairs," Mrs. Bryant chatted on, taking Marjorie and Kitty each by a hand; "and I'll brush your hair and wash your paddies, and fix you up all nice for supper."

Marjorie couldn't help laughing at this.

"Don't let us make you too much trouble, Mrs. Bryant," she said. "You know we're quite big girls, and we tie each other's ribbons."

"Bless me! Is that so? But you musn't call me Mrs. Bryant! I'm Cousin Ethel, and Mr. Bryant is Cousin Jack, and if you call us anything more formal than that, we'll feel terribly offended!"

And then Cousin Ethel bustled away to look after her other guests, leaving Midget and Kitty to take care of themselves.

She had given them a delightful room, large and sunshiny, with a sort of a tower bay-window on one corner. The carpet was sprinkled with little rosebuds, and the wall-paper matched it. Some of the chairs and the couch were covered with chintz, and that, too, had little rosebuds all over it. The curtains at the windows were of frilled white muslin, and the dressing table had all sorts of dainty and pretty appointments. There were twin brass beds, and on the foot of each was a fluffy, rolled coverlet, with more pink rosebuds.

"What a darling room!" exclaimed Marjorie, as she looked around. "Oh, Kit, isn't it pretty?"

"Lovely!" agreed Kitty. "And Cousin Ethel is a darling, too. I love her already! We're going to have a beautiful time here, Mops."

"Yes, indeedy! I wish we were going to stay all summer. Kit, this is a perfect May room, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's so flowery and bright. What are we going to wear, Mops?"

"White dresses, I s'pose. Our trunk is here, you see."

"And let's wear our Dresden sashes and ribbons, -- then we'll match this rosebuddy room."

And so when Cousin Ethel returned to her young guests, she found them all spick and span, in their dainty white frocks and pretty ribbons.

"Bless your sweet hearts!" she cried, kissing them both. "You look like Spring Beauties! Come on downstairs with me."

She put an arm around each of the girls, and they all went down the broad staircase. In the hall below they met Cousin Jack, who looked at them with an expression of disappointment on his face.

"Well!" he said. "Well, Susan and Mehitabel, -- I'm surprised at you!"

"What's the matter?" asked Marjorie, who could not imagine what Cousin Jack meant. Kitty, too, looked disturbed, for since Cousin Ethel had approved of their pretty dresses, she could not think what Cousin Jack was criticising.

"The idea," he went on, "of you girls coming down dressed like that!"

"What do you mean, Jack?" asked his wife, "I'm sure these darlings look lovely."

"Yes, they do," and Mr. Bryant's tone was distinctly aggrieved; "but, you see, I thought we'd play Indians, -- and who could play Indians with such dressed-up poppets as these?"

Cousin Ethel laughed. "Oh, that's all right," she said. "Of course you can't play Indians to-night, but you can play it all day to-morrow. And now, I think supper is ready. We usually have dinner at night, but we're having supper on account of you children."

"You're awfully good to us, Cousin Ethel," said Marjorie, appreciatively. "We do sit up to dinner at home, unless there are guests."

"Well, I'll see that you get enough to eat, whether it's supper or dinner," Cousin Jack assured them, and then, the others having arrived, they all went to the dining-room.

The supper, besides being substantial and satisfying, seemed to include almost everything that appealed to the children's tastes; and when at last the ice cream appeared, Kitty's look of supreme content convinced Cousin Ethel that the meal had been wisely ordered.

After supper they all went into the large living room, and Cousin Jack proceeded to entertain them.

"At what time do you have to go to bed, Mehitabel?" he asked of Marjorie, whom, for no reason at all, he persisted in calling by that ridiculous name.

"They must go by nine o'clock," said Mrs. Maynard, answering the question herself. "The three older ones may sit up until then."

"All right, Madam Maynard; then I shall devote my attention to the three until their bedtime, after which I may be able to chat a little while with you and Ed."

Cousin Jack was as good as his word, and entertained the children zealously until nine o'clock. He arranged a magic lantern show, and as the pictures were very funny, and Cousin Jack's description of them funnier still, the young Maynards were kept in peals of laughter, in which the older part of the audience often joined.

After this, he let them listen to a large talking-machine, and as many of the records were humorous songs or comical dialogues, there was more laughter and hilarity.

Nine o'clock came all too soon, and the children trooped off to bed, regretfully.

"Shoo!" cried Cousin Jack, as the clock struck, "shoo, every one of you! Scamper, Mehitabel! Fly, Susannah! And hustle, Hezekiah!"

With Cousin Jack clapping his hands and issuing his peremptory orders, the children ran laughing away, and scurried upstairs.

"Did you ever see such ducky people?" said King, as he lingered in the upper hall a minute with his sisters.

"They're perfectly beautiful!" said Marjorie. "And I can hardly wait for to-morrow to come to see what Cousin Jack will do next."

"Let's go to bed," said practical Kitty, "and that'll make to-morrow come quicker. Good-night, King."

"Good-night, Kit; good-night, Mopsy," and with an affectionate tweak of his sisters' curls. King went away to his own room, and the girls to theirs.



Chapter XIX

Fun At Cousin Ethel's


Next morning Midget and Kitty were awake early, and found that the sunshine was fairly pouring itself in at their bay window.

"I don't believe it's time to get up," said Midget, as she smiled at Kitty across the room.

"No; Mother said she'd call us when it was time," returned Kitty, cuddling down under her rosebudded coverlet.

But just then something flew in at the open window, and landed on the floor between their two beds.

"What's that?" cried Marjorie, startled. And then she saw that it was a large red peony blossom. It was immediately followed by another, and that by a branch of lilac blooms. Then came hawthorn flowers, syringa, Rose of Sharon, roses, bluebells, and lots of other flowers, and sprays of green, until there was a perfect mound of flowers in the middle of the room, and stray blossoms fallen about everywhere.

"It's Cousin Jack, of course," cried Marjorie. "Let's get up, Kit."

The girls sprang out of bed, and throwing on their kimonas, ran and peeped out of the window, from behind the curtains.

Sure enough, Cousin Jack was standing down on the lawn, and when he saw the smiling faces, he began to chant a song to them:

"Susannah and Mehitabel, come out and play! For it's a lovely, sunny, shiny day in May; And Cousin Jack is waiting here for you, So hurry up, and come along, you two!"

Marjorie and Kitty could dress pretty quickly when they wanted to, so they were soon ready, and in fresh pink gingham dresses and pink hair-ribbons, they ran downstairs and out on to the lawn. King was already there, for Cousin Jack had roused him also.

"Hello, Kiddy-widdies!" Cousin Jack called out, as the girls flew toward him. "However did you get bedecked in all this finery so quickly?"

"This isn't finery," said Kitty; "these are our morning frocks. But say, Cousin Jack, how did you manage to throw those flowers in at our window from down here?"

"Oh, I'm a wizard; I can throw farther than that."

"Yes, a ball," agreed Marjorie; "but I don't see how you could throw flowers."

"Oh, I just gave them to the fairies, and they threw them in," and Cousin Jack wouldn't tell them that really he had thrown them from a nearby balcony, and gone down to the lawn afterward.

"Well, anyway, it was a lovely shower of flowers, and we thank you lots," said Marjorie.

"You're a nice, polite little girl, Mehitabel, and I'm glad to see you don't forget your manners. Now we have a good half hour before breakfast, what shall we play?"

Kitty sidled over to Cousin Jack, and whispered, a little timidly, "You said we'd play Indians."

"Bless my soul! A gentle little thing like you, Susannah, wanting to play Indians! Well, then that's what we play. I'll be the Chief, and my name is Opodeldoc. You two girls can be squaws, -- no, you needn't either. Mehitabel can be a Squaw, and Susannah, you are a pale-faced Maiden, and we'll capture you. Then Hezekiah here can be a noble young Brave, who will rescue you from our clutches! His name will be Ipecacuanha."

Surely Cousin Jack knew how to play Indians! These arrangements suited the young Maynards perfectly, and soon the game was in progress. The Indian Chief and the Squaw waited in ambush for the pale-faced Maiden to come along; the Chief meanwhile muttering dire threats of terrible tortures.

Throwing herself into the game with dramatic fervor, Kitty came strolling along. She hummed snatches of song, she paused here and there to pick a flower, and as she neared the bush behind which the two Indians were hiding, she stopped as if startled. Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered into the bush, exclaiming, in tragic accents, "Methinks I hear somebody! It may be Indians in ambush! Yes, yes, -- that is an ambush, there must be Indians in it!"

This speech so amused Cousin Jack that he burst into shouts of laughter.

Kitty, absorbed in her own part, did not smile. "Hah!" she exclaimed, "methinks I hear the Indians warwhooping!"

Kitty's idea of dramatic diction was limited to "Hah!" and "Methinks," and after this speech, Cousin Jack gave way to a series of terrific warwhoops, in which Marjorie joined. Cousin Jack was pretty good at this sort of thing, but his lungs gave out before Marjorie's did, for, this being her specialty, her warwhoops were of a most extreme and exaggerated nature.

"Good gracious, Mehitabel, do hush up!" cried the Indian Chief, clapping his hand over his Squaw's mouth. "You'll have all the neighbors over here, and the police and the fire department! Moderate your transports! Warwhoop a little less like a steam calliope!"

Marjorie giggled, and then gave a series of small, squeaky, lady-like warwhoops, which seemed to amuse Cousin Jack as much as the others had done.

"You are certainly great kids!" he exclaimed. "I'd like to buy the whole bunch of you! But come on, my Squaw, we waste time, and the pale-faced Maiden approacheth. Hah!"

"Hah!" replied Marjorie, and from behind his own distant ambush, King muttered, "Hah!"

Kitty stood patiently waiting to be captured, and so Chief Opodeldoc hissed between his teeth, "Hah! the time is ripe! Dash with me, oh, Squaw, and let us nab the paleface!"

"Dash on! I follow!" said Marjorie, and with a mad rush, the two fierce Indians dashed out from behind their bush, and captured the pale-faced Maiden.

Kitty struggled and shrieked in correct fashion, while the Indians danced about her, brandishing imaginary tomahawks, and shrieking moderately loud warwhoops.

The terrified paleface was just about to surrender, when the noble young Brave, Ipecacuanha, dashed forth, and sprang into the fray, rescuing the maiden just in the nick of time. Holding the paleface, who lay limp and gasping in his left arm, the young Indian madly fought the other two of his own tribe with his strong right arm. Apparently he, too, had a tomahawk, for he fearfully brandished an imaginary weapon, and did it so successfully, that Opodeldoc and his faithful Squaw were felled to the ground. Then the brave young Indian and the fair girl he had saved from her dire fate danced a war dance round their prostrate captives, and chanted a weird Indian dirge, that caused the fallen Chief to sit up and roar with laughter.

"You children do beat all!" he exclaimed once more. "And, by jiminy crickets! there goes the breakfast bell! Are you wild Indians fit to appear in a civilized dining-room?"

"'Course we are!" cried Marjorie, jumping up and shaking her frills into place. Kitty stood demurely beside her, and sure enough, the two girls were quite fresh and dainty enough for breakfast.

"You see," explained Marjorie, "this wasn't a real tumble around play. Sometimes when we play Indians, we lose our hair-ribbons and even tear our frocks, but to-day we've behaved pretty well, haven't we, King?"

"Yep," assented her brother, looking at the girls critically, "you look fine. Am I all right?"

"Yes," said Marjorie, as she smoothed down one refractory lock at the back of his head. "We're all ready, Cousin Jack." She turned a smiling face toward him, and remarking once again, "You do beat all!" the ex-Chief marched his young visitors in to breakfast.

After that delightful and very merry meal was over, Cousin Ethel announced that she would take charge of the two girls that morning, and that King could share in their occupation or not as he chose.

"You see, it's this way, girlies," said Cousin Ethel, after she had led the way to a pleasant corner of the veranda, and her guests were grouped about her. "A Charity Club to which I belong is going to have a sort of an entertainment which is not exactly a fair or a bazaar, but which is called a Peddler's Festival. Of course, it is to make money for charity, and while the older people have charge of it, they will be assisted by young people, and even children. Now I think it will be lovely for you chick-a-biddies to take part in this affair, if you want to; but if you don't want to, you must say so frankly, for you're not going to do anything you don't like while your Cousin Ethel is on deck!"

"S'pose you tell 'em about it, Ethelinda, and let them judge for themselves," said her husband, who was sitting on the veranda railing, with Midge and Kitty on either side of him, and Rosamond in his arms.

"Well, it's this way," began Cousin Ethel. "Instead of having articles for sale in any room or hall, we are going to send them all around town, in pushcarts or wagons, each in charge of a peddler. These peddlers will be young people dressed in fancy costumes, and each will try to sell his load of wares by calling from house to house. Some peddlers will have pushcarts or toy express wagons, or even wheelbarrows. Others will carry a suitcase or a basket or a peddler's pack. They may go together or separately, and the whole day will be devoted to it."

"Great scheme!" commented Cousin Jack. "Wish we might be in it, eh, Ned?"

"Well, no," said Mr. Maynard, "I don't believe I care about that sort of thing myself, but I rather think the Maynard chicks will like it."

"Yes, indeed," cried Marjorie, her eyes dancing at the thought; "I think it will be lovely fun, Cousin Ethel. But can we girls push a big pushcart? Do you mean like the grocers use?"

"There will be a few of those," said Cousin Ethel, "and in all cases where the vehicles are too heavy for the girls, there will be young men appointed to do the pushing, while the girls cajole the customers into buying. It will not be difficult, as everybody will be waiting for you with open hearts and open purses."

"It's a grand plan," said Kitty, speaking with her usual air of thoughtful deliberation. "What shall we sell, Cousin Ethel?"

"Well, I'm undecided whether to put you two girls together, or put you each with some one else. I'd like to put you each with another little girl, but if I do that, I will have to put Marjorie with Bertha Baker, and I know she won't like it."

"Why won't she like it?" asked Marjorie, innocently. "I'll be nice to her."

"Bless your heart, you sweet baby, I don't mean that!" cried Cousin Ethel; "but the truth is, nobody likes Bertha Baker. She is a nice child in many ways, but she is, -- "

"Grumpy-natured," put in Cousin Jack; "that's what's the matter with Bertha, -- she hasn't any sunshine in her makeup. Now as Marjorie has sunshine enough for two, I think it will be a good plan to put them together."

"The plan is good enough," said his wife, "if Marjorie doesn't mind. But I don't want her pleasure spoiled because she has to be with a grumpy little girl. How about it, Marjorie?"

"I don't mind a bit," said Midget. "We're always good-natured ourselves, somehow we just can't help being so. And if Bertha Baker is cross, I'll just giggle until she has to giggle too."

"That's right, Midget," said her father, nodding his head approvingly. "And if you giggle enough, I think you'll make the grumpy Bertha merry before she knows it."

"You see," said Cousin Ethel, "everybody else is arranged for. And unless Marjorie goes with Bertha Baker, the child will have to go alone, for nobody else is willing to go with her."

"What a disagreeable girl she must be!" said King. "I'm glad I don't have to go with her."

"But you will have to, King," said Marjorie. "He'll have to push our cart, won't he, Cousin Ethel?"

"Why, yes, I thought he would do that; but he shan't if he doesn't want to."

"Oh, I do want to," declared King, agreeably. "I'm not afraid of any grumpy girl. I'll smile on her so sweetly, she'll have to smile back." And King gave such an idiotic grin that they all smiled back at him.

"Now," went on Cousin Ethel, briskly, "I thought, Marjorie, you could have the doll cart, and Kitty could be with May Perry and help sell the flowers. The flower wagon will be very pretty, and flowers are always easy to sell."

"So are dolls," said Marjorie. "Can I help you make some. Cousin Ethel, or are they already made?"

"The more elaborate dolls are being dressed by the ladies of our Club. But I thought, that if your mother and I and you girls could get to work to-day, we could make a lot of funny little dolls that I'm sure would be saleable."

"Let me help, too," said Cousin Jack. "I can make lovely dolls out of peanuts."

"Nonsense," said his wife, "we can all make peanut dolls. And besides, Jack, you must get away to your business. Your office boy will think you're lost, strayed, or stolen."

"I suppose I must," sighed Cousin Jack; "it's awful to be a workingman. Come on, Ned; want to go in to Boston with me?"

The two men went away, and after a while Cousin Ethel called the children to come to what she called a Dolly-Bee.

On the table, in the pleasant living room, they found heaps of materials. Bits of silk and lace and ribbon, to dress little dolls, -- and all sort of things to make dolls of.

King insisted on helping also, for he said he was just as handy about such things as the girls were. To prove this, he asked Cousin Ethel for a clothespin, and with two or three Japanese paper napkins, and a gay feather to stick in its cap, he cleverly evolved a very jolly little doll, whose features he made with pen and ink on the head of the clothespin.

And then they made dolls of cotton wadding, and dolls of knitting cotton, and peanut dolls, and Brownie dolls, and all sorts of queer and odd dolls which they invented on the spur of the moment.

They made a few paper dolls, but these took a great deal of time, so they didn't make many. Paper dolls were Kitty's specialty. But she cut them so carefully, and painted them so daintily, that they were real works of art, and therefore consumed more time than Cousin Ethel was willing to let her spend at the work.

"You mustn't tire yourselves out doing these," she admonished them. "I only want you to work at them as long as you enjoy it."

But the Maynards were energetic young people, and when interested, they worked diligently; and the result was they accumulated a large number of dolls to sell at the Festival.

King was given his choice between pushing a tinware cart with another boy, or pushing the doll cart for the girls.

He chose the latter, "because," said he, "I can't leave Mopsy to the tender mercies of that grumpy girl. And I don't think tinware is much fun, anyhow."

"How do we know where to go. Cousin Ethel?" said Marjorie, who was greatly interested in the affair.

"Oh, you just go out into the streets, and stop at any house you like. There won't be any procession. Every peddler goes when and where he chooses, until all his goods are sold."

"Suppose we can't sell them?" said Kitty.

"There's no danger of that. They're all inexpensive wares, and the whole population of Cambridge is expecting you, and the people are quite ready to spend their money for the good of the cause"



Chapter XX

The Festival


Fortunately, the day of the Festival was a perfectly beautiful, balmy, lovely spring day. The affair had been well-advertised by circulars, and the residents of Cambridge had laid in a stock of small change, with which to buy the wares of the itinerant peddlers.

All was bustle and merriment at the Bryant home. The children were to start from there at about ten o'clock, and they were now getting on their costumes.

Each peddler was expected to dress appropriately to the character of the goods he was selling. This was not always an easy matter, but much latitude was allowed; and so a Greek peddler sold pastry, an Italian peddler sold peanuts, and an Indian Chief sold baskets and little Indian trinkets. There were many others, selling notions, fruits, and even fresh vegetables. One boy trundled a peanut roaster, and another was a vendor of lemonade.

When ready to start, the Maynard children and their carts presented a pretty appearance. The dolls were arranged in a light pushcart, borrowed from the grocer. It was decorated with frills of crêpe paper, and big paper bows at the corners. In it were more than a hundred dolls, ranging from the elaborately-dressed French beauties to the funny little puppets the children had made.

Marjorie and Bertha Baker were themselves dressed to represent dolls. Marjorie's dress was of pink muslin, frilled with lace, and a broad pink sash, tied low, with a big bow in the back. A frilled bonnet of pink muslin and lace crowned her dark curls, and she had been instructed by Cousin Ethel to walk stiffly, and move jerkily like a jointed doll. Bertha's costume was exactly like Marjorie's except that it was blue, and as Bertha's hair was blonde and curly, she looked very like a Bisque doll. But Bertha's face wore naturally a discontented expression, which was far less doll-like than Marjorie's smiling countenance.

As Cousin Ethel had prophesied, Marjorie found her new acquaintance decidedly ill-natured. But forewarned is forearmed, and Marjorie only replied pleasantly when Bertha made a sullen remark. Of course she was not really rude, and of course she had no reason to dislike Marjorie. But she was continually complaining that she was tired, or that the sun was too hot, or that she didn't like their cart as well as some of the others. She had an unfortunate disposition, and had not had the right training, so the result made her anything but an amiable child.

Gay-hearted Marjorie, however, joked with Bertha, and then giggled at her own jokes, until Bertha was really forced to smile in return.

King, who pushed the doll-cart, was also dressed like a doll. The boy looked very handsome, in a black velvet suit with lace ruffles at the wrists and knees, and long white stockings with black slippers. He was clever, too, in assuming the character, and walked with stiff, jerky strides, like a mechanical doll that had just been wound up.

Kitty was a dream of beauty. She was a little flower girl, of course, and wore the daintiest sort of a Dolly Varden costume. Her overdress of flowered muslin was caught up at the sides in panniers over a quilted skirt of light blue satin. A broad-brimmed leghorn hat with a wreath of roses, and fluttering blue ribbons, sat jauntily on her golden hair. May Perry, who was Kitty's companion, was costumed the same way, and the boy who pushed their cart was dressed like a page.

The flower cart held not only bouquets and old-fashioned nosegays, but little potted plants as well.

Cousin Jack had stayed home from business for the day; for, he said, he couldn't get away from the glories of his bevy of young people.

"Before you go," he said, as the two carts, with their attendants, were ready to start from his house, "I'll take a snap-shot of you."

He brought out his large camera, and took several photographs of the pretty group, which, later, proved to be beautiful pictures, and well worthy of framing.

"Now, go ahead, young peddlers," he said. "And whatever you do, remember to charge enough for your wares, -- but don't charge too much."

"How shall we know what is just right?" asked Kitty, puckering her brow, as she pondered this knotty question.

"Well, Kit, if you're in doubt, leave it to the buyers. They'll probably give you more that way, than if you set the price yourself. And especially with flowers. People always expect to overpay for them at a fair."

"But I don't want to cheat the people," said Kitty.

"Don't worry about that; they quite expect to pay more than this trumpery is worth, because it's all for charity. Now skip along, my hearties! And come back home if you get tired, no matter whether you've sold all your truck or not. I'll buy whatever you have left."

So waving good-byes to the group looking after them, the children pranced gaily down the driveway and out into the street.

As Cousin Ethel had told them, they had no trouble at all in disposing of their wares. Marjorie concluded that half the population of Cambridge must be small children, so eager did the ladies seem to buy dolls.

At many of the houses they were cordially invited to come in and partake of some refreshment, for the whole town seemed bent on entertaining the peddlers. But the Maynard children preferred not to accept these invitations, as they were not well enough acquainted, and as for Bertha Baker, when she was invited in to a house, she would reply bluntly, "No, I don't want to go in."

Midget and King looked at her in astonishment, for they were not accustomed to hear children talk like that.

When the cart full of dolls had been about half sold, the children saw a little girl coming toward them with an empty express wagon.

"Hello, Bertha," she said, "what are you selling?"

"Dolls," said Bertha, shortly, and the Maynard children waited, expecting that Bertha would introduce the stranger.

But Bertha didn't, and only said, "Come on," to her own companions, and started on herself.

"Wait a minute," said King, who was growing rather tired of Bertha's company, and was glad to meet somebody else. "I say, Bertha, introduce us to your friend."

"She's Elsie Harland," said Bertha, ungraciously, and evidently unwillingly.

But King took no notice of Bertha's unpleasant manner. "How do you do, Elsie?" he said, in his frank, boyish fashion. "This is my sister, Marjorie, and I am Kingdon Maynard. Can't I help you pull your wagon? I see you've sold all your things."

"Yes; I only had post-cards to sell," said Elsie, "and the people bought them in such big bunches that now they're all gone. So I thought I'd like to go around with you, and help sell your dolls." She looked inquiringly at Bertha, who replied, "I s'pose you can, if you want to, but I should think you'd go home."

"Don't go home," said Marjorie, cordially; "come along with us, and we'll all sell dolls together."

"She can't sell our dolls," said Bertha, snappily, and this so irritated King that he couldn't help speaking out.

"Bertha Baker," he said, "if you don't behave yourself, and act more pleasant, I'll put you in the cart, and sell you for a doll!"

This so surprised Bertha that she stared at King, wonderingly, but the other girls laughed, and then they all went on together.

Bertha made no further objections, and Marjorie could see that she did try to be a little more pleasant. King saw this, too, and he realized that she was the kind of a girl who obeyed scolding better than coaxing. So when they reached the next house, King said, "Now we'll all go in here together to sell the dolls; but we won't go until Bertha puts on a sweet smile. So, smile away, my lady!"

King's merry speech made Bertha laugh, and the dimples came in her cheeks, and she looked very pretty as they went up the walk.

"Goodness, Bertha!" exclaimed Elsie. "If you knew how much prettier you look when you smile, you'd always wear a broad grin!"

Bertha scowled at this, and seeing it, King stopped stock-still.

"Cook up that smile again!" he cried. "Not another step till you do!"

As the lady of the house was waiting for them on the veranda, this was embarrassing, so Bertha smiled, and then the whole group moved on.

So they kept on for the rest of the trip, King jollying Bertha whenever it was necessary, and the other girls making merriment for themselves. Marjorie and Elsie soon became friends, for they were alike merry-hearted and pleasant-mannered.

It was about noon when they sold their last doll and turned their faces homeward. Elsie and Bertha went with them, and when they reached Cousin Jack's house they found Kitty and May Perry already there.

"Here you are, my little peddlers! Here you are, with your empty carts!" cried Cousin Jack, as the children came upon the veranda. "All sold out, I see."

"Yes," said Marjorie, "and we could have sold more if we had had them."

"Then there's nothing left for me to buy from you, and I really need a doll."

"I'll make you one before I go home, Cousin Jack," said Marjorie; "and then you can keep it to remember me by."

"All right, Mehitabel; good for you! I'll play with it every day, -- and when I go to see my little friends I'll take it with me. And now, my weary peddlers, let me tell you what you have still before you! A number of young people, mostly retired peddlers, are coming here to luncheon with you. But we won't call it luncheon, because that sounds so prosaic. We'll call it, -- what shall we call it?"

"A festival feast," said Kitty. "That sounds gay and jolly."

"So it does," agreed Cousin Jack, "A May Day Festival Feast for the Maynards, and nothing could be pleasanter nor that!"

And even before Cousin Jack finished speaking, the young guests began to arrive, and Marjorie realized that it was a party her kind cousins had made for them.

There were about twenty guests all together, and as they wore the pretty costumes they had worn as peddlers, it was a picturesque group.

"Ho, for the Festival Feast!" exclaimed Cousin Jack, and taking Marjorie and Kitty by either hand he went dancing with them across the lawn.

Under a clump of trees they discovered that a table had been set, though it had not been visible from the house.

The table was like a vision of Fairyland, and Marjorie thought she had never before seen such a pretty one.

The decorations were of pink, and in the middle of the table was a wicker pushcart of fairly good size, filled with parcels wrapped in pink tissue paper. From each parcel a long end of ribbon led to the plate of each little guest. Also at each place was a much smaller pushcart of gilded wicker-work tied with pink bows, and filled with candies.

Pink sweet peas and ferns were scattered over the white tablecloth, and across the table ran a broad pink satin ribbon which bore in gold letters the legend, "May for the Maynards, the Maynards for May!"

"What a beautiful table!" cried Marjorie, as the lovely sight greeted her eyes.

"What beautiful guests!" cried Cousin Jack, as he looked at the smiling, happy crowd of children. And then he helped them to find their places, which were marked by pretty cards, painted with pink flowers.

As far as possible, everything was trimmed with pink. The china was white with pink bands, the rolled sandwiches were tied with little pink ribbons, the little cakes were iced with pink, and there were pink candies, and pink ice cream, and pink lemonade.

Then after the feast was over, the children were instructed to pull gently on the ribbons that lay at their plate, and thus draw toward them the pink paper parcels.

These being opened proved to contain a dainty gift for each one, the prevailing color, of course, being pink.

"It's the pinkiest party I ever saw!" exclaimed Marjorie. "It makes it seem more like May, being so pinky!"

"That's because it's for the Pink of Perfection," said Cousin Jack, looking fondly at Marjorie, whom he considered his chief guest.

Then they all left the table, and with Cousin Jack as ringleader, they played merry games until late in the afternoon.

At last the children all went home, and Marjorie threw her arms around Cousin Jack's neck, in a burst of gratitude. "You are too good to us!" she exclaimed.

"Now, Mehitabel, you know I think nothing could be too good for you, you're such a gay little Maynard! Can't I induce you to stay here with me when your people go home to-morrow?"

Marjorie laughed, for this was the second invitation she had had to leave her family. But she well knew Cousin Jack didn't expect her to do it, and so she smiled, and said, "I couldn't be induced to do that, Cousin Jack; but I think it would be awfully nice if you and Cousin Ethel would come and live in Rockwell. Then we could see you so much oftener."

"I'm not sure that we can go and live there, -- but if we were coaxed very hard, we might come and visit you same time."

"I rather think you will!" said Mr. Maynard, heartily, "and the sooner you come, and the longer you stay, the better we'll like it!"

And before the Maynards left Cambridge, it was definitely arranged that Cousin Jack and Cousin Ethel should visit them in the near future.

The next day the Maynards started for home. They were to stop a day or two in Boston, and then proceed by easy stages back to Rockwell.

As the big car started away from the Bryant house, after farewells both merry and affectionate, the children sang in gay chorus, one of their favorite road songs:

"All through the May The Maynards play; And every day Is a holiday. Glad and gay, The Maynards play; Maytime for Maynards, Maynards for May! No longer in Cambridge can we stay, But over the hills and far-a-way; And so good-day, For we must away, May for the Maynards! The Maynards for May!"

<eob>

The Swiss Family Robinson Told In Words Of One Syllable

By

Mary Godolphin



Chapter I.

WHEN one has a good tale to tell, he should try to be brief, and not say more than he can help ere he makes a fair start; so I shall not say a word of what took place on board the ship till we had been six days in a storm. The barque had gone far out of her true course, and no one on board knew where we were. The masts lay in splints on the deck, a leak in the side of the ship let more in than the crew could pump out, and each one felt that ere long he would find a grave in the deep sea, which sent its spray from side to side of what was now but a mere hulk.

"Come, boys," said I to my four sons, who were with me, "God can save us if it please Him so to do; but, if this is to be our last hour, let us bow to His will -- we shall at least go down side by side."

My dear wife could not hide the tears that fell down her cheeks as I thus spoke to my sons, but she was calm, and knelt down to pray, while the boys clung round her as if they thought she could help them.

Just then we heard a cry of "Land! land!" felt a shock, and it was clear that we had struck on a rock, for we heard a loud cry from one of the men, "We are lost! Launch the boat; try for your lives!"

I went at once on deck, and found that all the boats had been let down, and that the last of the crew had just left the ship. I cried out for the men to come back and take us with them, but it was in vain.

I then thought that our last chance was gone. Still, as I felt the ship did not sink, I went to the stern, and found, to my joy, that she was held up by a piece of rock on each side, and made fast like a wedge. At the same time I saw some trace of land, which lay to the south, and this made me go back with some hope that we had still a faint chance.

As soon as I got down stairs I took my wife by the hand, and said, "Be of good cheer, we are at least safe for some time, and if the wind should veer round, we may yet reach the land that lies but a short way off."

I said this to calm the fears of my wife and sons, and it did so far more than I had a right to hope.

"Let us now take some food," said my wife. "We are sure to need it, for this will no doubt be a night to try our strength."

My wife got some food for her boys, which we were glad to see them eat, poor as it was; but we could not share their meal. Three out of the four were put to bed in their berths, and soon went to sleep; but Fritz, who was our first child, would not leave us. He said, like a good son, that he would try to be of some use, and think what could be done.

"If we could but find some cork," said Fritz to me in a low tone, "we might make floats. You and I will not need them, for we can swim, but the rest will want some such means to keep them up."

"A good thought," said I. "Let us try to find what things there are in the ship that we can thus make use of."

We soon found some casks and ropes, and with these we made a kind of float for each of the three boys, and then my wife made one for her own use. This done, we got some knives, string, and such things as we could make fast to our belts. We did not fail to look for and find a flint and steel, and the box in which the burnt rags were kept, for these were at that time in use as the means to strike a light.

Fritz, who was now well-nigh worn out, lay down on his bed and slept like the rest. As for me and my poor wife, we kept watch, each in fear lest the next wave should lift the ship off the rock and break it up.

I need not tell you how glad we were when we saw the first gleam of light. At dawn the wind did not blow so strong, the sky was clear of clouds, and we saw the sun rise, and with it rose our hopes. I soon had my wife and sons on deck.

"Where are the men?" said they. "How can we steer the ship?"

"My dear boys," said I, "He who has kept us safe till now will still aid us. Let all hands set to work, and leave the rest to God."

At these words we all went to work with a will. My wife went to feed the live stock; Fritz set off in search of arms, and the means to make use of them; and Ernest made his way to the tool chest. Jack ran to pick up what he could find, but as he got to one of the doors he gave it a push, and two huge dogs sprang out and leaped at him. He thought at first that they would bite him, but he soon found that they meant him no harm, and one of them let him get on his back and ride up to me as I came from the hold of the ship.

When the boys had done their search, and the spoil was brought on deck, we thought we had found all that we should need. "As for me," said my wife, "I have brought good news, for I find we have still on board a cow, an ass, two goats, six sheep, a ram, a pig, and a sow, and I have found food for them all."

"All that you bring will be of use," said I; "but I fear that Jack's dogs will do us more harm than good."

"Not at all," said Jack, "for they can help us to hunt when we get to land."

"Well said, Jack. And now let us see what we can do that will aid us to get there."

We then took the casks that we had found, and Ernest and I soon cut them in half. With these tubs we made a kind of raft, though it was no slight task. The tubs, in fact, were a fleet of eight small round boats, made so fast to some planks that no one of them could float from the rest. The next thing to be done was to launch the raft. This we at length did, and when the boys saw it slide down the side of the ship and float on the sea, they gave a loud shout, and each one tried who should be the first to get on it. I made it fast to the ship, and there left it.

I then told my wife to change her dress for that of one of the crew which she had found, as her skirts would have got in her way when she had to climb. She did not at first like this, but did so as soon as she saw the truth of what I told her.

At last, when all was done, we went to bed, and slept as sound as if we had been on land.



Chapter II.

WE were all up at the break of day, and knelt down to thank God that He had kept us from harm through the night.

We then put all the things on the raft, and ten live hens and two cocks were put in one of the tubs. Some ducks and geese we let go, in the hope that they would swim to the shore; and a pair of doves were set free, as they could fly to the land.

There was a place in the raft for each of us. In the first tub sat my wife; in the next Frank, who was eight years old; in the third Fritz, not quite twice the age of Frank; in the fourth were the fowls, and some old sails that would make us a tent; the fifth was full of good things in the way of food; in the sixth stood Jack, a bold lad, ten years old; in the next Ernest, twelve years of age, well taught, but too fond of self, and less fond of work than the rest; while I sat in the eighth, to guide the raft that was to save all that was dear to me in the world.

As soon as the dogs (Bill and Turk by name) saw us push off from the ship they leaped in the sea, swam near the raft, and kept well up with us.

The sea was calm; so that we felt quite safe. We made good use of the oars, and the raft bore its freight straight to the land; but as we drew near to the shore the sight of the bare rocks led us to think that we might still be in need of food and drink when that which we had was gone.

As we got near, the coast lost its bare look, and we were glad to see that there was no lack of trees. We soon found a bay, to which the ducks and geese had found their way, and here we saw a place where we could land.

As soon as we had made the raft fast with a strong rope, we took out all our wealth, and made a tent with the old sail cloth we had brought with us, and stuck a pole in the ground to keep it up. This done, I sent the boys to get some moss and dry grass to make our beds with. With the flint and steel we soon set fire to some dry twigs, and my wife made a pot of soup with what she had brought from the ship.

Fritz, who had charge of the guns, chose one, and took a stroll by the side of a stream, while Jack went in search of shell fish, which he thought he might find on the rocks. My share of the work was to save two large casks which were near the shore. While I was up to my knees in the sea I heard a shrill cry, which I knew to come from Jack. I got out at once, took up an axe, and ran to his help. I found him with his legs in a rock pool, where a large crab held him by his toes. It soon made off as I came near; but I struck at it with the axe, and brought it out of the pool. Jack then took it up, though it gave him a pinch or two ere he found out how to hold it, and ran off in high glee to show what he had caught.

When I got back to the tent, I found that Ernest had brought us news that he had seen salt in the chinks of the rocks, and that shell fish were not scarce.

"Well, my boy, if you are sure you saw them, I will ask you to go back for some. We must each do some work for the good of all."

He went, and soon found the salt, left by the sea on the rocks, which the sun had made quite dry. There was some sand with it, but my wife did not take long to find a way to cure that. She had been to a fresh stream with a large jug; from this I saw her pour some on the salt, strain it through a cloth, and let it drip in a cup, so that all the sand was left on the cloth.

When the soup was made hot we had each a taste, and all said that it was good.

"Be not in too great haste," said my wife, "we must wait for Fritz; but if he were here, I do not see how we are to take our soup, for we have no plates nor spoons."

"If we had but some large nuts," said Ernest, "we might cut them in half, and they would make good bowls."

"Quite true," said I; "but as there are none, we may as well wish for delf bowls and real spoons at once."

"Now I have it," quoth Ernest. "Let us use the shells I saw on the shore."

Off ran Jack to the shore, with Ernest at his heels, and back they both came with large and small shells for us all.

Just then Fritz came in, with a look of gloom on his face, which I could see was a sham.

"You do not mean to tell me you have come back with nought?" said I, as he put out his hands as if to prove that such was the case. But Jack, who had been round him, cried out, "No, no! he's got a pig! -- such a fine one. Tell us where you found it."

Fritz now brought forth his prize. When I saw it, I knew, from what I had read, that it was not a pig, but a swift beast, known in these parts, that lives on fruit and nuts, and hides in the earth. (*The Agouti.)

"I like the place much more than I do this spot," said he. "The shore lies low, and there are planks, casks, chests, and all sorts of things, that the sea has thrown up. Why not leave this place at once, and go there?"

"There is a time for all things," said I. "We must at least rest here for one night."

We all sat down to take our soup with the shell spoons. Ernest took from his coat a large shell, which he had hid till now, put it in the soup, and then set it down to cool.

"You do not show want of thought," said I to him. "But I am not glad to see that you think so of your-self, and do so much for your own ease, when all the rest do so much for yours. Now, that shell full of soup you must give to our two dogs. We can all dip our small shells in the pot, and you must do as we do."

I knew he felt hurt at this, but he gave it to the dogs at once, and they soon made quick work of their share of the soup.

The sun was low when our meal came to an end. The fowls came round us to pick up the stray crumbs we had let fall, and my wife took out her bag of grain and fed the cocks and hens, and sent them to roost on the top of our tent.

We took care to load our fire-arms, in case we might need them in the night; sang a hymn of praise to God, and then left our fate in His hands.


Chapter III.

As soon as I heard the cock crow, and saw by the light that it was break of day, I got out of bed and spoke to my wife as to what we should do next.

"First," said I, "Fritz and I will make a tour of the coast and try to find some of the men who left the ship, for if they are here they may be in want."

"But," said Fritz, who had heard me from his bed, "why should we search for those who left us to die on the wreck?"

"Well, I will tell you," said I. "First, we should do to them as we would wish them to do to us, not as they have done; next, we know that they took no food with them, and we should not leave them to starve; and last, it may be that they can help us, though now they stand more in need of our aid."

The boys were soon up, and we all sat down to a good meal. That done, Fritz and I got our guns. I put a pair of small arms in his belt, gave him a game bag, and told him to take an axe. I took some food for us both, and a full flask, out of which we could drink if we should stray far from a stream.

When we took our leave, my wife and the three boys were in tears. The dog Bill we left to guard the tent, but Turk went with us, and ran by our side.

We soon got to the banks of a stream; but then had to make our way down its course. It took us some time to reach the sea shore. There was not a boat to be seen, or any sign that the ship's crew had found the land. We left the shore, and went through a wood full of tall trees. Here Fritz struck some hard thing on the ground with his foot, which we found to be a CO-COA NUT. He gave it a blow with his axe, and broke the shell, and we both sat down to rest, and eat the nut.

At the end of the wood we came to a plain which gave us a clear view of the place. Fritz, who was on the look out, ran off with Turk to some strange trees that he saw on the right.

When I got up to him, it gave me no small joy to find that it was a gourd tree.

"Try," said I, "if you can get hold of one of those queer lumps that grow on it."

With that he brought one down, and we had a look at it.

"Now, of this," said I, "we can make a plate, a dish, or a flask. Wild men set great store by its shell, which they use to hold their food and drink."

We then set to work to make plates of the gourds. When we had made some eight or ten bowls, and some flat ones for plates, we laid them out in the sun to dry, and then went on our way.

We could see, not far off, a grove of fine palm trees, but to reach them we should have to pass through reeds and long grass. I knew this was just the place to find snakes, so we each cut a cane, that we might beat them off should we meet with any. As I took hold of my staff, I felt a gum or juice ooze out of the end. I put my tongue to it, and found it of a sweet taste. This led me to suck the reed, and I then knew that we had met with the SUG-AR CANE. By this time Fritz had done the same, for I could see that he held his cane to his mouth.

"Do not suck too much of it," said I, "or it will make you ill; but let us cut some of the best and take them back with us, for those at home will prize so great a treat."

It did not take us long to reach the place where the palms grew, and then we sat down in the shade to eat the food we had brought with us.

"Do you see those nuts at the top of the trees, Fritz?" said I.

"To be sure I do; but they are far too high to reach. Look, look!" he cried, "there are some MON-KEYS; let me have a shot at them." "Do not do that," I said, and held his arm; "it will do us no good to kill them, and I think I can make use of them." With that I threw some stones up at the tree where they were, though they had got safe out of my reach. They then made a loud noise, took hold of the nuts that were near, and flung them straight at us. The trick made Fritz laugh, who soon had hard work to pick up the nuts that were thrown at him.

We broke some of the nuts, and put the juice of the canes in the thick white cream which forms close to the shell; and this made us a dish that Fritz said was fit for a king.

Fritz and I then made fast some nuts to a string, which I tied round my waist, while he took up his canes, and we both set off on our road home.



Chapter IV.

ON our way back we took up the gourd bowls and plates, which we found quite dry and hard as bone, and put them in our bags. We had scarce got through the wood, when Turk made a dart in front of us, and we saw a troop of apes rush out of the way. But he gave a leap and brought down one that could not climb so fast as the rest, for she had a young one in her arms. Turk made short work of the poor thing, for ere Fritz could call the dog off, the ape was dead. The young one, as soon as it saw Fritz, sprang on his back, put its paws in his curls, and would not let go. I at length got the ape from Fritz's back, and took it up in my arms like a child. We found that it was too young to seek its own food, and, as Fritz said he should like to take it home, we put it on Turk's back. Turk did not at first like this, but we soon got him to bear the ape, which held so tight by the hair on the dog's neck that it could not well fall off. Fritz then led Turk with a string, that he might not stray out of sight, or throw off his charge, which I think he would have done had we not been on the watch.

It did not take us long to reach the bank of the stream near to our home.

I need not tell you how glad my wife and sons were to see us safe back, or with what joy the boys took the "real live ape" out of Fritz's arms.

At length, when they got more staid, I told them that we had brought them all sorts of good things, but that we had not met with any of the men of whom we went in search. "God's will be done," said my wife, "let us thank Him that you have come back safe to us. This day to me has been an age; but put down your loads, for we must now go in and hear what you have to tell."

Fritz and I then told them, by turns, where we found the things we brought with us, how we made and dried the plates and bowls, cut the canes, and caught the ape in the wood. Our tales had not come to an end when we were told that it was time to sup. Ernest had shot a wild goose, and some fish had been caught in the stream. With these, and the Dutch cheese that we brought from the ship, we made a good meal; but the boys would not rest till we broke some of the nuts, from which they drank the milk, made sweet with the juice of the canes. I must tell you that we ate our food in great state from our gourd rind plates, which my wife said she should prize more than if they were made of pure gold.

That night the ape went to bed with Jack and Fritz, and we all slept in peace till the cocks on the roof of the tent woke us up.

Next day Fritz and I went back to the wreck to save the live stock, and get what else we had left that might be of use to us. We found it no light task, for we had to make floats for the cow, the ass, the sheep, and the goats, throw them in the sea, and tie them with ropes to our raft. We put on board the raft a vast deal of food that had not been spoiled by the sea, though the waves had made a breach in the sides of the wreck. We then put to sea with our train of live stock made fast to the stern.

We had not gone far when I heard a loud cry of fear from Fritz, "We are lost! We are lost! See what a great shark is on its way to us!"

Though pale with fright, he took aim with his gun, and shot the fish in the head. It sank at once, but left a track of blood in the sea, which I knew to be a sign that we were once more safe. We then got to land, and made fast our freight to the shore. Ere we had done this our friends came to give us what help they could to get the beasts out of the stream, and take them up to the tent. The poor things were well nigh worn out; but we took good care of them, and put them to rest on some dry grass that my wife had laid out for them.

That night we did not sup on the ground. My wife had spread a cloth on the top of a cask, and we each sat on a tub. With the knives and forks that we had found in the ship we ate a dish of hot ham and eggs, nor did we fail to test the wine that I had brought with me in a small cask from the wreck.

Ere bed-time my wife had told me that while I was at the wreck she had gone in search of some place in which we could build a house.

"And did you find one, my dear?" I said.

"Oh, yes," said she. "We can take you to a great tree that will serve us well, if we can but get across the stream with our goods."

"But would you have us roost, like fowls, in a tree? How do you think we could get up to our perch?"

"Was there not a large lime tree in our town in which they built a ball room, with stairs up the trunk?"

"To be sure there was," said I; "and if we can not build in it, we can at least make use of its shade, and dwell in a hut on the roots."

Ernest said that he took a string, and found that it was twelve yards round. This led me to think that my wife's scheme was by no means a bad one, and that I would have a look at the tree the next day.

When I had heard all they had to tell, we knelt down to pray, and then sought a good night's rest, which the toils of the day made us much in need of.



Chapter V.

WHEN I rose from my bed the next day, I said to my wife: "Does it not seem, my dear, as if God had led us to this place, and that we should do wrong to leave it?"

"What you say may be quite true, so far as it goes," she said; "but I must tell you that the mid-day heat is more than we can bear, and that if we stay here we may have to keep watch at night, for there are, no doubt, wild beasts of some kind that will find us out; and we should not trust too much to our dogs, who may lose their lives in a fight with them."

"I dare say you are right," said I; "but I do not yet see how we can cross the stream. We shall first have to build a bridge."

The boys were now all out of their beds; and while my wife went to milk the cow and cook some food, I made my plans known to them. They were all glad when they heard that we were to leave, and each said he, would help to build the bridge.

The first thing to be done was to find some strong planks; and Fritz, Ernest, and I went down to the shore, and got in the boat, which the tide took down to the bay.

On a piece of land which lay to the left we could see some large dark thing, round which flew a flock of sea gulls. We put up a sail and caught a gust of wind which had sprung up, and this soon brought the boat to the spot. We made no noise, but crept up the shore step by step, and we got so near that Ernest brought down some of the birds with a stick. Fritz was the first to find out that what the sea gulls had just left was the huge fish he had shot in the sea. We cut off some rough skin, which we thought might serve for files, and then went back to the boat. I took a glance at the shore ere I got in, and to my great joy saw some of the planks and spars from the wreck lay on the ground not far off. Our next care was to bind these so as to make a raft, which we tied to the stern of the boat, and then, by the use of our oars, soon made our way up the stream to the place where the bridge was to be built. Our young friends were glad to see us back so soon, and ran to meet us; Jack had a cloth in his hand, in which was a store of cray fish and crabs just caught in some of the nooks of a rock up the stream.

"Do not fail to give God thanks," said I, "that our lot has been cast where we can pick up more food than we can eat."

It would take a long time to tell how we brought all the wood up to the spot, built piers of stone in the stream, and put the planks one by one in the place; it was late at night when we left off work, and once more sought our tent.

The next day we saw the sun rise, and took our first meal in haste, for we knew we should have a long day's toil. All the stores that we could not take with us were laid by in the tent, the door of which was made safe by a row of casks, that we put round it. My wife and Fritz soon led the way; the cow went next; then the ass, with Frank on its back. Jack led the goats, and on the back of one of them sat the ape. Ernest took charge of the sheep, and I brought up the rear as chief guard. We took care to cross the bridge one at a time, and found it bore our weight well; but once or twice we thought the cow would step in the stream, or fall off the boards, when she went to the sides to drink.

Just as we had left the bridge, Jack cried out, "Be quick! here is a strange beast with quills as long as my arm." The dogs ran, and I with them, and found a large POR-CU-PINE, in the grass. It made a loud noise, and shot out its quills at the dogs, and made them bleed. At this Jack shot at the beast, which fell dead on the spot. My wife's first thought was to dress the wounds made by the quills, which had stuck in the nose of one of the dogs, while the boys made haste to pluck some of the quills from the skin of their strange prize.

At last our march came to an end, and I saw for the first time the great trees that my wife had told me of. They were of vast size, and were, I thought, fig trees. "If we can but fix our tent up there," I said, "we shall have no cause to dread, for no wild beasts can reach us." We sent Frank off to find sticks, with which to make a fire, and my wife made some soup of the flesh of the beast we had slain, though we did not like it so well as we did the ham and cheese we brought with us.



Chapter VI.

THE meal at an end, my first thought was to make some steps by means of which we could reach the first strong branch of the tree. Ernest and I went in search of some thick canes that grew in the sands hard by. These we cut down, bound them to four long poles, and thus made a pair of steps that would, we thought, reach far up the trunk.

On our way back from the sands, one of the dogs made a dart at a clump of reeds, and a troop of large birds rose on the wing with a loud noise. Fritz let fly at them, and brought down two at a shot. One of them fell quite dead, but its mate, though hurt in the wing, made use of its long legs so well that it would have got off if Bill had not held it. The joy of Fritz, to have caught such a strange bird, was so great that he would have us at once bind it by the neck and take it back with us. "Look," said Ernest, "what fine plumes he has, and you see he has web feet like a goose, and has long legs like a stork: thus he can run on land as fast as he can swim."

"Yes," said I, "and he can fly with more speed through the air, for these birds have great strength in their wings. In fact, few birds have such means of flight as the FLA-MIN-GO."

My wife thought the great bird might need more food than we could spare. I told her that it would feed on small fish and worms, and not rob our geese of their grain. I then tied him to a stake near the stream; and in a few days we were glad to find that he knew us, and would come at a call, like a tame bird.

While I sat on the grass with my sons, late in the day, I thought I would try to make a bow and thus save our shot. This I did with a long cane and a piece of string, and then made a dart with a sharp point, which I shot off and found it would go straight. The branch of the tree on which we were to fix our hut was so high that our steps would not near reach it. I tied some strong thread to the dart, and shot it over the branch; then tied a piece of rope to the end of the thread, and drew that up, and at last made a long row of cane steps, with a rope at each side, which we drew up to the first strong branch. The boys were now all in haste to climb the tree, but I chose that Jack, who was light of build and sure of foot, should go up first and try the strength of our work. Fritz went up next with some nails, and made the ropes fast to the tree, while I drove stakes in the ground to keep them firm at the foot. It was now time for me to mount, and up I went with an axe to lop off the twigs and smooth the bough that was to form the ground of our new house. I sent the boys down out of my way, and kept hard at work till it was late, for the sky was clear, and the moon lent me her beams of light to see by.

When I came down my wife spread a good meal on the ground, which we ate as best we could, and then made our beds of dry moss, round which we put heaps of twigs. These we set light to, as watch fires to keep off wild beasts and snakes. The toils of the day had made the boys tired, and they were soon in a sound sleep, but my wife and I took it in turns to watch through the whole night.

We were all out of bed as soon as light was in the sky, and set to work to hoist up the planks that were to form the floor of our hut. These we laid down on the branch, with their ends made fast to a cross piece of wood that we had to fix to the trunk of the tree. Our nails were long, and we drove each one of them home, so that we had no cause to fear the strength of our work. By the time we had done this the day was far spent, and we were all glad to lay by our tools and rest our limbs. That night we lit our fires round the tree, tied the dogs to the roots, and went up to sleep out of harm's way for the first time since we left the ship. When the steps were drawn up we all felt that we were now safe at last, and that we had brought the toils of the day to a good end.



Chapter VII.

WE did not wake next day till the sun shone in upon us. I told my wife and sons that as it was the Lord's day we would do no work. Our beasts and birds had first to be fed. This was done by my wife, who then brought us some hot milk, and made us sit down on the grass and take it. When our meal was done, I got on a log in front of my sons, and we all sang a psalm we knew by heart. Then I sought to teach them and spoke to them thus:

"There was once on a time a Great King, who had two vast realms, the Land of Light and Truth, and the Land of Night and Sloth. Those who dwelt in the first were full of life and joy. The King held his court at the Place of Rest where all was bright.

"This King had a land, not far off, where those for whom he had so much love should dwell ere they went one by one to the Place of Rest. This land was the Home of Earth. He gave to his Son the right to rule the host that dwelt in the Home of Earth, and set forth to think what they were to do, and all the ills that would come to them if they did not do as they were bid.

"At first they were all glad to hear the way in which they were to live, and the terms on which they could reach the Land of Light and Truth. Sad to tell, they soon broke the King's laws, and paid no heed to what they knew to be his will. Still there were a few who did as they had been taught, and dwelt in peace, in the hope that they would please the King and at last reach the place where he held his court.

"From time to time ships came to the Home of Earth, and at last a great ship was sent, the name of which was The Grave, which bore the flag of Death. To the good it was a sign of hope, but the bad were thrown by the sight of it into a state of gloom. These ships were not seen till they came close to the shore, and then the crew were sent forth to find those whom they were told to seize. Some went back with them full of joy, but most were seen to weep and mourn their fate. So soon as they were brought in sight of the Great King, the Prince took those who had done well, and put a white robe on them; but those who went their own way when on the Home of Earth, he sent down to toil in deep, dark mines till time shall be no more."

When my sons had heard my tale to the end they all knew what it meant; I then drew from them their views of what they ought to do to please and serve the Great King. We then sang a hymn; and my wife drew from her bag the BIBLE, which I gave to one of the boys, who read from it in a clear, loud voice. When this was brought to a close, we all knelt down on the grass to pray, and to ask God to bless the means we took to learn His will.

We did no work that day, but took a long stroll up the banks of the stream.

The next day Ernest and Jack tried their skill with the bow, and brought down some small birds that came to the great tree in quest of figs. I gave them leave to kill what they could; for I knew if put in casks made air tight with grease, they would keep for a time, and might prove a boon, if our stock of food should get low.

When we sat down to dine, the thought struck me that it would be well to give some name to each part of the land that was known to us. This was at first the source of some fun, for Fritz said we should call the bay where we had found the shell spoons by the name of Spoon Bay; but Jack, who still had a mark on his toe where the crab gave him a pinch, thought we ought to term it Crab Bay.

"If you will let me give it a name," said my wife, "I should wish to know it by some term that will make us bear in mind how good God was to lead our raft there, and I don't think Safe Bay will be a bad name for it."

"So let it be," said I; and from that time Safe Bay had a name. "What shall be the name of the spot where we spent our first night on shore? You shall give that its name," said I to Fritz.

"Let us call it Tent House."

"That will do," said I. "And now for the spot at the mouth of Safe Bay, where we found our planks?"

"Sharp Point," said Ernest. The place from which Fritz and I sought for a trace of out ship mates was to be known as No Man's Cape. Then we had the Boys' Bridge, which name I gave it from a wish to please my sons, who had done so much to build it.

"But what shall we call the place which is most dear to us all?"

"Now, my dear," said I to my wife, "it is your turn. What shall we say?"

"Let us call it The Nest," said she; and with that I gave each of my young birds a glass of sweet wine.

"Here's to 'The Nest,'" said I; "and may we live long to bless the day and the means that brought us here."

When the heat of the day was past, I told my sons that I should be glad to take a walk with them. My wife said that she should like to go with us; so we left The Nest in charge of Turk, and bent our course to the banks of the stream. On our way we went past some shrubs and rare herbs, which my wife knew well how to make use of should we fall sick; and Ernest found a large spot of ground on which grew a fine kind of PO-TA-TO. At these the boys set to work with such zeal, that we soon had a full bag of the ripe fruit. We then went on to Tent House, which we found in the same state as when we left it to cross the stream on our way to the great tree.

We found that our ducks and geese had grown so wild that they would not come near us; so, while my wife and I went to pick up such things as we thought we might take back with us, Ernest and Fritz were sent to catch them, and to tie their legs and wings, and in this way we got them at last to The Nest.



Chapter VIII.

IT took the whole of the next day to make a sledge, to which we tied the ass, and drove to Tent House. On our sledge we put such of the casks which held food, and took them back to The Nest. Fritz and I went once more to the wreck, and this time we brought off chests of clothes, pigs of lead, cart wheels, sacks of maize, oats, peas, and wheat. With a strong bar we broke down some of the doors, and took such parts of the ship as we thought would aid us to build our house, which as yet was far less safe than I could wish. These we bound with cords, and made them float back at the stern of the raft.

When we got to the shore my wife and the three boys were there to greet us. My first care was to send for the sledge, and with this we took most of our new wealth up to The Nest.

The next day I told my sons that they must now learn to run, to leap, to climb, and to throw stones straight at a mark, as all these things would be of great use to them in their new mode of life.

I next taught them to use the LAS-SO, by means of which men catch the wild horse on the vast plains of the New World. I tied two stones to the ends of a cord some yards in length, and flung off one of them at the trunk of a young tree; the cord went round and round it in a coil and bound it so tight that I could have drawn it to me had it not been fast in the ground. This trick the boys were not slow to learn; and Fritz, in a short time, could take an aim as well with a stone as he could with his gun.

As yet we had not seen much of the isle; for it took most of our time to build the house. But one day we made up our minds that we would all start on a tour. We rose at dawn, put the ass in the sledge, took what food we thought we should need, and set out from The Nest just as the sun rose.

When we came to the wood where Fritz found the ape, he told them by what means we got the nuts, but now there were no apes there to throw them down.

"Oh, if one would but fall from the trees," he said.

The words had but just left his lips when a large nut fell at his feet. He made a start back, and two more came down near the same spot.

As the nuts were far from ripe, I was at a loss to know how they could fall off the tree, for I could not see an ape nor a bird near.

I went close up to the tree, and saw a large land crab on its way down the trunk. Jack struck a blow at him with a stick, but did not hit the beast. He then took off his coat and threw it on the crab's head, while I made an end of him with an axe. I told them that these crabs climb the trees and break off the nuts, as we had seen, and then come down to feast on them at their ease.

"But how do they crack the nuts?" said Jack.

"They make a hole through the shell at the thin end, and then suck them dry."

The dead crab was put in the sledge, and we went on through the wood. When we came to the Gourd Wood, we sat down to make some more bowls and flasks to take back with us. Ernest had gone to try what new thing he could find, but he had not been from us long, when we heard him call out,

"A wild boar! A great wild boar! Come here, pray!"

We took up our guns, and went at once with the dogs to the spot. We soon heard Turk give a loud bark, and just then we heard Ernest laugh, and saw the two dogs come through a clump of brush wood, with our old sow fast by the ears. She did not seem to like the way in which they had put an end to her feast of fruit, so she ran back as soon as we told the dogs to let go their hold of her ears.

"But with all our sport," said Fritz, "we have a poor show of game. Let us leave the young ones, and set off to see what we can meet with." Ernest sat down with Frank, and we left them and my wife at the gourd tree, while Fritz and Jack set off with me to a high rock which we saw on the right.

"Fritz, look here," said Jack, as he made his way to the rock.

"What have you found now?" said Fritz.

"I don't know what it is, but it's a fine prize."

When I went up I saw at once that it was a large I-GUA-NA, the flesh and eggs of which are both good for food. I had heard that these and such like beasts will stand still if you play an air on a pipe. So I crept near, and made a low sound with my lips, while I held in my right hand a stout stick, to which I had tied a cord with a noose, and in my left hand a slight wand. I saw it first move its tail, and then draw its head from side to side, as if to look where the sound came from. I then threw the noose round its neck, drew it tight, got on its back with a leap and thrust the wand up its nose, which is the sole part of the beast where there are no hard scales. It bled at once, and was soon dead, nor did it seem to feel any pain. Our prize, which was near five feet long was no slight weight to lift. I got it at last on my back, and thus we went back to the gourd tree, where we found the rest quite safe.

It took us a long time to reach The Nest that night. My wife did her best to dress some of the flesh of the land crab, but it was tough, and did not taste so nice as the soup made from the beast that we had caught by the nose.



Chapter IX.

FRITZ and I spent the whole of the next day in the woods. We took the ass and one of the dogs with us, but left all else at home.

Our way first lay through a dense wood, where we saw no end of small birds, but such game could not now tempt Fritz to waste his shot. We then had to cross a vast plain, and to wade through the high grass, which we did with care, lest we should tread on some strange thing that might turn and bite us.

We came at last to a grove of small trees, and in their midst I saw a bush, which I knew to be the wax tree, for the wax grew on it like white beads. I need not say how glad I was to find so great a prize. We had up to this time gone to bed as soon as the sun went down, for we had no lamp to use; but as we could now make wax lights, I told Fritz that we had found what would add two or three hours per day to our lives. We took as much of the wax as would serve us for some time, and then made our way out of the grove.

"How came you," said Fritz, "to know so much of the queer beasts, trees, and plants that we have found here?"

"When young," said I, "I used to read all the books that fell in my way; and those that told of strange lands and what was to be seen in them had for me as great a charm as they have for Ernest, who has read a great deal, and knows more of plants than you do."

"Well," said he, "I will do the same if I but get the chance. Can you tell what is the name of that huge tree on the right? See, there are balls on the bark."

We went close to it, and found that these balls were of thick gum, which the sun had made quite hard. Fritz tried to pull one of them off, but felt that it clung tight to the bark, though he could change its shape with his warm hands. "Look," said he, "I feel sure that this is the IN-DI-A RUB-BER which we used to clean our school books." I took a piece of it in my hand, and said, "To be sure it is. What shall we not find in this rich land?" I then told him how the men in the New World made flasks of this gum, in which form it is sent to all parts of the world. "And I do not see why we should not make boots of it in the same way. We have but to fill a sock with sand, then put gum all round it, while in a soft state, till it is as thick as we need, then pour the sand out, and we shall have made a shoe or a boot that will at least keep out the damp, and that is more than mine do just now."

Not far from this we came to a bush, the leaves of which were strewn with a white dust; and close by were two or three more in the same state. I cut a slit in the trunk of one of these, and found it full of the white dust, which I knew by the taste to be SA-GO. We took all of this that we could get out of the tree, for it would add to our stock of food; and when our bags were full we laid them on the back of the ass, and set off to find our way back to The Nest.

"Each day brings us fresh wealth," said my wife; "but I think we might now try to add to our goods." I knew that she had some fear lest we should one day get lost in the woods, or meet with wild beasts, so I at once said that we would now stay at home, at least for some days.

My first work was to make some wax lights, for my wife could then mend our clothes at night, while we sat down to talk. This done, the next task they gave me was to make a churn. I took a large gourd, made a small hole in the side, and cut out as much as I could, so as to leave but the rind. In this I put the cream, laid a piece on the hole, and bound it up so that none could come out. The boys then held a cloth, and on it I put the gourd, which they rolled from side to side. They kept up this game with great mirth for near an hour, when my wife took off the string, and found that the churn had done its work well.

As our sledge was not fit to use on rough roads, my next work was to make a cart. I had brought a pair of wheels from the wreck, so that my task did not prove a hard one.

While I was thus at work, my wife and the boys took some of the fruit trees we had brought with us, and put them in the ground where they thought they would grow best. On each side of the path that led from The Nest to the Boy's Bridge they put a row of young nut trees. To make the path hard we laid down sand from the sea shore, and then beat it down with our spades.

We were for six weeks at this and such like work. We were loth to spare any pains to make The Nest, and all that could be seen near it, look neat and trim, though there were no eyes but our own to view the scene.

One day I told my sons that I would try to make a flight of stairs in place of the cane steps with rope sides, which were, to tell the truth, the worst part of our house. As yet we had not used them much, but the rain would some day force us to keep in The Nest, and then we should like to go up and down stairs with more ease than we could now climb the rude steps. I knew that a swarm of bees had built their nest in the trunk of our tree, and this led me to think that there might be a void space in it some way up. "Should this prove to be the case," I said, "our work will be half done, for we shall then have but to fix the stairs in the tree round the trunk." The boys got up and went to the top of the root to tap the trunk, and to judge by the sound how far up the hole went. But they had to pay for their want of thought; the whole swarm of bees came out as soon as they heard the noise, stung their cheeks, stuck to their hair and clothes, and soon put them to flight.

We found that Jack, who was at all times rash, had struck the bees' nest with his axe, and was much more hurt by them than the rest. Ernest, who went to his work in his slow way, got up to it last, and thus did not get more than a sting or two, but the rest were some hours ere they could see out of their eyes. I took a large gourd, which had long been meant to serve for a hive, and put it on a stand, We then made a straw roof to keep it from the sun and wind, and as by this time it grew dark, we left the hive there for the night.

Next day, the boys, whose wounds were now quite well, went with me to help to move the bees to the new home we had made for them. Our first work was to stop with clay all the holes in the tree but one through which the bees were wont to go in to their nest. To this I put the bowl of a pipe, and blew in the smoke of the weed as fast as I could. At first we heard a loud buzz like the noise of a storm afar off; but the more I blew my pipe the less grew the sound, till at last the bees were quite still.

We now cut out a piece of the trunk, three feet square, and this gave us a full view of the nest. Our joy was great to find such a stock of wax, for I could see the comb reached far up the tree. I took some of the comb, in which the bees lay in swarms, and put it by on the plank.

We then put the gourd on the comb that held the swarm, and took care that the queen bee was not left out. By these means we soon got a hive of fine bees, and the trunk of the tree was left free for our use.

We had now to try the length of the hole. This we did with a long pole, and found it reached as far up as the branch on which our house stood.

We now cut a square hole in that side of the trunk next the sea shore, and made one of the doors that we had brought from the ship to fit in the space. We then made the sides smooth all the way up, and with planks and the staves of some old casks, built up the stairs round a pole which we made fast in the ground. To do this we had to make a notch in the pole and one in the side of the trunk for each stair, and thus go up step by step till we came to the top. Each day we spent a part of our time at what we could now call the farm, where the beasts and fowls were kept, and did odd jobs as well, so that we should not make too great a toil of the flight of stairs, which took us some six weeks to put up.

One day Fritz caught a fine EA-GLE, which he tied by the leg to a branch of the tree, and fed with small birds. It took him a long while to tame, but in time he taught it to perch on his wrist, and to feed from his hand. He once let it go, and thought he would have lost it, but the bird knew it had a good friend, for it came back to the tree at night. From that time it was left free, though we thought that some day its love of war and wild sports would tempt it to leave us for the rocks of the sea shore, where Fritz had first found it.

Each of my boys had now some pet to take care of, and, I may say, to tease, for they all thought they had a fair right to get some fun out of the pets they could call their own; but they were kind to them, fed them well, and kept them clean.

In what I may term my spare time, which was when I left off work out of doors, I made a pair of gum shoes for each of my sons, in the way I had told Fritz it could be done. I do not know what we should have done had we not found the gum tree, for the stones soon wore out the boots we had, and we could not have gone through the woods or trod the hard rocks with bare feet.

By this time our sow had brought forth ten young pigs, and the hens had each a brood of fine chicks. Some we kept near us, but most of them went to the wood, where my wife said she could find them when she had need to use them.

I knew the time must now be near when, in this clime, the rain comes down day by day for weeks, and that it would wash us out of The Nest if we did not make a good roof to our house. Then our live stock would need some place where they could rest out of the rain. The thatch for The Nest was of course our first care; then we made a long roof of canes for our live stock, and on this we spread clay and moss, and then a thick coat of tar, so that it was rain proof from end to end. This was held up by thick canes stuck deep in the ground, with planks made fast to them to form the walls, and round the whole we put a row of cask staves to serve for rails. In this way we soon had a barn, store room, and hay loft, with stalls for the cow, the ass, and what else we kept that had need of a place to live in.



Chapter X.

FRANK one day found some long leaves, to which, from their shape, he gave the name of sword leaves. These he brought home to play with, and then, when he grew tired of them, threw them down. As they lay on the floor, Fritz took some of them in his hand, and found them so limp, that he said he could plait them, and make a whip for Frank to drive the sheep and goats with. As he split them up to do this, I could not but note their strength. This led me to try them, and I found that we had now a kind of flax plant, which was a source of great joy to my wife.

"You have not yet found a thing," she said, "that will be of more use to us than this. Go at once and search for some more of these leaves, and bring me the most you can of them. With these I can make you hose, shirts, clothes, thread, rope; in short, give me flax, and make me a loom and some frames, and I shall be at no loss for work when the rain comes."

I could not help a smile at my wife's joy when she heard the name of flax; for there was still much to do ere the leaves could take the shape of cloth. But two of the boys set off at once to try to find some more of the flax.

While they were gone, my wife, full of new life, and with some show of pride, told me how I should make the loom by means of which she was to clothe us from head to foot. In a short time they came back, and brought with them a good load of the plant, which they laid at her feet. She now said she would lay by all else till she had tried what she could make of it. The first thing to be done was to steep the flax. To do this we took the plant down to the marsh, tied up in small bales, as they pack hemp for sale. The leaves were then spread out in the pond, and kept down with stones, and left there in that state till it was time to take them out and set them in the sun to dry, when they would be so soft that we could peel them with ease. It was two weeks ere the flax was fit for us to take out of the marsh. We spread it out on the grass in the sun, where it dried so quick that we took it home to The Nest the same day. It was then put by till we could find time to make the wheels, reels, and combs which my wife said that she would want to turn our new found plant to its best use.

We now made haste to lay up a store of canes, nuts, wood, and such things as we thought we might want; and took care, while it was still fine, to sow wheat, and all the grain we had left in our bags was soon put in the ground. The fear that the rain might come and put a stop to our work led us to take our meals in haste, and to make the days as long as we could see. We knew the rain was close at hand, for the nights were cold; large clouds could be seen in the sky, and the wind blew as we had not felt it since the night our ship had struck on the rock.

The great change came at last. One night we were woke up out of our sleep with the noise made by the rush of the wind through the woods, and we could hear the loud roar of the sea far off. Then the dense storm clouds which we had seen in the sky burst on us, and the rain came down in floods. The streams, pools, and ponds on all sides were soon full, and the whole plain round us met our view as one vast lake. By good luck, the site of our house stood up out of the flood, and our group of trees had the look of a small isle in the midst of the lake.

We soon found that The Nest was not built so well as we thought, for the rain came in at the sides, and we had good cause to fear that the wind would blow the roof off. Once the storm made such a rush at it that we heard the beams creak, and the planks gave signs that there was more strain on them than they could bear. This drove us from our room to the stairs in the trunk, on which we sat in a state of fear till the worst of the storm was past. Then we went down to the shed we had built on the ground at the root of the tree, and made the best shift we could. All our stores were kept here, so that the space was too small to hold us, and the smell from the beasts made it far from a fit place for six of us to dwell in; but it was at least safe for a time, and this was of course the first thing to be thought of. To dress our food we had to make a fire in the barn, and as there was no place to let out the smoke, it got down our throats and made us cough all the day long.

It was now for the first time that my wife gave a sigh for her old Swiss home. But we all knew that it was of no use to grieve, and each set to work to do all he could to make the place look neat and clean. Some of our stores we took up the stairs out of our way, and this gave us more room. As we had cut square holes in the trunk of the tree all the way up, and put in frames of glass that we got from the ship, my wife could sit on the stairs, with Frank at her feet, and mend our clothes. Each day I drove from the barn such beasts as could bear to be out in the rain. That we might not lose them, I tied bells round their necks; and if we found that they did not come back when the sun went down, Fritz and I went out to bring them in. We oft got wet through to the skin, which gave us a chill, and might have laid us up if my wife had not made cloth capes and hoods for us to wear. To make these rain proof, I spread some of the gum on them while hot, and this, when dry, had the look of oil cloth, and kept the head, arms, chest, and back free from damp. Our gum boots came far up our legs, so that we could go out in the rain and come back quite free from cold and damp.

We made but few fires, for the air was not cold, save for an hour or two late at night, and we did not cook more than we could help, but ate the dried meat, fowls, and fish we had by us.

The care of our beasts took us a great part of the day; then we made our cakes and set them to bake in a tin plate on a slow fire. I had cut a hole in the wall to give us light, and put a pane of glass in it to keep out the wind, but the thick clouds hid the sun from the earth, and the shade of the tree threw a gloom round our barn, so that our day light was but short, and night came on far too soon. We then made use of our wax lights, and all sat round a bench. My wife had as much as she could well do to mend the rents we made in our clothes. I kept a log, In which I put down, day by day, what we did and what we had seen; and then Ernest wrote this out in a neat, clear hand, and made a book of it. Fritz and Jack drew the plants, trees, and beasts which they had found, and these were stuck in our book. Each night we took it in turns to read the Word of God, and then all knelt down to pray ere we went to bed. Ours was not a life of ease, it is true, but it was one of peace and hope; and we felt that God had been so kind to us that it would be a great sin to wish for what it did not please Him to grant us.

My wife did all she could to cheer us, and it was no strange thing for us to find that while we were out in the rain with the live stock, she had made some new dish, which we would scent as soon as we put our heads in at the door. One night it was a thrush pie, the next a roast fowl, or some wild duck soup; and once in a while she would give us a grand feast, and bring out some of all the good things we had in store.

In the course of our stay in doors we made up our minds that we would not spend the next time of storm and rain, when it should come round, in the same place. The Nest would serve us well in that time of year when it was fine and dry, but we should have to look out for some spot where we could build a house that would keep us from the rain the next time the storms came.

Fritz thought that we might find a cave, or cut one out of the rocks by the sea shore. I told him that this would be a good plan, but would take a long while to do. By this time the boys were all well used to hard work, and they thought they would much like to try their skill at some new kind of work.

"Well," said I, "we will go to the rocks round Tent House the first fine day that comes, and try to find some place that will serve to keep us from the next year's storms."



Chapter XI.

I CAN not tell how glad we all were when we at last saw a change in the sky, and felt once more the warm rays of the sun. In a few days the floods sank in the earth, and left the ground of a bright green hue; the air grew warm and dry, and there were no more dark clouds to be seen in the sky.

We found our young trees had put forth new leaves, and the seed we had sown had come up through the moist ground. The air had a fresh sweet smell, for it bore the scent of the bloom which hung like snow flakes on the boughs of the fruit trees; the songs and cries of the birds were to be heard on all sides, and we could see them fly from tree to tree in search of twigs to build their nests. This in fact was the spring of the year, when all things put forth new life; and we knew that the time was now come when we could once more range the woods and till the soil, and this made the boys leap for joy.

Some planks had been blown off the roof of The Nest, and the rain had got in here and there; so our first job was to mend our house, and make it fit to sleep in.

This done, Jack, Fritz, and I set out to Tent House. We found it in a sad state. The storm had thrown down the tent, blown off some of the sail cloth, and let in the rain on our casks, some of which held a store of food. Our boat was still safe, but the raft of tubs had broken Lip, and what there was left of it lay in splints on the shore.

Our loss in the storm had been so great that I felt we ought at once to seek for some place on the rocks where we could put what was left.

We went all round the cliffs, in the hope that we might find a cave, but in vain.

"There is no way but to hew one out of the rock", said Fritz, "we must not be beat."

"Well said, Fritz," said Jack; "we have each an axe. Why not try this cliff at once?"

I gave them leave to try, and we soon set to work at the rock. From this spot we had a good view of the whole bay, and could see both banks of the stream.

With a piece of chalk I made a mark on the side of the cliff, to show the width and height that the cave should be cut. Then each took an axe to try what kind of stuff our rock was made of. We found it a hard kind of stone; and, as we were not used to this sort of work, we had not done much when the time came for us to leave off.

We came back next day, and got on with more speed, though we thought it would not take us less than six months to make the cave, if our work were done at the same rate each day.

At the end of five or six days we had got through the face of the rock, and we found the stone soft. In a day or two more we came to what was but hard clay, which gave way at a slight blow from the axe.

"We need not fear now," said I, "for we shall soon have a hole as large as we want."

With the earth we took out we made a ridge in front of the cliff. The boys now got on so well, and dug so much out, that I had hard work to throw up the earth on the bank.

One day, as Jack stuck his pick in at the back of the cave, which was now more than eight feet from the front, a great mass of the rock fell in, and he cried out, "Look here! I have got through."

"Through what?" said I. "Not through your hand, I hope."

"No, no, but through the rock."

At this, Fritz set up a loud laugh.

"Why not say through the world at once, and push your crow bar in till you reach EU-ROPE, which, Ernest says, lies in a straight line from our feet. I should like to have a peep down, such a hole, for I might thus get a sight of our dear Swiss home."

Fritz and I went up to the wall and found that Jack was right, for he had come to a clear space. His first thought was to jump in; but as I knew that there might be foul air in the cave, I would not let him risk his life.

The boys then set fire to some dry grass, and thrust it in the hole, but it went out at once, which was a sure sign that the air was not fit to breathe.

I knew that we had brought from the wreck a box full of fire works, which were used on board to make signs to ships far out at sea. I sent Fritz to Tent House for these, though I thought that they might be too damp to make use of. When he came back, I set light to some of them, and threw them in the hole. They flew round, and threw out a stream of sparks that lit up the cave. When these were burnt out, we put in a heap of straw and threw a light on it. This was now soon in a blaze, and gave us a clear view of the cave; but it was too deep for us to see the end.

Our joy was so great that we sent Jack off home to The Nest to tell the good news, and to bring back some wax lights. I did not deem it safe for us to go in the cave in the dark, for there might be pools or deep dry pits in the ground.

Fritz and I had just thrown up on the bank the last spade full of earth that had been dug out, when we heard a loud shout. We got up on the top of the cave, and saw that Jack had brought back a tribe at his heels. The large cart, drawn by the cow and the ass, came on at a slow pace, led by Jack on a black ox, and in it were my wife, Frank, and Ernest.

By the help of a flint and steel I soon lit some of the wax lights, and gave one to each. I went in first and led the way, and the rest kept close at my back. We had not gone on more than a few steps when we came to a dead stop, struck with awe at the grand sight that met our view. The walls and roof of the cave were lit up, as it were, with star-like gems, while some hung down like glass drops from the roof, and some rose up from the ground at its sides like blocks of spar. I broke off a piece and put it on my tongue.

"What does it taste like?" said Jack.

"I find," said I, "that we are in a cave of rock salt."

"We shall not have to scrape the rocks to get our salt now," said Ernest, "for there is more here than would serve a whole town for a lifetime."

When we went back to The Nest that night we laid out a plan for our new home, for there could be no doubt that the cave was the best place for us to dwell in, though we should still sleep in The Nest when we went on that side of the stream.

The next day we all set to work; the floor of the cave was quite smooth, and the walls dry, so that we could build at once. We first cut holes in the sides of the rock to let in the light, and then brought frames and panes of glass from The Nest, and put them in. We then brought all the planks and wood we could find, and built a strong wall in the midst of the cave. On the right side of this wall we made three rooms, two of which were to be used as bed rooms, and one to take our meals in. On the left side was a room for my wife to cook in, one to work in, to which we gave the name of the shop, and a place with stalls in it for our live stock. At the back of these was a store house, where we could keep our stock of food and the whole of our spare goods.

I need not say that it took us some months to do all this, nor that we had to toil hard day by day, from morn till night, ere we got to the end of our task; but the end did come at last, and then the joy we felt that we had done all this with our own hands more than paid us for our toil.



Chapter XII.

OUR fields near Tent House had by this time brought forth good crops of wheat, maize, beans, and peas; but as the work of the Cave had for some weeks kept us on this side of the stream, we did not know in what state we should find our crops at The Nest.

One day we all set out for our old home. We found our corn fields of a rich brown hue, and saw that the wheat was, for the most part, fit to reap. This, and a large patch of rye we cut down, and, as we did so, whole flocks of birds took to wing when we got near them, while quails were seen to run off at the sight of our dogs, who had no lack of sport that day.

We laid by the seed that was quite ripe till the time should come for us to sow it, and put the rest in sacks. Some of the wheat was laid up in sheaves till we should have time to beat out the grain.

When we left The Nest for the Cave, we could not find the hand mill that we had brought from the ship. This now came to light, and we took care to pack it up to take with us, as we should want it to grind our corn.

That night we slept once more in the great tree; but I must say that we did not now sleep so sound there as we used to do, nor did we feel so safe as we did in our rooms at Rock House.

The next day we were to start a plan by means of which our live stock would not want so much of our care. They had bred so fast that we could well spare some of them, and these I thought might be left in some place to seek their own food, and yet be in reach should we want them.

My wife took from her hen roost ten young fowls, and I took four young pigs, four sheep, and two goats. These we put in our large cart, with such tools as we thought we should need, tied the black ox, the cow, and the ass to the shafts, and then set off from The Nest.

We had to cross a wide plain, and here we met with some dwarf plants on which, as Jack would have it, grew snow balls.

Fritz ran to see what they were, and brought me a twig to which clung balls of snow white down. I held it up to show my wife, for I knew the sight would please her still more than her sons.

"See," said I, "this is the COT-TON plant, which you have oft tried to find. It seems to grow here as thick as weeds, and, if I am a judge, it is of the best kind."

We got as much of this as our bags would hold, and my wife took care to pluck some of the ripe seed, that we might raise a crop in our grounds at Tent House.

At the end of the plain we came to the brow of a high hill, from which the eye fell on a view the like of which we had not yet seen. Trees of all kinds grew on the sides of the hill, and a clear stream ran through the plain at its base, and shone bright in the rays of the sun.

We said at once that this should be the site of our new farm. Close by we found a group of trees, the trunks of which, as they stood, would do for the main props of the house.

I had long had a mind to build a boat, and here I at last came on a tree that would suit. Fritz and I went for a mile or two in search of what we could find, and by the time we came back my wife had put up our tent for the night. We then all sat down to sup, and went to rest on beds made of the bags of the white down that we brought from the trees on the plain.

The next day we rose at dawn. The trees which were to form the frame of our farm house stood on a piece of land eight yards long by five wide. I made a deep cut in each of the trunks, ten feet from the ground, and put up cross beams to form a roof, on which we laid some bark in such a way that the rain would run off.

We were hard at work for some days at the Farm House. The walls we built of thin laths and long reeds, wove close for six feet from the ground, but the rest we made of thin cross bars to let in both light and air. We made racks to store bay and such like food for the live stock, and put by some grain for the fowls, for our plan was to come from time to time to feed them, till they got used to the place.

Our work took us more time than we thought; and as our store of food got low, we sent Fritz and Jack home to bring us a fresh stock, and to feed the beasts we had left at Tent House.

While they were gone, Ernest and I made a tour of the woods for some miles round the new Farm. We first took the course of the stream that ran by the foot of the hill. Some way up we came to a marsh on the edge of a small lake, and here in the swamp grew a kind of wild rice, now ripe on the stalk, round which flew flocks of birds. We shot five or six of these, and I was glad to note the skill with which Ernest now used his gun. I took some of the rice, that my wife might judge how far it was of use to us as food.

We went quite round the lake, and saw plants and trees that were not known to me, and birds that Ernest said he had not seen in any of the woods near The Nest. But we were most struck with the sight of a pair of black swans, and a troop of young ones that came in their train. Ernest would have shot at them, but I told him not to kill what we did not want for use.

We did not get back till late in the day. Jack and Fritz, whom we met just as we came round the foot of the bill, had done their task well, for they had a good stock of food in a sack that lay on the back of the ass, and they brought the good news that all was well at home.

We spent four more days at the Farm, and then left it in such a state as to be fit for our use when we chose to go back to it.

The Farm House was but a part of our plan, for we had made up our minds to build a sort of half way house, or cot, in which we could rest on our way to the Farm. This took us six days to do. The spot we chose lay by the side of a brook, and was just such a place as would tempt, one to stop and rest in the shade of the trees, that grew on the bank. While at the brook, I made a boat out of the tree we found at the Farm, and took it back with us to Tent House in the cart.

We had still two months ere the rain would set in, and this left us time to put the last touch to our cave. We laid the whole floor with clay, and spread on it some fine sand, which we beat down till it was quite smooth and firm. On this we put sail cloth, and threw down goat's hair and wool made moist with gum. This was well beat, and, when dry, made a kind of felt mat that was warm and soft to tread on, and would keep the damp from our feet.

By the time these works were done, our cave was in a fit state for us to dwell in. We did not now dread the rain, for we were safe out of its reach, and there was no need that we should go out in it. We had a warm light shop to work in by day, a snug place where we could take our meals and dry bed rooms in which we could sleep in peace. Our live stock we kept in a shed at the back of the cave, and our store room held all that we could want.

When the rain at length set in, we all had some task that kept us close at work in the cave. My wife took her wheel or her loom, both of which I had made for her, for this kind of work fell to her share from choice. By the help of the wheels of one of the ship's guns I had made a lathe, and with this I could turn legs for stools and chairs. Ernest, too, was fond of the lathe, and soon learned to do such work quite as well as I.

At dusk, when we had done our work for the day, we brought out our stock of books, and sat down to read by the light of a lamp.

At times, Jack and Prank would play a tune on their flutes, which I had made out of reeds; and my wife, who had a sweet voice, would sing some of the old Swiss songs, that brought to our minds the joys of home.

Though we were by no means dull, nor in want of work to fill up our time, we were glad when the time came for the rain to cease, and when we could gaze once more on the green fields. We went out the first fine day, and took a long walk by the base of the cliff. On the shore we found a dead whale, which the sea had no doubt thrown up in the storm. We had long felt the need of oil; for though we had a lamp, we had naught but our wax lights to put in it, and these gave a poor light to read by. The next day we cut up the whale, and put the flesh in tubs. It was far from a clean job, for the oil ran down our clothes and made them smell; but as we could change them for new ones, thanks to the hemp and my wife's skill, we did not mind that, for the oil was now worth more to us than our clothes, though at one time we should not have thought so.

One day we all set out on a tour to the Farm. Jack and Frank had gone on first, while my wife and I were as yet close to the Cave. All at once the boys came back, and Fritz said, "Look at that strange thing on its way up the path. What can it be?"

I cast my eye on the spot and cried out, "Fly all of you to the Cave! fly for your lives!" for I saw it was a huge snake, or boa, that would make a meal of one of us, if we did not get out of its way.

We all ran in doors, and put bars up to the door of the Cave. A large dove cote had been made on the roof, and to this we got up through a hole in the rock.

Ernest took aim with his gun, and shot at the snake, so did Fritz and Jack, but it gave no sign that they had hit it. I then tried my skill, but it did not seem to feel my shot any more than theirs, though I was sure I must have struck its head. Just as we took aim at it once more, we saw it turn round and glide through the reeds in the marsh.

Our fears kept us for three long days in the Cave. The snake gave no sign that could lead us to think it was still near, but the ducks and geese had left the spot where their nests were, and this we knew to be a bad sign. On the fourth day I went to the door, with a view to let out some of the beasts to graze, for we were short of food for them. The ass was just at my back, and as soon as it saw the light, made a rush to get out. Off it went, straight to the sands, with its heels in the air, but just as it got to the marsh we saw the boa glide out from the reeds, part its wide jaws and make for its prey. The ass at once saw its foe, but stood still as if struck with fear, and in less time than I take to tell it, our old friend was tight in the folds of the boa.

This was a sad sight for all of us, yet we could not take our eyes off the snake, but saw it crush the poor beast, and then gorge its prey. When it had put the whole of the ass out of sight, it lay down on the sand quite still, as if it had gone to sleep or died.

"Now is the time to seal the fate of our foe," said I to Fritz; and with that we went out with our guns. When we got near, we both took a straight aim, and each put a ball in its head. This made it move with a start, and writhe as if in pain.

"See how its eyes glare on us with rage. Now load your gun, and let us put a bit more lead in him."

Our next shot went in his eyes. It then shook as with a strong spasm, and fell dead on the sand.

A shout of joy brought my wife and the three boys to the spot. The state of fear they had been kept in for three whole days had made them quite ill, but now the joy of Jack and Frank knew no bounds, for they leaped on the snake and beat it as if they would go mad.

My wife said that the death of the boa took a great weight off her mind, for she thought it would lie in wait for us near the Cave, starve us out, and then kill us as it had done the poor ass.

We slit up the snake, and took out the flesh of the ass, which the boys laid in a grave near Tent House. The boa's skin we hung up at the door of the Cave, over which Ernest wrote the words, "No ass to be found here," which we all thought to be a good joke.

One day late in the spring I went with my three sons a long way from the Cave. My wife and Frank were left at our Half Way House, to wait till we came back, but the dogs went with us. Our route lay far up the course of a small stream, which had its source some miles north of the Farm House. The ground was new to us, but we could not well lose our way, for on the right stood a hill from which we could see the whole of the plain.


Ernest had gone with one of the dogs to a cave that he had spied at the foot of the hill, but we saw him turn round and run back with Turk at his heels. As soon as he thought his voice would reach us, he cried out, "A bear! A bear! come to my help!"

We could now see that there were two great beasts at the mouth of the cave. At a word from us both the dogs, flew to fight the bear that stood in front.

Fritz took up his post at my side, while Jack and Ernest kept in the rear. Our first shot was "a miss," as Jack said; but we took a sure aim the next time, and both shots told. We would have let fly at them once more from this spot, but as we thought we might hit our brave dogs, who were now in the heat of a hard fight with their foes, we ran up close to them.

"Now, Fritz," said I, "take a straight aim at the head of the first, while I fire on the one at his back."

We both shot at once; the bears gave a loud growl, and then, with a moan, fell dead at our feet.

As it was now time to go back, we put the bears in the cave, but took care to cut off their paws, which form a dish fit to grace the feast of a king.

We had a long walk back to the place where I had left my wife. The boys told her what a hard fight the dogs had with the bears, and how Fritz and I had shot them, and then gave her the paws. With the aid of Frank she had fed our live stock and brought in wood to make up our watch fire for the night, so we sat down to sup at once, and then went to rest.

Next day we put our beasts to the cart and drove as far as the bear's den. As we came near to the spot a flock of birds flew out of the mouth of the cave, two or three of which Fritz brought down with his gun. It took us the whole day to cut up the bears. The hams were laid by to be smoke dried; while my wife took charge of the fat and the skins.



Chapter XIII.

WE had now so much work to do, and the days and weeks came and went so quick, that I do not think we should have known the time of year had it not been for our log.

Some days were spent at the Cave, where we made our goods, ground our flour, stored our food, and kept our tame live stock. Then we had to take care of our crops in the fields near The Nest, and this took us two or three days in each month. Once in ten days at least we went to the Farm on the hill, and at the same time made a call at the Half Way House; so that there was not a day that we had not our hands quite full. Now and then we went out to hunt for sport or to add to our stock of beasts, which had grown so large that there were few we could name that had not been caught and brought home. We had birds of the air, fowls of the land, and beasts of all kinds' from the great black ox of the plain to the small wild RAB-BIT that came and made its hole close by our cave.

But there was one bird that we had not yet caught, though we had seen it two or three times in the woods. This was the OS-TRICH. Fritz found a nest with some eggs in it, and this led us to make a tour with a view to catch one of the old birds. We rose that day ere it was light, and set out at dawn, each on the back of a good steed.

As we should have to hunt through the woods, my wife was left at home; and Ernest, who did not like rough work, chose to stay with her. We made it a rule to take one of the dogs with us when we went out to hunt, but on this day we thought it wise to let them both come.

Fritz took us straight to where he had seen the nest, which was not more than a few miles up the stream. When we came in sight of the spot, we saw four great birds, as if on their way to meet us. As they drew near we kept the dogs well in, and made no noise, so that they did not stop till they came near us.

Fritz had brought his Ea-gle with him, which he now let fly. At one swoop the bird came down on the head of the Os-trich, held on with its beak, and struck out its wings with great force, as if to stun it.

We now rode up close to the scene of war. Jack first flung a cord round the legs of the bird, which made it fall to the ground. I then threw my pouch on its head, and, strange to say, it lay down as still as a lamb.

I now tied both its legs with cords, but left it just room to walk. We then made it fast to the two bulls that had brought Jack and Frank all the way from home, and put one of them on each side. They next got up on their steeds, and I took the pouch from the head of the bird. As soon as it could see, it gave a wild stare, and then fought to get free.

The boys then put spurs to the flanks of their steeds, and when the bird had made a few starts back, as if to try the strength of the cords which held it, it set off with a run, and the bulls at each side made it keep up a smart pace.

Fritz and I now went in search of the nest, which we soon found. I took the eggs from it and put them in a bag I had brought to hold them, in which I put some wool and moss, so that they should not break.

It did not take us long to get up to the two boys, who had gone on first, and we were glad to find that the poor bird had made up its mind to its fate, and kept up well with the pace of the bulls.

When we got in sight of home, my wife and Ernest, who had been on the look out for us, came forth to meet us; and the strange way in which we brought home our new prize made them laugh. I need not say that we took great care of it.

The next day we built it a house, with a space in front for it to walk up and down, round which were put rails, so that it could not get out. At first it was shy, and would not take any food, so that we had to force some balls of maize down its throat; but in a short time it took grain from the hands of my wife, and soon grew quite tame.

The boys now set to work to break it in for use. They taught it first to bear them on its back. Then they put a pair of string reins in its mouth, and made it turn which way they chose to pull, and to walk, or run, or stand still, as it was bid. Thus, in a month from the time we caught it, the boys made it take them on its back to and from the Farm or The Nest, in less than half the time an ox would go; so that it came to be the best steed we had to ride on.

The eggs we found in the nest were put in a warm dry place, and though we scarce thought our care would bring live birds out of the shells, we had the joy to hatch three of them, and this led us to hope that we should ere long have a steed for each of our sons.

My work at this time was by no means light. Our hats and caps were all worn out, and with skins of the musk cat I had to make new ones. The bears' skins were laid in the sun to dry, and of these we made fur coats, which would keep us warm when the cold wet nights came round, and there were some left to serve as quilts or rugs for our beds.

I now tried my hand at a new craft. I dug some clay out of the bed of the stream, and taught the boys to knead it up with sand, and some talc that had been ground as fine as road drift. I had made a lathe with a wheel, and by its aid the clay left my bands in the shape of plates, cups, pots, and pans. We then burnt them in a rude kiln, and though at least one half broke with the heat and our want of skill, still those that came out whole more than paid me for my toil, and kept up my wife's stock of delf. Some of the jars were set round with red and blue beads, and these were put on a shelf as works of art, and kept full of long dried grass.

The time was now at hand when we must reap our grain and store the ripe crops that were still on the ground; and, in fact, there was so much to be done, that we scarce knew what to do first. The truth must be told that our wants did not keep pace with the growth of our wealth, for the land was rich, and we had but a few mouths to fill.

We knew that we might leave the roots in the ground for some time, as the soil was dry, but that the grain would soon spoil; so we made the corn our first care. When it was all cut and brought home, our next task was to thresh it. The floor of our store room was now as hard as a rock, for the sun had dried it, and there was not a crack to be seen. On this we laid the ears of ripe corn, from which the long straw had been cut, and sent the boys to bring in such of our live stock as were fit for the work to be next done.

Jack and Fritz were soon on the backs of their steeds, and thought it fine fun to make them course round the floor and tread out the grain. Ernest and I had each a long fork, with which we threw the corn at their feet, so that all of it might be trod on. The ox on which Jack sat put down his head and took a bunch of the ears in his mouth.

"Come," said Jack, "it is not put there for you to eat, off you go!" and with that he gave it a lash with his whip.

"Nay," said I, "do you not know what God has said in his Word? We must not bind up the mouth of the ox that treads out the corn. This brings to my mind the fact that the means we now take to thresh our wheat were those used by the Jews in the days of old."

To sort the chaff from the grain we threw it up with our spades while the land or sea breeze blew strong. The draught which came in at the door took the light chaff with it to one side of the room, while the grain fell straight to the ground by its own weight.

The maize we left to dry in the sun, and then beat out the grain with long skin thongs. By this means we got a store of the soft leaves of this plant, which my wife made use of to stuff our beds.

When all the grain had been put in our store room, some in sacks and the rest in dry casks, we took a walk one day to our fields, and found that flocks of birds, most of which were quails, had come there to feed. This gave us a fine day's sport with our guns, and the next year we did not fail to look for them, so that the fields were made to yield a stock of game as well as a crop of grain.

With but slight change in our mode of life, we spent ten long years in our strange home. Yet the time did not seem long to us. Each day brought with it quite as much work as we could do, so that weeks and months and years flew past, till at last we gave up all hope that we should leave the isle or see our old Swiss home, the thought of which was still dear to us.

But the lapse of ten years had wrought a great change in our sons. Frank, who was but a mere child when we first came, had grown up to be a strong youth; and Jack was as brave a lad as one could wish to see. Fritz, of course, was now a young man, and took a large share of the work off my hands. Ernest had just come of age, and his shrewd mode of thought and great tact was as great a help to us as was the strength and skill of the rest.

To crown all, it was a rare thing for them to be ill; and they were free from those sins which too oft tempt young men to stray from the right path. My wife and I did our best to train them, so that they might know right from wrong; and it gave us great joy to find that what we told them sunk deep in their hearts, and, like ripe seed sown in rich soil, brought forth good fruit.

I need not say that in the course of ten years we had made great strides in those arts which our wants had first led us to learn. When we first came the land near Tent House was a bare waste; now it bore fine crops, and was kept as neat as a Swiss farm. At the foot of the hill by the side of Rock Cave was a large plot of ground, which we laid out in beds, and here we grew herbs and shrubs, and such plants as we used for food. Near this we dug a pond, and by means of a sluice which led from the stream, we kept our plants fresh in times of drought. Nor was this the sole use we made of the pond; for in it we kept small fish and crabs, and took them out with a rod and line when we had need of food, and time to spare for that kind of sport. In the ground round the mouth of the Cave we drove a row of strong canes, bound at the top to a piece of wood, so as to form a fence, up which grew a vine, and, at each side, plants that threw a good show of gay bloom crept up to meet it. Shells of great size and strange shapes were got from the shore, and these we built up here and there with burnt clay, so as to form clumps of rock work, on which grew ferns and rare plants. All this gave a charm to our home, and made the grounds round it a source of joy when, we laid by our work for the day. In fact, we thought there was now scarce a thing to wish for that we had not got.

Our cares were few, and our life was as full of joy and peace as we could well wish; yet I oft cast a look on the sea, in the hope that some day I should spy a sail, and once more greet a friend from the wide world from which we had been so long shut out. This hope, vague as it was, led me to store up such things as would bring a price, if we had the chance to sell them; they might prove a source of wealth to us if a ship came that way, or would at least help to pay the charge of a cruise back to the land we came from.

It is but just to say that the boys did not share my hopes, nor did they seem to wish that we should leave the place where they had been brought up. It was their world, and the cave, to which we gave the name Rock House, was more dear to them than any spot on the earth.

"Go back!" Fritz would say; "to leave our cave, that we dug with our own hands; to part with our dear kind beasts and birds; to bid good-by to our farms, and so much that is our own, and which no one in the world wants. No, no! You can not wish us to leave such a spot."

My dear wife and I both felt that age would soon creep on us, and we could not help some doubts as to the fate of our sons. Should we stay and end our days here, some one of us would out-live the rest, and this thought came oft to my mind, and brought with it a sense of dread I could not get rid of. It made me pray to God that He would save us all from so dire a fate as to die far from the sound of the voice of man, with no one to hear our last words, or lay us in the earth when He should call us to our rest.

My wife did not share this dread. "Why should we go back?" she would say. "We have here all that we can wish for. The boys lead a life of health, free from sin, and live with us, which might not be the case if we went out in the world. Let us leave our fate in the hands of God."



Chapter XIV.

As Fritz and Ernest were now men, they were of course free to go where they chose, and to come back when their will led them home. Thus, from time to time they took long trips, and went far from Rock House. They had fine boats and strong steeds, and of these they made such good use that there was scarce a spot for leagues round that was not well known to them.

At one time, Fritz had been so long from home that we had a dread lest he should have lost his way, or fallen a prey to wild beasts. When he came back he told us a long tale of what he had seen and where he had been, and how he had brought with him birds, beasts, moths, and such strange things as he thought Ernest would like to see. When he had done, he drew me out into our grounds and said he had a strange thing to tell me. It seems that he found a piece of white cloth tied to the foot of a bird which he had struck down with a stick, on which were these words: "Save a poor soul, who is on the rock from which you may see the smoke rise."

He thought that this rock could not be far off, and that he ought to set off at once in search of it.

"I have a thought," said he; "I will tie a piece of cloth, like that I found, to the leg of the bird, and on it I will write, 'Have faith in God: help is near.' If the bird goes back to the place from whence it came, our brief note may reach the eye of the lone one in the rock. At any rate, it can do no harm, and may do some good."

He at once took the bird, which was an AL-BA-TROSS, tied the strip of cloth to its foot, and let it go.

"And now," said he, "tell me what you think of this. If we should, find a new friend, what a source of joy it will be. Will you join me in the search?"

"To be sure I will," said I; "and so shall the rest; but we will not yet tell them of this."

They were all glad to take a trip in the large boat, but they could not make out why we went in such haste.

"The fact is," said Jack, "Fritz has found some queer thing on the coast that he can't bring home, and wants us to see it. But I dare say we shall know what it all means in good time."

Fritz was our guide, and went first in his bark boat, or CA-NOE. In this he could go round the rocks and shoals that girt the coast, which would not have been safe for the large boat. He went up all the small creeks we met with on the way, and kept a sharp look-out for the smoke by which he would know the rock we came out to find.

I must tell you that once when he came to these parts with Ernest he met with a TI-GER, and would have lost his life had it not been for his pet Ea-gle. The brave bird, to save Fritz from the beast, made a swoop down on its head. Fritz thus got off with a scratch or two, but the poor bird was struck dead by a blow from the paw of its foe. This was a sad loss to Fritz, for his pet had been a kind friend, and would go with him at all times when he went far from home.

There was scarce a spot we came to that did not bring to the mind of one of us some such tale as this, so that we were full of talk while the boat bore us on.

We had been out some days, but could find no trace of what we went in search. I rose from my berth at dawn, and went on deck with Fritz. I told him that as we had no clue to the place, we must now give up the search. He did not seem to like this, but no more was said. That day we spent on shore, and came back to our boat to sleep at night. Next day we were to change our course, and trace our way back, for the wind now blew from the sea.

When I went on deck next day I found a short note from Fritz, in which he told me that he could not give up the search, but had gone some way up the coast in his small boat. "Let me beg of you," he wrote, "to lie in wait for me here till I come back."

When he had been gone two days, I felt that I ought to tell my wife the cause of our trip, as it might ease her mind, and she now had some fear lest her son should not be safe. She heard me to the end, and then said that she was sure he would not fail, but soon bring back good news.

As we were all on the look-out for Fritz, we saw his boat a long way off.

"There is no one with him in the boat," said I to my wife; "that does not say much for our hopes."

"Oh, where have you been?" said the boys, all at once, as he came on board. But they scarce got a word from him. He then drew me on one side, and said, with a smile of joy, "What do you think is the news I bring?"

"Let me hear it," said I.

"Then I have found what I went forth to seek, and our search has not been in vain."

"And who is it that you have found?"

"Not a man," he said, "but a girl. The dress she wears is that of a man, and she does not wish at first that her sex should be known to more that we can help, for she would not like to meet Ernest and the rest in that state, if they knew that she was a girl. And, strange to tell," said Fritz, "she has been on shore three years."

While I went to tell the news to my wife, Fritz had gone down to his berth to change his clothes, and I must say that he took more care to look neat in his dress than was his wont at home.

He was not long, and when he came on deck he bid me say no word to the rest of whom he had found. He leaped like a frog in to his light craft, and led the way. We were soon on our course through the rocks and shoals, and an hour's sail, with the aid of a good breeze, brought us to a small tract of land, the trees of which hid the soil from our view.

Here we got close in to the shore, and made our bark safe. We all got out, and ran up the banks, led by the marks that Fritz had made in the soil with his feet. We soon found a path that led to a clump of trees, and there saw a hut, with a fire in front, from which rose a stream of smoke.

As we drew near I could see that the boys did not know what to make of it, for they gave me a stare, as if to ask what they were to see next. They did not know how to give vent to their joy when they saw Fritz come out of the hut with a strange youth, whose slight make, fair face, and grace of form, did not seem to match well with the clothes that hung upon his limbs.

It was so long since we had seen a strange face, that we were all loth to speak first. When I could gain my speech I took our new friend by the hand, and told her in words as kind as I could call to my aid, how, glad we were to have thus found her.

Fritz, when he bade Ernest and Jack shake bands with her, spoke of our new friend as James, but she could not hide her sex from my wife, for her first act was to fall on her breast and weep. The boys were not slow to see through the trick, and made Fritz tell them that "James" was not the name they should call her by.

I could not but note that our strange mode of life had made my sons rough, and that years of rude toil had worn off that grace and ease which is one of the charms of well-bred youth.

I saw that this made the girl shy of them, and that the garb she wore brought a blush to her cheek. I bade my wife take charge of her, and lead her down to the boat, while the boys and I stood a while to speak of our fair guest.

When we got on board we sat down to hear Fritz tell how he came to find Miss Jane, for that was her real name; but he had not told half his tale when he saw my wife and her new friend come up on deck. She still had a shy look, but as soon as she saw Fritz she held out her hand to him with a smile, and this made us feel more at our ease.

The next day we were to go back to our home, and on the way Fritz was to tell us what he knew of Miss Jane, for his tale had been cut short when she came on the deck with my wife. The boys did all they could to make her feel at home with them, and by the end of the day they were the best of friends.

The next day we set sail at sun rise; for we had far to go, and the boys had a strange wish to hear Fritz tell his tale.

When the boat had made a fair start, we all sat down on the deck, with Jane in our midst, while Fritz told his tale to the end.

Jane Rose was born in IN-DI-A. She was the child of one Cap-tain Rose, whose wife died when Jane was but a babe in arms. When ten years of age he sent her to a first class school, where she was taught all that was fit for the child of a rich man to know. In course of time she could ride a horse with some skill, and she then grew fond of most of the field sports of the East. As the Captain had to go from place to place with his troops, he thought that this kind of sport would train her for the mode of life she would lead when she came to live with him. But this was not to be, for one day he told Jane that he must leave the East, and take home the troops. As it was a rule that no girl should sail in a ship with troops on board, he left her to the care of a friend who was to leave near the same time. He thought fit that she should dress in the garb of a young man while at sea, as there would then be no need for her to keep in her berth, and he knew that she was strong and brave, and would like to go on deck, and see the crew at their work. It gave the Captain pain to part with his child, but there was, no help for it.

The ship had been some weeks at sea, when one day a storm broke over it, and the wind drove it for days out of its course. The crew did their best to steer clear of the rocks, but she struck on a reef and sprung a leak. The boats then put off from the wreck, but a wave broke over the one in which Jane left, and she was borne, half dead with fright, to the place where we found her. She had been thrown high up on the beach, and though faint and sick, got out of the reach of the waves. She did not know if those who were in the boat with her had lost their lives, but she had seen no trace of them since.

When she had strength to walk, she found some birds' eggs and shell fish, which she ate, and then went in search of some safe place where she could rest for the night. By good chance she had a flint and a knife; with these she set light to some dry twigs, and made a fire, which she did not once let out till the day she left. Her life was at first hard to bear, but she was full of hope that some day a ship would come near the shore, to which she could make signs for help. The wild sports of the East in which she took part had made her strong of limb, and she had been taught to make light of such things as would vex most of her sex.

She built a hut to sleep in, and made snares to catch birds. Some of them she made use of for food, and some she let go with bits of cloth tied to their legs, on which she wrote words, in the hope that they might meet the eye of some one who could help her. This, as we knew, had led Fritz to make his search, the end of which had brought as much joy to us as to the young friend who now sat in our midst.

When Fritz had told us this, and much more, we came in sight of Safe Bay. He then took Ernest with him in his small boat, and left us to go up the stream as fast as he could to Rock House, so as to make the place look neat by the time we brought home our guest. The two boys -- for to us they were still boys -- met us on the beach. Fritz, with a look of pride, gave his hand to Jane, and I could see a slight blush rise to her cheek as she gave him hers. He then led her up the path, on each side of which grew a row of young trees, and took her to a seat in our grounds. There he and Ernest had spread out a feast of our best food -- fish, fowls, and fruit, and some of my wife's choice jam -- whilst our burnt clay plate made a great show on the board, for it was set out with some taste. We had a wish to show Jane that, though the coast was a wild kind of place, still there were means to make life a joy to those who dwelt on it, if they chose to use them. As for Jane, the sight of our home, the style of our feast, and the kind words of the boys, were things so new to her, that she knew not what to say.

"I shall tell no more than the truth," she said, "when I say that what you have shown me is of far more worth than all the wealth I have seen in the East, and that I feel more joy this day than I have felt in all the days of my life. I can use no terms less strong than these to show how much I thank you."

This was just the kind of speech to please the boys, for there had been no one to praise their work till now. When the meal was done, my wife brought out some of her best wine, and we drank to the health of our guest in great state, and with loud cheers. We then made a tour of our house and grounds, that Jane might see the whole of the place that from this time she was to make her home. It would take me a long time to tell what she thought of all she saw, or the neat things she said in praise of our skill, as we took her from place to place. My wife's room, in which were kept the pots and pans to dress our food, and the plates, bowls, and cups, out of which we ate, took her some time to view; for she had long felt the want of such things as she now saw we had made for our own use out of what we could find.

The next day we all went to The Nest, and when the rainy season came round, Jane knew the place quite as well as we did. My wife found in her a true friend, for she soon took a large share of the work off her hands, and did it with so much skill, and with so strong a wish to please us, that we grew to love her as if she had been our own child.

When the time came for us to keep in doors from the rain, the boys would oft lay by their work, and sit to hear Jane talk of what she had seen in the East, and Ernest and Fritz would read to her by turns such books as she might choose. I was glad to see that this wrought a great change in my sons, whose mode of life had made them rough in their ways and loud in their speech -- faults which we did not think of so long as there was no one to see or hear them.

When the spring came, the boys went in our boat to the spot where they had found Jane, which we now knew by the name of "Jane's Isle," and brought back some beans, which were new to them. These we found to be COF-FEE. Jane told us that they were by no means scarce, but that she had not made use of them, as she knew no way to roast or grind the beans, which she found in a green state.

"Do you think," said my wife, "that the plant would grow here?"

I then thought for the first time how fond she was of it. There had been some bags on board the ship, but I had not brought them from the wreck; and my wife had once said that she would like to see the plant in our ground. Now that we knew where to get it, she told me that it was one of the few things that she felt the loss of. When the boys heard this, they set out on a trip to Jane's Isle, and while there they went to the spot where she had dwelt for so long, and sought for what things she had left when she came to live with us.

All these were brought to Rock, House, and I may tell you that Fritz set great store by them. There were all sorts of odd clothes, which she had made of the skin of the sea calf; fish lines wrought out of the hair of her head; pins made from the bones of fish; a lamp made out of a shell, with a wick of the threads which she had drawn from her hose. There were the shells she used to cook her food in; a hat made from the breast of a large bird, the tail of which she had spread out so as to shade her neck from the sun; belts, shoes, and odd things of a like kind.

My wife, who had now a friend of her own sex to talk with, did not feel dull when the boys left us for a time, so they had leave to roam where their wish led them, and to stay as long as they chose. In the course of time they knew the whole of the isle on which we dwelt. Ernest drew a map of it to scale, so that we could trace their course from place to place with ease. When they went for a long trip they took some doves with them, and these birds brought us notes tied to their wings from time to time, so that we knew where they were, and could point out the spot on the map.

I will not dwell on what took place now for some time, for I find that each year was very much like the last. We had our fields to sow, our crops to reap, our beasts to feed and train; and these cares kept our hands at work, and our minds free from the least thought of our lone mode of life.

I turn to my log as I write this, and on each page my eye falls on some thing that brings back to my mind the glad time we spent at Rock House.



Chapter XV.

IN the spring time of the year, when the rain was past, Fritz and Jack set off on a trip in their boat to Shark Isle. The day was fine, the sky clear, and there was no wind, yet the waves rose and fell as in a storm.

"See!" cried Jack, "here comes a shoal of whales. They will eat us up."

"There is no fear of that," said Fritz; "whales will do us no harm, if we do not touch them." This proved to be the case. Though any one of them might have broken up the boat with a stroke of its tail, they did not touch it, but swam by in a line, two by two, like a file of troops.

On Shark Isle, near the shore, we had thrown up a mound, and built a fort, on which were set two of the ship's guns. These the boys made a rule to fire off, with a view to let us know that they were safe, and to try if the guns were still fit for use. This time they found their charge quite dry, and the guns went off with a loud bang.

They had just put a plug in the hole of one of the guns, to keep out the wet, when they heard a sound roll through the air.

"Did you bear that?" said Jack. "I am sure that noise must have come from some ship at sea. Let us fire once more."

But Fritz thought they ought to go home at once and tell me what they had heard. They both ran to the boat with all speed, and put out their strength to reach home ere the sun went down.

The day was fine, and as the rain had kept us in doors for two months, we were glad to go down on the beach for a change. All at once I saw the boys come up the stream in their boat, at a great speed, and the way they used their sculls led me to think that all was not right.

"What have you seen, that should thus put two brave youths to flight?" said I.

Then they told me what had brought them back so soon. I had heard the sound of the two guns which they had fired off, but no more. I told them I thought their ears must be at fault, and that the sounds they had heard were no more than those of their own guns, which the hills had sent back through the air. This view of the case did not at all please them, as by this time they well knew what sounds their guns made.

"It will be a strange thing," said I, "if the hope to which I have so long clung should at last come to be a fact; but we must have a care that we do not hail a ship the crew of which may rob and kill us for the sake of our wealth. I feel that we have as much cause to dread a foe as we have grounds of hope that we may meet with friends."

Our first course was to make the cave quite safe, and then to mount guard where we could see a ship if one should come near the coast. That night the rain came down in a flood, and a storm broke over us, and we were thus kept in doors for two days and two nights.

On the third day I set out with Jack to Shark Isle, with a view to seek for the strange ship which he said he knew must be in some place not far from the coast. I went to the top of a high rock, but though my eye swept the sea for miles round, I could see no signs of a sail. I then made Jack fire three more shots, to try if they would give the same sound as the two boys had heard. You may judge how I felt, when I heard one! two! three! boom through the air.

There was now no room for doubt that, though I could not see it, there must be a ship near Shark's Isle. Jack heard me say this with great glee, and cried out, "What can we now do to find it?"

We had brought a flag with us, and I told Jack to haul this up twice to the top of the staff, by means of which sign those who saw it would know that we had good news to tell them.

I then left Jack on the fort with the guns, and told him to fire as soon as a ship hove in sight. I bent my way at once back to Rock House, to talk with my wife, Jane, and the boys, as to what steps we should now take. They all met me on the beach, and made me tell them the news while I was still in the boat.

"We know no more," said I, "than the fact that there is still a ship on the coast. You must all now keep in doors, while Fritz and I go in search of it."

We set off at noon, and went straight to the west part of the coast, where we thought the sound must have come from. We knew a cape there from which we could get a good view of the sea, and by the side of which lay a small bay.

When we got round the cape, great was our joy to find a fine ship in the bay. It was not far off from us, for we could see the ENG-LISH flag float in the breeze from one of its masts. I seek in vain to find words by means of which I can set forth in print what I then felt. Both Fritz and I fell on our knees and gave thanks to God that He had thus led the ship to our coast. If I had not held him back, Fritz would have gone into the sea with a leap and swum off to the ship.

"Stay," said I, "till we are quite sure what they are. There are bad men on the seas who put up false flags to lure ships out of their course, and then rob and kill the crew."

We could now see all that took place on board. Two tents had been set up on the shore, in front of which was a fire; and we could see that men went to and fro with planks. There were two men left on guard on the deck of the ship, and to these we made signs. When they saw us they spoke to some one who stood near, and whom we thought had charge of the ship. He then put his glass up to his eye and took a good view of us through it.

We did not at first like to go too near, but kept our boat some way off. Fritz said he could see that the faces of the men were not so dark as our own.

"If that be the case," said I, "we are safe, and we may trust their flag."

We both sang a Swiss song, and then I cried out at the top of my voice these words: "Ship ahoy! good men!" But they made no sign that they heard us. Our song, our boat, and, more than all, our dress, made them no doubt guess that we were wild men of the wood; for at last one of the crew on board held up knives and glass beads, which I knew the wild tribes of the New World were fond of. This made us laugh, but we would not as yet draw nigh to the ship, as we thought we ought to meet our new friends in our best trim.

We then gave a shout and a wave of the hand, and shot off round the cape as fast as our boat would take us. We soon got back to Rock House, where our dear ones were on the look-out for us. My wife said we had done quite right to come back, but Jane thought we should have found out who they were.

That night none of us slept well; our guest thought there might now be a chance for her to reach her home, and she dreamed she heard the well-known voice of her sire call her to come to him. The boys were half crazed with vague hopes, and lay for hours ere they went to sleep. My wife and I sat up late to think and talk of the use that might be made of this chance. We felt that we were now full of years, and should not like in our old age to leave the place where we had spent the best part of our lives; still we might do some trade with the land from which the ship came, if it were but known that we were here, and we might hear news of our dear Swiss home.

At break of day we put on board our boat a stock of fruit and fresh food of all kinds, such as we thought the crew of the ship would like to have, and Fritz and I set sail for the bay. We took with us all the arms we could find, so as not to be at a loss should the crew prove false to their flag, and turn out to be a set of thieves.

As we drew near the ship I fired a gun, and told Fritz to hoist a flag like theirs to the top of our mast, and as we did so the crew gave a loud cheer. I then went on board, and the mate of the ship led me to his chief, who soon put me at my ease by a frank shake of the hand. I then told him who we were, and how we came to dwell on the isle. I learned from him, in turn, that he was bound for New South Wales; that he knew Captain Rose, who had lost his child, and that he had made a search for her on the coast. He told me that a storm had thrown him off his course, and that the wind drove him on this coast, where he took care to fill his casks from a fresh stream that ran by the side of a hill, and to take in a stock of wood.

"It was then," he said, "that we first heard your guns; and when on the third day the same sound came to our ears, we knew that there must be some one on the coast, and this led us to put up our tents and wait till the crew should search the land round the bay."

I then made the crew a gift of what we had brought in our boat, and said to Captain Stone, for that was his name: "I hope, sir, that you will now go with me to Rock House, the place where we live, and where you will see Miss Rose, who will be glad to hear some news of home."

"To be sure I will, and thank you much," said he; "and I have no doubt that Mr. West would like to go with us." This Mr. West was on his way, with his wife and two girls, to New South Wales, where he meant to build a house and clear a piece of land.

We all three then left the ship in our boat, and as we came in sight of Shark Isle, Jack, who was on the fort, fired his guns.

When we came to the beach, my wife and the rest were there to meet us. Jane was half wild with joy when she heard that Captain Stone had brought her good news from home.

We led them round our house and through the grounds and Mr. West took note of all he saw. When we came to talk, I found that he had made up his mind to stay with us. I need not say how glad I was to hear this, for he had brought out with him a large stock of farm tools, of which we had long been in want.

The boys were of course in high glee at all this, but I did not share their joy so much as I could wish. The ship which now lay close to our shore was the first we had seen since we came to the isle, and no one could tell when the next might come. My wife and I did not wish to leave. I had a love for the kind of life we led, and we were both at an age when ease and rest should take the place of toil. But then our sons were young -- not yet in the prime of life -- and I did not think it right that we should keep them from the world. Jane, I could tell, would not stay with us, nor did she hide from us the fact that her heart drew her to the dear one at home, from whom she had been kept so long. So I told my wife that I would ask my boys to choose what they would do -- to stay with us on the isle, or leave with Captain Stone in the ship.

Fritz and Jack said they would not leave us; Ernest spoke not a word, but I saw that he had made up his mind to go. I did not grieve at this, as I felt that our isle was too small for the scope of his mind, and did not give him the means to learn all he could wish. I told him to speak out, when he said he should like to leave the place for a few years, and he knew Frank had a wish to go with him.

I thought this would give my wife pain, but she said that the boys had made a good choice, and that she knew Ernest and Frank would make their way in the world.

Captain Stone gave Jane, Ernest, and Frank leave to go with him, as there was room in the ship now that the Wests were to stay with us.

The ship was brought round to Safe Bay, and Fritz and Jack went on board to fetch Mrs. West and her two girls, who were glad to find that they were not to go back to the ship, for the storm had made them dread the sea.

I may here say, by the way, that my wife soon found that her two sons grew fond of their fair friends, and gave me a hint that some day we should see them wed, which would be a fresh source of joy to us.

I have not much more to tell. The stores I had laid up -- furs, pearls, spice, and fruits -- were put on board the ship, and left to the care of my sons, who were to sell them. And then the time came for us to part. I need not say that it was a hard trial for my wife; but she bore up well, for she had made up her mind that it was all for the best, and that her sons would some day come back to see her. I felt, too, that with the help of our new friends, we should not miss them so much as we at first thought, and this we found to be the case.

As the next day my boys were to leave me, I had a long talk with them. I told them to act well their part in the new sphere in which they were to move, and to take as their guide the Word of God. They then knelt down for me to bless them, and went to their beds in Rock House for the last time.

I got no sleep all that night, nor did the two boys, who were to start the next day.

As Ernest takes this Tale with him -- which I gave him leave to print, that all may know how good God has been to us -- I have no time to add more than a few words.

The ship that is to take from us our two sons and our fair guest will sail from this coast in a few hours, and by the close of the day three who are dear to us will have gone from our midst. I can not put down what I feel, or tell the grief of my poor wife.

I add these lines while the boat waits for my sons. May God grant them health and strength for the trials they may have to pass through; may they gain the love of those with whom they are now to dwell; and may they keep free from taint the good name of the Swiss Family Robinson.

<eob>

The Rover Boys In New York

Or

Saving Their Father's Honor

By

Arthur M. Winfield



Chapter I

The Boys At Brill


"Boys, what do you say to a trip in the Dartaway this afternoon?"

"Suits me, Sam," replied Tom Rover.

"Providing the breeze doesn't get too strong," returned Dick Rover, as he put up his hand to feel the air.

"Oh, I don't think it will blow too much," went on Sam Rover. "I don't mind some air."

"But no more storms for me!" cried his brother Tom, with a shake of his head. "That last old corker was enough for me."

"Where shall we go?" questioned Dick, with a queer little smile creeping around the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, my, just to hear Dick!" cried Tom, with a grin. "As if he would go anywhere but to Hope Seminary, to call on Dora!"

"And as if you would go anywhere but to call on Nellie, at the same place!" retorted the oldest Rover boy.

"Now, children, children'" came sweetly from Sam. "You mustn't quarrel about the dear girls. I know both of you are as much gone as can be. But --  -- "

"And how about Grace, Sam?" said Tom. "Didn't I hear you making up some poetry about her yesterday, 'Those limpid eyes and pearly ears, and' --  -- "

"Rats, Tom! I don't make up poetry -- I leave that to Songbird," interrupted the youngest Rover boy. "Just the same, it will be nice to call on the girls. They'll be looking for us some day this week."

"That's right -- and maybe we can give them a little ride," put in Dick Rover.

"Do you remember the ride we gave Dora and Nellie, when we rescued them from Sobber, Crabtree, and the others?" asked Tom.

"Not likely to forget that in a hurry," answered his big brother. "By the way, I wonder when the authorities will try those rascals?"

"Not right away, I'm thinking, Dick," answered Tom. "The law is rather slow up here in these back counties."

"Never mind -- they will get what is coming to them sooner or later," was Sam's comment.

"Abduction is rather a serious offense."

"Right you are," answered Dick. "And I'll be glad to see Crabtree, Sobber, and our other enemies behind the bars. Then they won't be able to bother us any more."

"That will be the end of Sobber's efforts to annex the Stanhope fortune," mused Sam. "How hard he did try to get it away from Mrs. Stanhope and the girls!"

"I shouldn't have minded that had he used fair methods, Sam," returned the big brother. "But when it came to stealing and abducting --  -- "

"Hello, you fellows!" shouted a voice from behind the Rover boys. "Plotting mischief?"

"Not just now, Stanley," answered Dick, as his college chum caught him by the shoulder and swung him around playfully.

"Want to go for a row on the river?" asked Stanley Browne.

"Not just now, Stanley. I've got a lecture to attend, and this afternoon we are going over to Hope in the biplane."

"Wish I had a flying machine," said the student, wistfully.

"Better swap the boat for one," suggested Sam.

"No, I think rowing is safer. Some day, if you are not careful, you'll get an awful tumble from that machine."

"We try to be as careful as possible," answered Dick. "Seriously, though, Stanley, I don't care for flying as much as I thought I would."

"Is that so? Now, I thought you were planning a honeymoon trip by aeroplane. Think of the novelty of it!"

"No, a steamboat or a parlor car will be good enough for me, when I go on a honeymoon trip," answered Dick, and for a very good reason he blushed deeply.

"Hello, William Philander Tubbs!" cried Tom, as a tall, dudish-looking student crossed the college campus. "What's the price of eggs this morning?"

"What is that, Tom?" questioned the stylishly-dressed youth, as he turned in the direction of the others.

"I asked what was the price of eggs?" said Tom, innocently.

"The -- er -- the price of eggs? How should I know?" stammered William Philander Tubbs in astonishment.

"Weren't you in the chicken business once?"

"Gracious me! No, Tom, no!"

"Funny I made the mistake -- and I want to know the price of eggs the worst way," went on the fun-loving Rover, innocently.

"What do you want to know the price of eggs for?" questioned William Philander, curiously.

"Why, you see, we've got a new problem in geometry to solve, and the price of eggs will help out," continued Tom, looking very serious.

"What is it, Tom?"

"It's this, Tubby, my boy. If the diameter of an egg ten degrees west of its North Pole is two and eleven-tenths inches, what is the value of the shell unfilled? I thought you might help me out on that."

"Tom, you are poking fun at me!" cried the dudish student, as a snicker went up from the other youths. "And please don't call me Tubby, I beg of you," pleaded William Philander.

"All right, Billy Gander," murmured Tom. "It shan't occur again."

"Billy Gander! That is worse than Tubby!" groaned the dudish youth. "Oh, you are awful!" he added, and strode off, trying to look very indignant.

"Poor Tubbs, I wonder if he will ever be sensible and get over his dudish ways," was Dick's comment.

"I doubt it -- for it seems to be born in him," returned Sam.

"But he's a good sort with it all," ventured Stanley Browne.

"First-rate," agreed Tom. "But I -- well, I simply can't help poking fun at him when he's around, he's such a dandy, and so lordly in his manner."

"Here comes Songbird!" interrupted Sam. "And, see, he is writing verses, as usual. I wonder --  -- "

"Look!" exclaimed Dick. "Oh! There's a collision for you!"

William Philander Tubbs had started across the campus with his head high in the air. He was looking to one side and did not notice the approach of another student, who was coming forward thoughtfully, carrying a pad in one hand and writing as he walked. There was a sudden meeting of the pair, and the pad fell to the ground and with it the fancy headgear the dudish student was wearing.

"Oh, I -- er -- I beg your pardon, really I do, don't you know!" stammered William Philander.

"Great Hannibal's tombstone!" spluttered the other student. "What are you trying to do, Tubbs, knock me down?"

"I beg your pardon, Powell, I didn't see you coming," answered the other, as he picked up his hat and commenced to brush it off with care.

"You must be getting blind," growled John Powell, otherwise known as Songbird. "Confound the luck -- you spoilt one of my best rhymes," he added, as he stooped to pick up his writing pad.

"Sorry, upon my honor I am," returned William Philander. "Can I help you out on it?"

"I don't think you can. Did you ever try to write poetry -- real poetry, I mean?"

"No, my dear boy, no. I'm afraid I would not be equal to it."

"Then I don't see how you are going to help me," murmured Songbird, and he passed on a few steps, coming to a halt presently to jot down some words on his pad.

"Hello, Songbird!" called out Tom. "How is the Muse to-day, red-hot?"

For a moment John Powell did not answer, but kept on writing. Then his face broke out into a sudden smile.

"There, that's it!" he cried. "I've got it at last! I knew I'd get it if I kept at it long enough."

"Knew you'd get what, the measles?" asked the fun-loving Tom.

"'Measles' nothing!" snorted the would-be poet. "I have been writing a poem on 'The Springtime of Love,' and I wished to show how --  -- "

"'The Springtime of Love!'" interrupted Tom. "That must be a second cousin to the ditty entitled ''Tis Well to Meet Her at the Well.'"

"I never heard of such a poem," answered Songbird, with a serious air. "How does it go?"

"It doesn't go, Songbird; it stands still. But what have you got on the pad?"

"Yes, let us hear the latest effusion," put in Sam.

"But not if it takes too long," was Dick's comment. "I've only got about ten minutes before that lecture on 'The Cave Dwellers.'"

"I can give Songbird six minutes," said Stanley, as he consulted his watch.

"This is -- er -- something of a private poem," stammered Songbird. "I wrote it for a -- er -- for a personal friend of mine."

"Minnie Sanderson!" cried Sam, mentioning the name of a farmer's daughter with whom all were well acquainted, and a young lady Songbird called on occasionally.

"Read it, anyway, Songbird," said Dick.

"Well, if you care to hear it," responded the would-be poet, and he began to read from the pad:

"In early Spring, when flowers bloom In garden and on fields afar, My thoughts go out to thee, sweet love, And then I wonder where you are! When pansies show their varied hues And birds are singing as they soar, I listen and I look, and dream Of days when we shall meet once more!"

"Grand! fine! immense!" murmured Tom. "Byron couldn't hold a candle to that, Songbird!"

"I listen to the tiny brook That winds its way o'er rock and sand And in the running water see A face that -- that -- that --  -- "

"Go ahead, Songbird!" cried Sam, as the would-be poet stumbled and halted.

"I -- er -- I had the last line, but Tubbs knocked it out of me," grumbled Songbird. "And say, he knocked something else out of me!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I was going to tell you an important bit of news."

"You were?" cried Dick. "What?"

"The word just came in over the telephone, from the weekly newspaper office. Doctor Wallington said you would want to know about it."

"But what is it?" demanded Sam, impatiently.

"Josiah Crabtree has escaped from jail."

"Escaped!" ejaculated Tom.

"Why, we were just talking about him!" put in Dick "When did this happen?"

"Last night, so the newspaper man said. It seems there was a small fire at the jail -- down in the kitchen. There was great excitement, for supper was just being served. In the excitement three of the prisoners, who were out of their cells, escaped. Josiah Crabtree was one of them."

"Too bad!" murmured Sam. "And we thought he was safe!"

"This spells Trouble for us," was Tom's comment, and Dick nodded his head, to show that he was of the same opinion.



Chapter II

About The Past


"Did you get any more particulars?" asked Sam, of the college poet.

"No. The newspaper man was busy, so the Doctor said, and didn't have time to go into details," answered Songbird.

"Did he say who the other prisoners were who got away?" asked Dick.

"Yes, a tramp who was up for robbing a man on the road and a bank clerk who took some money from the bank."

"None of the crowd we are interested in," said Tom.

"I'm glad of it," returned his older brother. "It is bad enough for Crabtree to get away. I hope they keep a strict guard over the others after this."

"Oh, they will, rest assured of that," came from Stanley Browne. "The head jailer will get a raking over the coals for this, mark my words."

"The Stanhopes and the Lanings will be sorry to learn that Crabtree got away," said Sam. "I wonder if they aren't searching for him," mused Sam.

"Oh, they'll search for all of them," put in Songbird. "I think the newspaper man said the sheriff had a posse out."

"Too bad!" said Dick, shaking his head gravely. "And just when we felt sure old Crabtree wouldn't be able to give us any more trouble!"

"It beats the nation, what that man can do!" cried Sam. "Maybe be hypnotized one of the jailers -- just as he hypnotized Mrs. Stanhope years ago.

"He'd be equal to it -- if he got the chance," answered Tom; and then all of the students had to go in to their classes.

To those who have read the previous volumes in this "Rover Boys Series" of books, the lads we have just met will need no special introduction. For the benefit of my new readers, however, let me state that the Rover boys were three in number, Dick being the oldest, fun-loving Tom coming next, and Sam being about a year younger still. When at home they lived with their father, Anderson Rover, and their Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha on a beautiful farm called Valley Brook, in New York State.

Years before, and while their father was in Africa, the three boys had been sent by their uncle to Putnam Hall Military Academy, as related in detail in the first volume of this series, called "The Rover Boys at School." At the Hall they had made a number of friends, including Songbird Powell and the dudish student, William Philander Tubbs. They had also made some enemies, who did their best to bring the Rover boys to grief, but without success.

A term at school had been followed by a short cruise on the ocean, and then a trip to the jungles of Africa, whither the lads went to find their father, who had disappeared. Then, during vacation, the boys took a trip West, and then another trip on the Great Lakes. After that they went in the mountains, and then came back to Putnam Hall, to go into camp with their fellow cadets.

This term at Putnam Hall was followed by a long journey on land and sea, to a far-away island of the Pacific, where the boys and their friends had to play "Robinson Crusoe" for a while. Then they returned to this country, and, in a houseboat, sailed down the Ohio and the Mississippi Rivers. After leaving the Mississippi they took an outing on the plains, and then went down into southern waters, where, in the Gulf of Mexico, they solved the mystery of a deserted steam yacht.

"And now for home and a big rest!" said Dick, and they went back to the farm. But here something very unusual occurred, and the boys had as lively a time as ever.

While at school the three Rover boys had become well acquainted with three girls, Dora Stanhope and her cousins, the two Laning sisters, Nellie and Grace. Dora was the only daughter of Mrs. Stanhope, a widow, and soon she and Dick became the warmest of friends, while Tom was quite taken by Nellie, and Sam often "paired off" with Grace.

In those days Josiah Crabtree had been an instructor at Putnam Hall. He was very dictatorial, and none of the cadets liked him, and the Rovers liked him still less when they learned that he was trying to practically hypnotize Mrs. Stanhope into marrying him, so that he could get control of the fortune which the widow was holding in trust for Dora. They foiled the teacher's efforts to wed the lady, and in the end Josiah Crabtree had to leave Putnam Hall. Later still he was arrested for some of his misdeeds and given a short sentence in jail.

The Stanhope fortune, as a part of the money coming to the Stanhopes and the Lanings was called, had come to Mr. Stanhope in a peculiar way, and some outsiders claimed the treasure, which, at that time, was secreted in a spot among the West Indies called Treasure Isle. There was a lively chase to get there first, but the Rovers won out, and because of this their enemies were more bitter than ever.

The boys had finished their term at Putnam Hall and on their return home became students at Brill College, a fine institution of learning of the Middle West. At the same time Dora, Nellie, and Grace became pupils at Hope Seminary, located not many miles from Brill. At the college the Rovers made many friends, including Stanley Browne, already introduced, and Will, otherwise known as "Spud," Jackson, a lad who loved potatoes, and who also loved to tell big yarns.

A term at college had been followed by a trip down East, taken for a peculiar reason, and then, while on a visit home, the three lads had become the possessors of an up-to-date biplane, which they named the Dartaway. In the biplane, as related in the volume before this, called "The Rover Boys in the Air," our heroes made a somewhat spectacular trip from the farm to the college campus, much to the amazement of their fellow collegians and their instructors. Later they made a trip through the air to Hope Seminary, and at that time Dick was delighted to place upon Dora's finger a diamond engagement sing.

A short while later an alarming thing occurred. The boys were out in the Dartaway when they met Grace on the road and learned that Dora and Nellie had been abducted by Josiah Crabtree, Tad Sobber, and some of their other old enemies. They gave chase in the biplane, and, after several adventures, located the girls in a lonely mansion in the country, where they were prisoners, in charge of Sobber's aunt The boys at once went for the authorities, and, after something of a fight, the rascals were made prisoners, and the girls were rescued and taken back to the Seminary.

"You will appear against these scoundrels?" asked the sheriff, Jackson Fells, of the Rover boys, as they were about to leave the sheriff's office at Plankville.

"We'll appear all right enough," Tom had answered. "Why, Mr. Sheriff, you couldn't beat us away with a club!" And so it had been arranged that the Rover boys should appear in court against the evildoers whenever wanted. Then Crabtree, Sobber, and the others had been put under lock and key in the old-fashioned country jail; and there, for the time being, the matter had rested.

"I wish we could learn more about Crabtree's escape," remarked Tom, as he and his brothers entered the main building of the college.

"So do I," added Sam. "Can't we telephone over to Plankville, to Sheriff Fells?"

"More than likely the sheriff is out, hunting for Crabtree and the others," answered Dick. "But I'll tell you what we might do -- if the weather stays good," he added, suddenly.

"Sail to Plankville in the Dartaway?" queried both of the others.

"Yes, if Doctor Wallington will give us permission."

"He ought to -- since we are so much interested in this case," returned Tom.

"We'll find out, as soon as the morning session is over," said the eldest Rover boy; and then all hurried to their classes, for the final bell had ceased to ring.

It was hard work for the boys to keep their minds on their lessons. Dick, especially, was very serious, and for a good reason. Something was worrying him greatly -- something of which Tom and Sam knew little. What it was we shall learn later.

The boys had a quarter of an hour after classes before going to lunch, and they immediately sought out Doctor Wallington, whom they found in his private office.

"Yes, it is too bad that that rascal Crabtree escaped," said the head of the college. "I can well imagine that you are worried -- since he has caused you and your friends so much trouble in the past. Let us hope that the authorities will quickly recapture him."

"Have you had any further word, sir?" asked Dick.

"I had word at eleven o'clock, from the newspaper office. Up to that time he had not been located."

"We wish to ask a favor," went on Dick, and spoke about the proposed trip to Plankville.

"Very well, you may go, and in your biplane if you deem it safe," said the worthy doctor. Secretly he was quite proud of the students' success with the Dartaway, as it had advertised Brill College not a little.

"Possibly we won't be able to get back until to-morrow," said Tom. "We may be detained, or it may storm."

"Take your time on the trip. Only be careful that you have no accidents."

"We'll try to be careful," answered Dick, with a grim smile. "We don't want a tumble if we can help it."

"It is a grand sport," answered the head of the college. "Before long I expect to see aeroplanes in constant use."

"Wouldn't you like to go up with us some day, Doctor?" questioned Tom, slyly.

"Well -- er -- perhaps, Thomas. But not just yet. I wish -- er -- to see them more in general use first." And then the doctor bowed the students out.

The boys lost no time in preparing for the trip to Plankville. After a somewhat hasty lunch they put on their flying suits and then went down to where the Dartaway was housed, in one of the buildings attached to the gymnasium.

"Looks to be all right," remarked Dick, after an inspection of the flying machine, and while Sam and Tom were filling the gasoline tank and the oil distributor.

The engine was tried out for a minute, and found to be in perfect order. As usual, as soon as the explosions of the motor were heard, a crowd commenced to gather, to see the start of the flight.

"Wish you luck!" cried Stanley.

"Say, look out that you don't forget how to stop and sail to the North Pole!" sang out Spud Jackson.

"As if that could really occur!" murmured William Philander Tubbs, with a lofty look of, disdain.

"Sure it could happen," returned Spud, good-naturedly. "Why, I heard of an airman who went up once and forgot how to turn his machine down, and he went around and around in a circle for sixteen hours. And then he dropped ker-plunk right on top of a baker's wagon and smashed twenty-six pies -- all because his gasoline gave out."

"Ridiculous!" murmured William Philander.

"Absolute fact, Tubbs," responded Spud, earnestly. "Come with me, some day, and I'll show you where the pies made a dent in the street when the flying machine struck 'em." And then a general laugh went up, and the dudish student stepped back in the crowd, out of sight.

"All aboard!" sang out Dick, as he hopped into the driver's seat and took hold of the wheel. "Start her up, somebody!"

Sam and Tom got aboard and willing hands grasped the propellers and gave each a twist. Bang! bang! bang! went the explosions, and soon the propellers were revolving swiftly, and then with a swoop the Dartaway ran over the campus on its wheels and suddenly arose in the air. A cheer went up, and the students threw up their caps. Then Dick swung around in a quarter circle and headed directly for Plankville.

It was an ideal day for flying, not too hot or too cold, and with very little breeze, and that of the "steady" kind, not likely to develop "holes" -- the one great terror of all airmen.

"Wish we had the girls along," remarked Sam, when they were well on the way.

"Not for this trip, Sam," answered Dick, grimly. "We have got our work cut out for us."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"If old Crabtree hasn't been caught yet me must see if we can't round him up."



Chapter III

A Useless Hunt


"Say, that's the talk!" cried Tom, quickly. "I hadn't thought of that, -- but it's just what we ought to do."

"It won't be easy, Tom," said his younger brother. "The chances are that Crabtree has made good use of his time. He may be hundreds of miles away -- bound for the West or the South, or Canada or Europe."

"Well, we can have a try at finding him, anyway," put in Dick. "Sometimes a criminal sticks close to the jail until the excitement is over, Look at those fellows who escaped from jail in New York City not long ago. The detectives thought they had gone to Chicago or St. Louis, and all the while they were on the East Side, right in New York!"

"Oh, my! but wouldn't I just like to land on old Crabtree!" muttered Tom. "I think I'd be apt to put him in the hospital first and jail afterwards! He certainly deserves it -- for all the trouble he has caused us and our -- er -- friends."

"'Friends' is good, with Dick engaged to marry Dora and you as good as engaged to Nellie," snorted Sam "Precisely, and you and Grace making goo-goo eyes at each other," added Tom, with a wink at his younger brother. Then he quickly changed the subject. "Dick, do you think you can strike a straight course for Plankville?"

"I'll try it," was the answer. "I don't think I'll go much out of the way."

The Dartaway had a powerful motor, and once on the right trail the eldest Rover advanced his gasoline and spark, and they went rushing through the air at express-train speed. The boys were provided with face guards, so they did not mind this. They did not fly high, and so kept the railroad and other familiar objects fairly well in view. They passed over several villages, the inhabitants gazing up at them in open-mouthed wonder, and finally came in sight of a big church spire that they knew belonged in Plankville. Then Dick slowed down the engine, and soon they floated down in an open field close to the main street and not a great distance from the sheriff's office and the jail.

"Well, it certainly didn't take long to get here," cried Tom, as he consulted his watch.

A man who lived close by was approaching and he readily agreed, for a small amount, to guard the biplane.

"Have they caught those men who escaped from the jail?" asked Sam, of the man.

"Got two on 'em," was the reply. "Dacker and Penfield."

"What of Crabtree?" asked Dick.

"Nuthin' doin', up to an hour ago. The sheriff is out with about ten men, lookin' fer him."

"Then there is no use of our going to the sherif's office," said Dick to his brothers "We'll go right to the jail."

"Will they let us in?" asked Sam.

"In the office, yes. We won't want to go to the cells," answered Dick, with a short laugh.

When they reached the office of the jail they found several men present, including the head keeper and one of the State detectives. The keeper had seen the Rover boys at the time of the capture of Crabtree and the others and he smiled a little as he shook hands.

"Bad business," he said, in answer to a question Dick put. "But I can't exactly blame my men for what happened."

"Weren't you here at the time?" asked Tom.

"No, I was out of town -- calling on my mother, who is very old and quite sick. There was a fire in the pantry off the kitchen, and for a few minutes it looked as if the old jail would burn to the ground. Of course the guards got excited, and all they thought of was to put out the blaze -- and it's a good thing they did that. That's how the prisoners got away. I suppose you've heard that we rounded up two of them."

"Yes," answered Dick. "Have they any idea what became of Crabtree?"

"I haven't. If the sheriff knows anything he hasn't told it. By the way, boys, I'll tell you something, now you are here. That man is a hypnotist!"

"We know it," said Dick "I thought I told you."

"He tried to hypnotize one of the men one day, -- almost got away, doing it!"

"Did he hire any lawyer to defend him?" asked Tom, curiously.

"I don't know about a lawyer. He had a man out to see him, several times. The two were very friendly."

"They were?" cried Dick. "I never knew Josiah Crabtree had any friends, outside of the rascals he associated with. Who was the man?"

"He gave his name as John Smith. But I guess that was false, for he acted as if he didn't want to be known."

"What kind of a looking man was he?" asked Sam.

"Why, he was a tall, thin fellow with a very pointed chin, and bushy black hair and heavy black eyebrows. When he spoke his voice had a regular rumble to it."

At this description the Rover boys shook their heads. They could think of nobody they had met who would fit the picture.

"When was that man here last?" asked Dick.

"A couple of days ago. I didn't like him for a cent, but as the prisoners haven't been convicted of any crimes as yet I had to let 'em see their friends," explained the jail keeper.

"What of Sobber, Larkspur and the others?" questioned Tom.

"All safe enough. Nobody else is going to get out of here if I can help it," and the keeper shook his head decidedly.

The boys remained at the jail for a while longer, and heard the particulars of how the fire had originated and of how the prisoners had gotten away. Two of the men had kept together, but Crabtree had gone off by himself, and the last seen of him was when he was running for the river, which flowed some distance back of the jail.

"Let us go down to the river and take a look around," suggested Dick, at last, and bidding the jailer good-bye, they hurried away.

Along the river bank they found several men and boys, all looking for Crabtree, some thinking there might be a reward offered for the capture of the criminal. The Rovers joined in the hunt for the best part of an hour, but without success.

"It's worse than looking for a pin in a haystack," grumbled Tom, presently. "We might as well give it up."

"Let us walk around the town and see if we can learn anything," suggested his big brother.

They walked down the main street of Plankville from end to end, questioning several people they knew. At last they got word that a mysterious automobile had passed through the town about midnight of the day Josiah Crabtree had broken from jail. But who had been in the touring car nobody could tell.

"He may have escaped in that," declared Dick.

"And if he did, that man who came to see him at the jail had the car," added Sam.

"Just what I think," cried Tom. "Well, if he got away in an auto there is no use of our looking for him here," he added, with a sigh.

Nevertheless, the boys hung around Plankville for an hour longer. Then they got aboard of the Dartaway, and with Tom at the wheel, and Dick with a pair of field glasses to his eyes, swung in several circles about the neighborhood.

"No use," declared the oldest Rover boy, at last. "It is getting late. We might as well return to college. We can do nothing here."

"Haven't we got time to go to Hope?" asked Sam, a bit wistfully.

"Well, I don't know," answered his big brother, just as wistfully.

"Let us take time -- Doctor Wallington didn't want us to hurry back," put in Tom. "I think the girls ought to know about this, so as to be on guard, in case old Crabtree tries to molest them again."

As the lads were all of one mind, the biplane was headed in the direction of Hope. As before, the flying machine swung through the air at a good rate of speed, and half an hour before sundown they came in sight of the Seminary buildings.

"Wonder where they are?" mused Dick, as the biplane came to earth at the spot where they had landed before.

"If they are around they must have heard us," answered Tom. "The engine makes noise enough to wake the dead." And this was well expressed, for the motor, like many of the flying machine kind, had no muffler attached, and the explosions were not unlike the firing of a gatling gun.

Some girls had seen them come down, and presently the boys saw three figures hurrying towards them.

"Oh, what made you come so late?" cried Grace, as she rushed up and shook hands with Sam and then with the others.

"We thought you might come to-day," put in Nellie, as she beamed on Tom, and extended both hands.

"I heard the machine first," declared Dora, and came straight to Dick, who did not hesitate to give her the hearty kiss to which he thought his engagement entitled him.

"We have been to Plankville," came from Tom and Sam, in a breath.

"Have you heard the news?" questioned their big brother, and he looked anxiously from Dora to her cousins.

"What news?" cried Dora, quickly. "We have heard nothing unusual."

"Josiah Crabtree broke out of the Plankville jail and ran away."

"Oh, Dick!" and Dora grew suddenly pale. "Do you really mean it?"

"When was this?" demanded Nellie.

"Tell us all about it," supplemented Grace.

"We can't tell you any more than what we have heard," answered Sam. "We just got word ourselves this morning."

Then the boys told their story and answered innumerable questions which the girls put to them.

"This will be bad news for mother," said Dora, to Dick. "She is afraid of Josiah Crabtree, and always has been -- because of his strange hypnotic power."

"I don't think he will dare to show himself -- at least, not for a while, Dora," he answered. "He knows only too well that the jail is waiting to receive him."

"That strange man with the bushy eyebrows and the pointed chin must have helped him to get away," was Nellie's comment.

"So we think," answered Tom.

"But who was he?" questioned her sister.

"That's a conundrum we can't answer," returned Sam. "I think he was waiting around with that auto, and as soon as the fire started Crabtree saw the chance he wanted and got out."

"Maybe Crabtree started the fire?" suggested Dora.

"No, that was purely an accident -- so the jailer says. The wind blew a curtain against a lamp and the burning curtain fell into some excelsior in a box of new dishes. The excelsior made quite a blaze and a lot of smoke, and everybody in the jail was badly frightened for a while."

After that the talk became general, and quite unconsciously Dick and Dora strolled off by themselves, down towards a tiny brook that flowed past the campus grounds.

"You must be very careful, Dora, now that Crabtree is at liberty," said the eldest Rover boy. "I wouldn't have him run off with you again for the world," he added, tenderly.

"I shall watch out, Dick, -- and I'll make the others watch out, too." And then, as he squeezed her hand, she added, in a lower voice: "How is that other matter coming along?"

"Not very well, Dora," and Dick's face became more serious than ever.

"Can't your father manage it?"

"I don't think so. You see, he isn't in very good health -- he breaks down every once in a while. Those business matters worry him a great deal."

"Can't your uncle help him?"

"No, Uncle Randolph means well, but he is no business man -- he showed that when he allowed those men to swindle him out of those bonds," went on Dick, referring to an event which has been related in detail in "The Rover Boys on the Farm."

"But what can you do, Dick?" questioned the girl, earnestly.

"I think I'll have to quit college and take up the matter myself," answered Dick Rover.



Chapter IV

The End Of The "Dartaway"


"Quit college? Oh, Dick, do you want to do that?"

"Not exactly, Dora -- and yet I don't think I am exactly fitted for a professional career. That seems to be more in Tom and Sam's line. I like business, and I'd enjoy getting into something big, something worth while. I think I could handle those matters, if father would only let me try. And then there is another thing, Dora," went on the youth, looking squarely into his companion's face. "Perhaps you can guess what that is."

She blushed deeply.

"What?" she whispered.

"I want to marry you, and take you some place where I know you'll be safe from such creatures as Crabtree and Sobber and Larkspur -- and I want the right to look after your mother, too."

"Oh, Dick!" And she clung tightly to his arm.

"Aren't you willing, Dora?"

"Yes." She looked at him frankly. "Yes, Dick, whenever you say."

"And your mother --  -- "

"Mamma depends upon me in everything, and she has told me to do just as we thought best."

Dick gave a swift look around. Nobody was in sight at that moment. He pressed Dora to him.

"You best and dearest sweetheart in all the world!" he cried, in a low tone. "Then I can depend on you? We'll be the happiest couple in the whole world!"

"Indeed, yes, Dick!" And Dora's eyes fairly beamed with happiness as she snuggled closer to him. "But about your father," she continued, a moment later. "I am selfish to forget him. Then he is not so well?"

"He is fairly well, but he gets a bad spell ever so often, and then to attend to business is out of the question. But that isn't the worst of it. He has gotten tangled up in some sort of financial scheme with some brokers in New York City and it is worrying him half to death. He has told me something about it, but I don't know half as much as I'd like to know."

"Then you must find out, Dick, and help him all you possibly can," declared the girl, promptly.

"I'm looking for a letter from home every day -- I mean one telling about these financial affairs. As soon as it comes I'll know what to do."

All too soon the boys' visit to Hope Seminary had to come to an end. Sam and Tom returned to the biplane and gave the motor a brief "try-out," which noise reached Dick's ears just as he was trying to break away from Dora. He gave her a last hug and a kiss and then ran to join his brothers.

"The best of friends must part, as the hook said to the eye!" sang out Tom, merrily.

"I believe you are anxious to leave us!" returned Nellie, teasingly.

"Sure thing!" he retorted, promptly. "I planned to get away an hour before I came." And then she playfully boxed his ear, at which he chased her around the biplane and gave her a hearty smack just below her own pretty ear.

"Tom Rover!" she gasped. But, somehow, she looked pleased, nevertheless.

"All in the family!" sang out the fun-loving Rover, coolly. "As the lady said when she kissed her cow."

"Who is going to run the Dartaway back?" questioned Sam. "I think it's my turn at the wheel."

"It's rather dark, Sam," answered Dick. "But you can try it -- if you want to."

"All right -- I think I can see as much as you or Tom," responded the youngest Rover. "If I get off the course, and you find it out, let me know."

Darkness was settling down when the boys finally bid the girls good-bye and flew away. "Beware of old Crabtree!" sang out Dick.

"We'll watch out!" answered Nellie.

"Indeed we will!" came from Dora and Grace.

"If you catch sight of him, have him arrested!" yelled Sam, and then the biplane sailed out of hearing.

Sam knew how to handle the Dartaway almost as well as did Dick and Tom, and as there was but little wind, and the flying machine appeared to be in good condition, the others did not doubt but what Sam would make a fine flight of the trip.

"Keep a little to the south," called out Dick, after Hope had been left behind and when they were sailing over some broad fields. "If you do that you can follow the old turnpike for quite a distance."

"I thought I'd run for the railroad tracks," answered the lad at the steering wheel.

"You can do that later -- after we pass that big farmhouse with the four barns."

Running along in the air is a different proposition from running on the ground, and the air-man has to be careful about the lay of the land below him or he will soon go astray from his course. The earth looks altogether different when viewed from the sky from what it does when looked at from a level, and when an air-man is five or six hundred feet up he has all he can do to make out what is below him.

It had begun to cloud up a little and this made it darker than ever. After following the turn-pike for nearly two miles, Sam veered slightly to catch the railroad tracks and the gleam of the signal lights.

"I can follow the lights best of all!" he shouted, into Dick's ear. "It's too dark to see the road."

"All right, follow the railroad right to Ashton," answered the oldest Rover boy, naming the town that was the railroad station for Brill College.

The cloudiness increased rapidly, and long before Ashton was gained it commenced to blow, gently at first, and then stronger and stronger. Evidently a storm was in the air.

"We are going to catch it!" was Tom's comment.

"Oh, I don't think it will storm just yet," returned Sam.

"Watch yourself, Sam!" cried Dick, warningly. "If the wind gets too strong bring her down in the first field we come to."

"I will," was the answer.

They were now flying close to the railroad tracks. Presently they saw a glare of light illuminate the rails and a long line of freight cars, drawn by a big locomotive, passed beneath them.

"Wish that was going our way -- we could follow it with ease," said Sam, as the train disappeared from view, leaving the landscape below darker than ever.

The youngest Rover boy now had to give the Dartaway all of his attention. The breeze was coming in fitful gusts, sending the biplane first to one side and then to the other. They struck a "bank," and he had to use all his wit and courage to bring the flying machine to a level keel once more.

"Better go down!" cried Tom. "This is getting dangerous."

"Don't go down here!" sang out Dick. "There are woods on both sides of the track!"

Sam had been working the horizontal rudder, to bring the biplane down, but at Dick's words he shifted again and they went up.

"I'll tell you when we reach an open field," went on the oldest Rover. "Say, this sure is some blow!" he added.

Another fitful gust struck the Dartaway and for one brief moment it looked as if the biplane would be turned over. Had this occurred the machine would have dropped like a shot and most likely all of the boys would have been killed.

But Sam was on guard, and worked his levers like lightning. As quickly as she had tipped, the Dartaway righted herself, and then they shot upward on a long slant.

"Phew! that was some escape!" muttered Tom. "Dick, can't you see any open field where we can land?"

"Must be one ahead," was the answer. "I fancy --  -- "

Dick did not finish, for at that moment came a blast of air stronger than any that had gone before. The Dartaway spun around, left the railroad tracks, made a semi-circle, and then came back again. As it made the final turn there was a crack like that of a pistol.

"What was that?" cried Tom. "Was it the engine?"

"No, it was one of the stays!" answered Dick. He glanced around. "The right plane is giving 'way! Sam, let her down, as quick as you can!"

"On the tracks!" gasped the lad at the wheel.

"Yes -- anywhere -- before we tumble!"

The biplane was already out of control. Sam manipulated the rudders as best he could, and likewise the ailerons, and the machine dropped in several wild dashes.

"The train!" yelled Tom. "Look out for the express!"

There was another gleam of light along the railroad tracks. The evening express was approaching, running at topmost speed, to make up some lost time.

The biplane was coming down swiftly. It veered towards the woods beside the railroad tracks. Then it took another wild turn and hung directly over the railroad. The boys were speechless, not knowing what to do. The light of the express train kept coming closer and closer.

Crash! the biplane had struck the earth, directly beside the railroad tracks. One end of the machine rested across the rails, the other end hung in the bushes bordering the tracks.

As they struck Tom and Dick were thrown out -- the former into the bushes and the latter on the tracks. Sam kept at the wheel, the force of the intact smashing the landing wheels beneath him.

For the instant all three boys were too stunned to do anything. Then, as the gleam from the express train came closer, Tom let out a wild cry.

"Jump! Jump for your lives! We haven't a moment to lose!"

"Dick!" screamed Sam. "Save Dick! He is on the tracks!"

"Where?"

"There!" and Sam pointed with one hand, while he clambered down from his seat. The seat was broken and his coat got caught in the splinters, and it was several seconds before he could release himself.

Tom looked to where his brother pointed and saw Dick lying in a heap, face downward. The fall had been sufficient to stun him and he was thus unable to help himself.

Tom did not hesitate over what to do. Dick was very dear to him and never for an instant did he consider the risk he was running in going to the rescue. He made a flying leap from the bushes to the tracks and took another leap to his brother's side.

"Get up, Dick," he yelled. "Here, let me get you off the tracks! The train is coming!"

Only a faint groan answered him. Dick was still too dazed to think or to act.

Tom caught hold of his brother and raised him up, and commenced to drag him to the other side of the tracks, away from the wrecked biplane. As he did this there came a shrill warning shriek from the locomotive whistle. The engineer had seen the obstruction on the tracks and had put on brakes, in a vain endeavor to stop the express.

As Tom commenced to haul Dick across the tracks, Sam came bounding to his assistance, the shreds of his torn coat flapping behind him. He caught his big brother by one arm.

"Hurry!" he yelled, hoarsely. "The express is almost here!"

Both boys made a wild leap to the edge of the railroad, dragging Dick between them. Tom got his foot caught in the rails and almost pitched headlong. They fairly fell into the bushes, and Dick went down with them.

Then the express thundered up, the whistle shrieking loudly and the sparks flying from the wheels where the brakes gripped them. The locomotive struck the Dartaway, and the next instant the biplane was smashed to pieces, the broken parts flying in all directions!



Chapter V

Two Visitors


"That's the last of the Dartaway!"

"Are you hurt, Dick?"

"My, wasn't that a narrow escape!"

"A minute later and it would have been all up with us!"

"I -- I guess I'm all right," stammered Dick, putting one hand to his forehead, where a lump was rapidly rising. "I got some fall though!" he added, grimly.

"Look what hit me!" cried Sam, picking up a section of a bamboo stick -- one which had supported one of the planes of the flying machine.

"I'm glad we weren't closer to that smash-up!"

Having plowed through the biplane, the express train had come to a halt with the last car standing not a great distance beyond the scene of the collision. Already the trainmen were hurrying out, some with lanterns, to learn if anybody had been killed or hurt.

"Why, it's an airship!" cried the conductor. "How in the name of Adam did that get here?"

"Here are three fellows!" cried the engineer, as the rays of a lantern revealed the Rover boys. "Were you in that flying machine?" he called.

"We were," answered Tom, grimly.

"Anybody hurt?"

"My brother got a bad tumble and is partly stunned."

"We didn't hit anybody, did we?" questioned the engineer, anxiously.

"Nothing but the biplane," answered Sam. "You made mince-meat of that."

"How did you happen to land on the track?" asked the fireman.

"The wind put the machine out of control and we came down quicker than we wanted to," explained Sam. "Then you came along -- before we had a chance to drag the biplane off the tracks."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't hit anybody," said the engineer, in tones of relief.

"We had a close shave," returned Tom, and then he and Sam told of how they had struck, and of how Dick had been dragged out of the way. By this time the oldest Rover boy was feeling more like himself and he managed to stand up, even though somewhat dizzy.

"Well, we're losing time," said the conductor, consulting his watch by the light of his lantern. "We'll have to get into Ashton and report this."

"And somebody has got to pay for the biplane," said Tom.

"I don't see as it is our fault," answered the trainman, and then he gave the order to go ahead -- after it had been ascertained that the track was clear.

"We'll ride to Ashton with you," said Dick. "No use of staying with this wreckage," he added, to his brothers. "We can drive down to-morrow and look it over. I don't think it is worth much."

"Never mind -- I am glad nobody was seriously hurt," returned Sam.

"I guess we all feel that way," added Tom.

It was a run of only a few minutes to Ashton. On the way the conductor of the train took the Rover boys' names and address.

"I don't see how you can blame us for smashing the flying machine," he said. "You had no business to come down on the track."

"We might have gotten our biplane off the track, if you had halted the train," returned Dick. "We could have dragged it into the bushes."

"I don't know about that."

As soon as the train rolled into Ashton the bays alighted. The only other passenger to get off was one of the local storekeepers.

"You were lucky boys," said the man, pleasantly. He knew them by sight, for they had traded at his shop.

"That's true, Mr. Striker," said Dick. "But we don't seem to be lucky just now."

"How's that?"

"There isn't a conveyance of any kind here to take us to Brill, and I must say I don't feel like walking."

"You go around to Carson's livery stable. He'll take you over to the college," answered Mr. Striker.

The livery stable was but a short distance away and they found the proprietor on hand, reading a newspaper and smoking his pipe.

"It's a wonder you wouldn't have a rig over at the depot, to meet the main trains," grumbled Tom.

"'Twouldn't pay," answered Neal Carson. "I tried it once, and earned two dollars and a half in two weeks. Folks that want me can come here for me."

"Well, we want to get to Brill College," said Dick.

"All right, but it will cost you fifty cents each."

"Very well."

The livery stable keeper hustled around and soon had a team ready. The boys were glad enough to take it easy in the carriage, and on the way to college but little was said.

"Rather late, young gentlemen," remarked Professor Blackie, sharply, as they entered.

"We had an accident, Professor," returned Dick.

"An accident?" and the instructor was all attention.

"Our biplane got smashed up," put in Tom.

"Indeed! I am sorry to hear that. Are you hurt?"

"Got a shaking up and a few scratches," answered Sam.

Then their story had to be told in detail. Soon it became noised all over the place that the Dartaway had been wrecked, and before they could get a mouthful to eat the three Rovers had to tell the story over and over again.

"I'm sorry the biplane was wrecked, but glad you escaped," said Songbird, earnestly. He cherished his old friends as if they were brothers.

"Just what I say already," cried Max Spangler, a German-American student. "You can buy a new flying machine, yes, but you can't buy a new head or a body, not much!" And he shook his head earnestly.

Even while the lads were eating they had to give further details of the disastrous flight. Doctor Wallington congratulated them on their escape.

"You had better leave flying alone after this," he remarked.

"I think we shall -- for a while, at least," answered Tom, dryly.

As soon as it was possible to do so, the boys sent a message to the girls and to their folks, telling about the accident and of their escape.

"It's bound to get in the newspapers," said Dick. "And if we don't send word the others will be scared to death."

The oldest Rover boy was right about the affair getting in the newspapers. The local sheets gave the accident a column or more and some city sheets took it up and made a "spread" of it, with pictures that were truly thrilling even though they were inaccurate.

"Humph! look at this picture!" cried Sam, showing up the supplement to a New York Sunday newspaper. "Looks as if we hit the smokestack of the locomotive and sailed along on that for a mile or two! Phew! what an imagination that artist must have!"

"And here is a picture showing the train climbing over the biplane!" returned Tom. "Say, it's a wonder we didn't wreck the Express instead of the Express wrecking us!"

On the day following the accident the boys were told, after class hours, that some gentlemen wished to see them. They went to the reception room, to find two men there -- a lawyer and a doctor.

"You are the -- er -- the young gentlemen who were in the -- er -- the flying machine smash-up?" queried one of the visitors, sharply.

"Yes," answered Dick.

"Mr. Rover?"

"Yes, Richard Rover."

"Just so. Glad to know you. My name is Fogg -- Belright Fogg. This is Doctor Slamper. We represent the railroad company, Mr. Rover. The doctor came along to see if you had been hurt."

"I got this," answered Dick, with a quiet smile, and pointed to the lump on his forehead.

"Ah, yes, I see," put in Doctor Slamper. "Not very serious, I take it."

"Oh, it didn't kill me."

"Ha! ha! Good joke, Mr. Rover! Feel pretty good otherwise, eh?"

"Oh, I'm able to sit up."

"And these other young gentlemen are all right, of course," went on the doctor, smoothly.

His manner was such that the boys were disgusted. Evidently he had come to smooth matters over, so that they would not put in a claim for personal injuries. And the lawyer had come to ward off a claim for the loss of the Dartaway.

"No, I'm not all right, Doctor -- far from it," cried Tom, before the others could say another word. And then the fun-loving Rover went on: "My knee is sprained, and my back twisted, and I have a pain in one of my right teeth, and my brothers both got their arms wrenched, and one got his left big toe out of joint, and none of us can see extra good, and I think my big brother's right ear is out of order, and my digestion is not what it should be, and I fear --  -- "

"Stop! stop!" interrupted the doctor, in amazement. "Do you mean to say --  -- "

"And the back of my neck feels out of kilter somehow," continued Tom, "and Sam's left hip isn't just as straight as it should be, and when I hit my elbow I have the funniest sensation crawl down my shoulder blade ever was, and we all think we ought to go to a sanitarium for at least six months or a year; don't you think so, too, Doctor?"

"Well, I never!" gasped Doctor Slamper, falling back against a center table. "Why, my dear young men, I think --  -- "

"And the Dartaway is gone -- our dear old flying machine!" groaned Tom. "The machine we hoped to fly in to Washington, to the next inauguration. Why, don't you know that the planes of that machine were covered with the autographs of most of the big men of this country? Whenever we sailed around to visit our friends or the big men we had them write their autographs on the canvas wings of the machine. Those autographs alone were worth about a million, more or less!"

"What's this?" put in Belright Fogg, quickly. "A flying machine valuable because of the autographs on it? Preposterous! If you think the railroad will stand to pay anything on such a thing as that, you are mistaken."

"But how are we to get those autographs back?" whined Tom. "Some of the men who gave them may be dead now!"

"See here, let us get down to business," cried Belright Fogg. "You don't look to be knocked out -- at least, not a great deal anyway. Am I right, Doctor?"

"I -- I think so. Of course they may be -- be shocked a little," returned the physician. "Probably they are -- from the way this young man talks -- little nervous disorder." And he pointed at Tom, while Dick and Sam had to turn away, to keep from bursting into laughter.

"Um! Nervous, eh? Well, a few days of quietness will remedy that," answered the lawyer. "Now, see here." He looked wisely at the three Rovers. "Our railroad disclaims all responsibility for this accident. But at the same time we -- er -- we want to do the right thing, you know -- rather do that than have any unpleasant feelings, understand? Now if you are willing to accept our offer, we'll fix this matter right up and say no more about it."

"What is you offer?" questioned Dick.

"Three hundred dollars -- one hundred dollars each."

"You mean for our personal injuries?" questioned Sam.

"I mean for everything."

"Nothing doing," returned Dick, promptly, and with a bit of pardonable slang.

"You will not accept?"

"We might accept three hundred dollars for the shaking up we got -- although we don't know if our nerves are all right or not. Sometimes these things turn out worse than at first anticipated. But the railroad has got to pay for the biplane it smashed."

"Never!"

"I think it will."

"You got in the way of the train -- it was your own fault."

"Your track isn't fenced in -- I have a right to cross it where I please. If I had a wagon and it broke down, you would have no right to run into it. The law might not hold you criminally liable, but it would hold you liable for the worth of the wagon and contents.

"Say, are you a lawyer?" queried Belright Fogg, curiously.

"No, but I know my rights," returned Dick, promptly.



Chapter VI

The Missing Biplane


For a moment there was silence. The lawyer and the doctor who represented the railroad company looked from one to another of the Rover boys.

"Pretty shrewd, aren't you?" said the lawyer, finally.

"We have to be -- in dealing with a railroad company," answered Dick, bluntly. "Now let us get to business -- if that is what you came for," he continued. "We might put in a big claim for damages, and I think a jury would sustain our claim. But we want to do what is fair. The question then is, Do you want to do what is fair?"

"Why, yes, of course," returned Belright Fogg, but he did not say it very cordially.

"Very well then. That flying machine cost us twenty-eight hundred dollars new and we have spent over two hundred dollars on improvements, so when she was smashed she was worth at least three thousand dollars."

"But you can save something, can't you?" gut in the lawyer.

"Perhaps we can save the engine, and a dealer in second-hand machinery may give a hundred dollars for it. Now what I propose is this: You pay for half the value of the biplane and we'll call it square."

"Preposterous!"

"Very well then, Mr. Fogg, we'll consider the interview closed."

"If you sue, you won't get a cent, Mr. Rover."

"That remains to be seen."

"I am willing to give you five hundred dollars in place of the three hundred first offered."

"No, sir -- it is fifteen hundred or nothing, Mr. Fogg."

"But you have not been hurt."

"Yes, we have been hurt. I have been to our college doctor about this lump on my head, and my brothers have been to him, too. We were badly shaken up -- not as much as my brother made out, but enough. If we have to sue we'll put in our claim for personal injuries as well -- and maybe for time lost from our studies."

"But fifteen hundred dollars! I -- er -- I can't see it," and the lawyer began to pace the floor.

"Maybe we had better sue," suggested Sam. "We might get the full amount of our loss -- three thousand for the Dartaway and some for our injuries."

This did not suit the lawyer at all, for he had been instructed to settle if possible and thus avoid litigation, for the railroad authorities had heard that the Rovers were rich and might make the affair cost a good deal.

"I will -- er -- make my offer an even thousand dollars," he said, after some more talk. "But that is my limit. If you won't take that, you'll get nothing."

"All right -- we'll sue," said Dick, and he made a move as if to close the interview.

"See here, are you of age -- have you authority to close this matter?" demanded Belright Fogg, suddenly.

"I can close the matter, yes," answered Dick. "My father will be perfectly satisfied with whatever I do. I transact much of his business for him."

"Ah, well then, let us consider this thing a little more, Mr. Rover." And thereupon the lawyer went all over the matter again. Presently he offered twelve hundred dollars. But Dick was firm; and in the end the lawyer said he would pay them fifteen hundred dollars the next day, provided they would sign off all claims on the railroad.

"We'll do it as soon as we see the money," answered Dick.

"Can't you trust me, Mr. Rover?" demanded Belright Fogg.

"I like to do business in a business-like way," answered Dick, coolly. "When you bring that check kindly have it certified," he added.

"Very well!" snapped the lawyer; and then he and the doctor got out, Belright Fogg stating he would return the next morning.

"Dick, you ought to be a lawyer yourself!" cried Tom. "You managed that in fine style."

"Tom helped," added Sam. "He nearly scared that doctor into a fit, talking about our aches and pains!"

"Wait -- perhaps the lawyer won't come back with the money," said Dick. "He may reconsider the offer."

"You didn't say anything about the wreckage," said Sam. "Who gets that?"

"We do, Sam. They are to pay us for damages, don't you see? If they pay only that, they can't claim the wreckage."

Promptly at the appointed time the next day Belright Fogg appeared. He was a bit nervous, for the railroad officials had told him to settle at once -- before the Rovers took it into their heads to bring suit.

"I have the check, certified," he said, producing the paper. "Here is what you must sign, in the presence of witnesses," he added, and brought out a legal-looking document.

"We'll call in two of the teachers," answered Dick.

The oldest Rover boy read the document over with care. It was all right, excepting that in it the railroad claimed the wreckage of the Dartaway absolutely.

"Here, this comes out," cried Dick. "The wreckage belongs to us."

At this there was another long discussion. But the Rovers remained firm, and in the end the clause concerning the wreckage was altered to show that the Dartaway must remain the boys' property. Then the three brothers signed the paper and it was duly witnessed by two teachers, and the certified check was handed to Dick.

"Very sharp young man, you are," was Belright Fogg's comment, as he was about to leave. "You ought to be a lawyer."

"Perhaps I will be some day," was Dick's answer.

"Better get that check right in the bank!" cried Sam, when he and his brothers were alone. "That fellow may stop payment on it."

"He can't stop a certified check, Sam. I'll put it in the school safe for the present. What we want to do is to look after the Dartaway. She may not be worth much, but what there is of her belongs to us."

"Right you are. Let us get permission to go after her right away. For all we know, somebody may have carted her off already!"

The boys readily obtained permission to see to their property, and walked down to the college stables to get a horse and carriage to take them to the spot where the accident had occurred. Just then came a toot of an automobile horn, and a fine five-passenger car rolled into view, with Stanley Browne and a stranger on the front seats.

"Hello, you fellows!" cried Stanley, as the auto came to a stop. "Come over here! I hoped I'd see you!"

The Rovers hurried across the campus and were introduced to Jack Mason, Stanley's cousin, the driver of the car. He was passing through Ashton on the way to join his folks in the White Mountains.

"Jack wants me to take a ride with him this afternoon," said Stanley. "And I can invite three others to go along. Will you come with us?"

"That is kind," answered Dick. "But we have some business to attend to," and he related what it was.

"Say, let's take a look at the wrecked biplane!" cried Jack Mason. "I'd just as soon go there as anywhere."

"So would I," added Stanley.

"Very well -- that will suit us down to the ground!" cried Tom.

"We were going to drive over in a carriage," explained Dick. "We can get there much quicker in the auto."

The boys piled into the tonneau of the car and they started off.

"Got to show me the roads," said Jack Mason. "All I know around here is the regular auto road to the White Mountains, -- and I don't know that any too well."

"You can't lose us on the roads!" cried Tom. "We'll keep you straight."

Jack Mason loved to run fast and soon they were bowling along at a forty-mile-an-hour rate. Stanley and Tom told the driver what turns to make, and almost before they knew it they had passed the outskirts of Ashton and were approaching the locality where the fast Express had dashed into the crippled biplane.

"Here we are!" cried Tom, presently. "We can't go any further on the road. We'll have to walk through the woods to the tracks."

"I see a wood road!" exclaimed Jack Mason. "If the ground isn't too soft I'll try that."

He went on and passed in between the trees, and soon they were within a hundred feet of the railroad tracks. As the car came to a stop the Rover boys jumped to the ground and ran forward. Then, of a sudden, all three set up a shout:

"The biplane is gone!"

"Gone?" queried Stanley, who was close behind them.

"Yes, gone," returned Tom.

"Are you sure this is the spot where it was struck?"

"Of course I am."

"There are the marks where we landed and where the locomotive hit the Dartaway," said Sam. He looked around. "Wonder who took her, and to where?"

"That's to be found out," answered Dick, seriously.

"I don't see any airship," said Jack Mason, as he came up, having shut off the engine of the touring car.

"Somebody has hauled it away," answered Dick. He looked on both sides of the track. "This is queer," he added, presently. "I can't see any marks in the sand or mud or bushes. She'd make marks if anybody hauled her."

"I've got it!" cried Tom. "They hoisted her on a flat car! The railroad people have taken her!"

"But she is our biplane!" cried Sam, stubbornly.

"Maybe they took her to the freight house in Ashton," suggested Stanley.

"We'll soon find out -- if you'll take us there in the auto."

"Sure!" answered Jack Mason, promptly.

The boys were about to leave the neighborhood when they heard the strokes of an axe, ringing through the woods.

"There's a wood chopper!" cried Dick. "Maybe he knows something about this. I guess I'll ask him."

They soon located the man -- an elderly individual who worked for the farmer who owned the woods.

"Yes, I see 'em hoist the airship on the flat car," said he, in answer to their questions. "Had quite a job o' it, too."

"Did they take it to Ashton?" queried Dick.

"No. They was goin' to fust, but then Jimmy Budley -- the section boss -- said it would be better to take it up to the freight yards at Rallston."

"And they took it there?"

"I 'spect they did. They went off that way, anyway," replied the old wood chopper.

"To the Rallston freight yards!" cried Sam. "What a nerve!"

"I'll make 'em bring it back!" cried Dick, firmly.

"How far is it to Rallston?" asked Jack Mason.

"About nine miles."

"Pooh! that's nothing. Jump in and I'll take you there in no time -- if the road's any good."

"The road is O. K.," answered Dick.

The automobile was backed out of the woods, and turned in the direction of Rallston. Jack Mason was in his element, and in less than twenty minutes they came in sight of the town and turned into a side street leading to the freight yards.

"There she is!" cried Sam, a minute later.

He pointed to one of the tracks in the yards and there, on a flat car, the boys beheld the wreck of the biplane. A small crowd of curious men and boys surrounded the remains of the Dartaway.

"What yer going to do with her, Jimmy?" asked a man in the crowd, of a burly individual on the flat car.

"I guess the railroad is going to sell her," replied the section boss.



Chapter VII

The Sale Of The Biplane


"Did you hear what that man said?" demanded Sam in a whisper, of his brothers.

"I did," returned Dick. "But he isn't going to sell our property," added Tom, warmly.

"Hardly," responded Dick. He pushed his way through the crowd and walked straight up to the flat car.

"Who is in charge here?" he demanded.

"What's that?" came in some surprise from the section boss.

"I asked who was in charge of this flat car with this flying machine?"

"What business is that of yours, young fellow?"

"This is our biplane -- it belongs to me and my brothers here," and Dick waved his hand at Tom and Sam.

"Oh! Are you the Rover brothers?"

"Yes. And I want to know what business you had to bring that flying machine here?" went on Dick sharply, for he saw the kind of a man with whom he had to deal.

"Say, look here, if you've got any kick coming you go to the office with it," cried Jimmy Budley.

"Very well, I will. But I want to know who ordered you to bring that biplane here."

"Never mind; you go to the office and find out."

"You brought it here, didn't you?" asked Tom, who had now come up to Dick's side, along with the others.

"I ain't answering questions when I don't have to," returned the section boss, with a sneer.

"Sure he brought it here -- on this flat car!" cried a man in the crowd. "Why don't you answer the young fellow straight, Jimmy?"

"This biplane belongs to my brothers and me," went on Dick, as sharply as before. "You had absolutely no right to touch it. If I wished to do so, I could have you arrested for this," he continued.

"Say, I don't allow nobody to talk to me like that!" growled the section boss. "You git out of here and see the men at the office."

"We'll not get out!" put in Tom. "This flying machine is ours and we want it."

"You'll take it right back to where you found it," added Sam. "And be careful that you don't break it worse than it is, or you'll foot the bill."

"I won't listen to you!" stormed the section boss, who was of an ugly disposition naturally and not liked in the neighborhood.

"Very well then," answered Dick. He turned to Stanley. "Will you go out and see if you can find a policeman?" he asked, loudly.

"Sure," returned the college youth, readily.

"Wow! he's goin' to have Budley locked up!" exclaimed a small boy.

"See here, don't you get fresh!" stormed the section boss, eying Dick angrily.

"We'll have a policeman settle this," answered the oldest Rover boy. "This is our property, and we can easily prove it. You had no right to touch it."

"I had orders," said Jimmy Budley, doggedly.

"Why don't you telephone to the office, Jimmy?" suggested a friend. "Maybe there was some mistake."

"Wasn't no mistake," growled the section boss; nevertheless he hopped down from the flat car and hurried in the direction of a shanty wherein was located a telephone. Dick followed him.

"You can tell them what I said," said the youth; "And they may find it to their interest to call up Mr. Belright Fogg before they give you orders."

"Have you seen Fogg?" demanded the section boss.

"Yes."

"Did he say you could take the machine?"

"He said nothing about our taking it. He settled for what damage the railroad did to the biplane. We went to get our property and found it gone. Nobody had a right to touch it, excepting to take it from the tracks."

"Huh!" grumbled the section boss, and shot into the shanty, banging the door behind him. Dick heard him shout something into the telephone, and quite a lengthy conversation ensued.

In the meanwhile Stanley had gone off for a policeman and presently came back with a bluecoat who did duty in the streets beyond the railroad yards.

"Well, what have you got to say about it?" demanded Dick, when the section bass came from the shanty and while Stanley and the policeman were approaching. "Do we get our property or not?"

"It's yours," returned the railroad man, and his voice was much milder than before. "They had no right to give me the orders they did."

"What about taking it back?" went on Dick.

"I've got orders to take it to any place where you want it," answered the section boss, and he looked anything but happy as he made the confession.

"Then you can run it down to Ashton," answered Dick. "Will you do it right away?"

"I guess so -- I'll see," was the answer.

"What do you want me for?" asked the policeman, as he came up.

"I don't believe you'll be needed -- now," answered Dick.

"It's all right, Murphy," put in Jimmy Budley, quickly. "We had a misunderstanding over orders, that's all."

"This young man told me a flying machine had been stolen," said Murphy, and nodded towards Stanley.

"It was a misunderstanding. I wasn't to blame." The section boss turned to Dick. "I'll get a freight engine to run the car with the machine down to Ashton inside of an hour."

"Very well," answered Dick. "And be careful that the biplane isn't damaged in unloading."

"She ain't much but kindlin' wood now," and the section boss smiled a trifle.

"Well, the engine is all right -- and that's the valuable part of her," returned Dick. "I'll look for her at Ashton in an hour."

"Want to ride down on the flat car with her?"

"I'll see about that."

The matter was talked over, and in the end it was agreed that Dick and Sam should ride on the flat car, while Tom went with Stanley and Jack Mason in the automobile. Then the section boss went off to get the freight engine to haul the flat car.

"Got out of that better than I expected," whispered Sam to his big brother.

"It pays to put on a front, Sam," was the answer. "If I had been weak-kneed about it that fellow wouldn't have done a thing."

"Oh, you've got a head for business, Dick -- I can see that," said the youngest Rover, admiringly.

"I hope so, Sam -- for I think I'll need it soon."

"You mean for helping Dad?"

"Yes,"

"It's too bad he has these weak spells, isn't it?"

"Yes. What he needs, I think, is a good, long rest."

The others went off in the touring auto, and Dick and Sam made themselves at home on the flat car. Soon a freight engine backed up, the car was attached; and off they started, in company with the section boss and two track laborers, in the direction of Ashton.

As the Rovers could readily see, the Dartaway was a complete wreck, beyond the possibility of being repaired. But the motor looked to be in good order, and the stays and turn-buckles would, of course, be worth something.

When Ashton was reached Sam and Dick found that the automobile and its party had gotten there ahead of them.

"I've found a place where we can store the biplane -- or what's left of it," said Tom. "In that barn," and he pointed to a structure directly beside the tracks.

"Good enough!" cried Dick. "That will save the trouble and expense of hauling it any distance."

The flat car was stopped in front of the barn, and after some trouble the remains of the biplane were transferred to the structure. Then the section boss brought out a receipt which Dick signed.

"Next time I move a flying machine I'll make sure that orders are O. K.," he remarked, grimly.

"It might save a lot of trouble," answered Tom, dryly.

"Tell me -- didn't you act on orders from that lawyer, Fogg?" questioned Dick, curiously.

"I did -- if you want to know."

"I thought so. He's too sharp for his own good."

"You're right -- and maybe he'll catch it for this," answered Jimmy Budley; and then he and his men rode away on the flat car, leaving our friends to themselves.

"Well, now you've got the wreckage, what are you going to do with it?" questioned Stanley.

"Offer it to the folks who build flying machines," answered Dick. "I'll write the letters to-night."

With the biplane off their minds, the Rovers rejoined their friends in the automobile, and took a run through the country for fifty miles or more. They stopped at a country hotel, and there Dick treated to cake, ice cream and other refreshments.

The letters to the flying machine manufacturers brought various replies. Several did not care to buy the wreckage at all, while others offered a ridiculously low price.

"This doesn't look encouraging," was Dick's comment. "Boys, I guess we'll have to pocket our share of the loss."

The next day, however, came another letter, one from a young aviator of Worcester. He wrote that he had heard that they had the wreckage for sale and if it was still on the market he would come and look at it.

"Maybe he'll give us a little more than those manufacturers offer," said Sam, hopefully.

The letter was answered, and the young aviator came on the next day, going first to inspect the remains of the Dartaway and then coming up to the college.

"Pretty well smashed," said he, to the Rover boys. "About all that is good is the motor and fittings."

"But that engine is a dandy," said Tom.

"How much do you want for the outfit as it stands?"

"I don't know," answered Dick. "The biplane cost us about three thousand dollars."

"Yes, but she's a complete wreck. All I can use is the engine -- and maybe a few other things."

"Well, make an offer," put in Tom.

"I might pay three hundred dollars."

"Make it double that and the machine is yours," returned Dick.

"No, it wouldn't be worth six hundred dollars to me," answered the young aviator.

A discussion lasting the best part of half an hour ensued. The aviator went up to four hundred dollars and then to four hundred and fifty. Finally, Dick said he would accept five hundred dollars cash; and the bargain was concluded at that figure. The money was paid over, and the Rover boys gave the purchaser a bill of sale, and he departed without delay, stating he wished to make arrangements for shipping the wrecked biplane away.

"Not so bad, after all," declared Dick, when the brothers were alone.

"It's very good," put in Tom.

"That's the end of the Dartaway," came from Sam, mournfully. "Well, we had some pretty good times in her while she lasted."



Chapter VIII

A Box Of Candy


"Say, I've got to have some fun or bust!"

It was Tom who uttered the words. For over a week everything had run along smoothly at Brill College. The boys had settled down to their studies. They had sent letters home, and to the girls, and had received several communications in return. They had been congratulated on their escape from the wrecking of the biplane, and Dora had written to Dick urging him to give up flying.

"I'm going to give it up for a while, at least," Dick had answered. During those days the search had been kept up for Josiah Crabtree, but so far nothing had been heard of the fugitive from justice. That the man had left the neighborhood was quite probable.

"What sort of fun do you want, Tom?" asked Sam, throwing down the book he had been studying.

"Oh, anything," was the answer. "I feel as if I was getting musty and rusty, and I've simply got to do something. Wish there was a hazing on, or something like that," and the fun-loving Rover gazed moodily out of the window.

"Now don't you get yourself into trouble, Tom," warned Dick. "Better get at that theme you've got to write on 'Educational Institutions of the Revolutionary Period'."

"Hang the themes, Dick! I've got to have some fun -- and I'm going out for it!" answered Tom, and catching up his cap he passed out of the dormitory.

"Guess I'll go, too," added Sam, and quickly followed. Soon Dick came also, not wishing to be left behind if anything unusual was to take place.

In the lower hallway the boys found several men at work, cleaning and oiling the hardwood floor. They had a box of wax polish with them, and this immediately gave Tom an idea.

"I'd like to buy a little of that," he said, to the head workman, and a bargain was quickly struck, and the fun-loving Rover walked away with half a box of the wax polish.

"What are you going to do with it?" asked Sam.

"Don't know yet -- but I'll do something," was the reply.

"Looks like maple sugar candy," said Dick, gazing at the wax.

"Wait! I've struck it!" cried Tom. "Just the thing! Hurray!" And his face brightened.

"What is it, Tom?" asked both of his brothers.

"I'll make William Philander Tubbs a present of this," was the reply. "Come on, and watch how I do it."

"William Philander has gone to see that new, girl of his," answered Sam.

"Not just yet -- but he'll be on the way soon. I'll have to hurry, if I want to do something."

Tom led the way up a back stairs and to the room occupied that term by Tubbs and some other students. They met the dudish student, half dressed, going to the lavatory to wash up.

"Quick!" cried Tom. "I hope I can find the box."

"What box?" asked Dick, as he and Sam followed Tom into Tubbs' room.

"The box of candy he bought for Miss Ruggles. It was a dandy -- but maybe we can improve it just a little," and Tom grinned broadly.

All looked around and presently found the box of candy on a dresser. It was tied up with a blue ribbon, but this Tom slipped off with ease. Inside of the box were chocolates and bonbons and some candied fruit.

"Hold the box, Sam," said Tom, whipping out his knife. "We've got to move mighty quick!"

On the instant he was at work with his pocket-knife, cutting the floor wax into various shapes to resemble candy. He took out some of the candied fruit and substituted the wax. Then he felt in his pocket.

"This will help," he said, bringing forth a soapstone slate pencil, which he cracked into tiny lengths. "The candy that lasts!" he cried softly, as he dropped the bits into the box.

"Rather rough on the girl," declared Dick.

"Not at all, Dick," said Sam. "I was introduced to her last week and the very next day she passed me on the road with a stare as if she had never seen me."

"And Stanley says she is stuck up to the last degree," added Tom. "Maybe this will take her down a peg -- anyway I hope so."

Sam was searching his pockets. He brought out several dried beans and a heavy rubber elastic.

"The remains of a slingshot and ammunition I confiscated from a Freshy who was taking shots at me," he explained.

"Drop the beans in -- they'll look like jelly beans!" cried Tom. "And cut up that rubber band into pieces for jujube-paste!"

Dick was at the door on guard, and presently he gave a low whistle, to notify the others that Tubbs was coming back. Instantly Tom shut the candy box, put back the paper covering and ribbon; and then he and Sam slipped out of the dormitory by a side door, so that the dudish student might not see them.

Such a joke as had been played Tom could not keep to himself, and when the Rovers went downstairs he told Stanley, Songbird and Spud Jackson.

"Fine!" cried Stanley. "That Miss Ruggles deserves it, too. She thinks, just because her father has rocks, that she is too good to even recognize any of us. The only fellow she tolerates is Tubby -- I guess because he's such a dude."

Tom wanted to follow William Philander Tubbs when he went to see the young lady, who was stopping with an aunt who lived not far from Brill. The others were willing, and all hung around the campus until the stylish student made his appearance.

"She's crazy for candy -- Tubby told me so himself," said Spud. "Eats about a barrelful a week, so I understand. That's why he got her the box, I guess."

"If she eats that boxful she'll be a good one," was Tom's dry comment.

It was not long before Tubbs appeared. The stylish student was faultlessly attired, in light trousers, dark Prince Albert coat, white vest, spats, and a silk hat. In one hand he carried a cane and in the other the box of candy.

"My, but we are some swell!" murmured Sam.

"He ought to pose for a fashion magazine," returned Tom. "Keep back, fellows, or he'll spot us!" And he pulled those nearest to him behind some shrubbery.

William Philander passed them and they followed at a safe distance in the darkness. The dudish student headed directly for the house at which Miss Clarabel Ruggles was stopping, and the others saw him ascend the front piazza and ring the bell. A servant ushered him in, and the boys saw the light turned up in a parlor.

"Come on and see the fun," said Tom, and led the way across a lawn. The curtains to the parlor windows were half up, so they could look into the room with ease. One window was partly open for ventilation.

They saw William Philander sitting in a chair, the box of candy on his lap. Presently Clarabel Ruggles came in, attired in an elaborate evening gown. Tubbs at once arose to his feet and, bowing very low, accepted her hand, which was held on high. Then the dudish student said something and offered the box of candy.

"Oh, is this really for me!" those outside heard the young lady cry, the words coming through the partly open window.

"No, he bought it for the cat!" murmured Tom, and at this the others had to snicker.

"A -- er -- a slight token of my regard, don't you know," said William Philander, with a flourish.

"So kind of you, Mr. Tubbs!" The girl gazed hungrily at the box. "Shall I open it now?"

"If you wish to," answered the dudish student, gallantly.

"I will -- and you shall have a share of the candy," said the young lady, and quickly drew off the ribbon and paper. "Oh, my, how perfectly delicious!" she murmured. "Oh, Mr. Tubbs, how could you guess just the kind I like!"

"Help yourself, my dear Miss Ruggles," said Tubbs, as the box was held out. "Ladies first, don't you know," and he smiled sweetly.

She took a candy and he did likewise, and as they ate they talked of various things. Then the box was passed back and forth.

"Yes, I came to see if you would go to the -- er -- to the -- er --  -- " stammered William Philander, and then he came to a dead halt. "Oh, my tooth!" he gasped, suddenly.

"What is it, Mr. Tubbs?"

"I -- er -- I really think I've broken one of my -- er -- teeth, don't you know!" gasped the stylish student. "Oh, dear, that candy is awfully hard!"

"I didn't find it so, Mr. Tubbs. Here, try another piece," answered the young lady, and helped both him and herself. "As you were going to say," she added, with a smile. "Was it that concert that --  -- " She, too, stopped short. "Oh, my!" she gasped.

"Wha -- what is it?" stammered William Philander.

"This piece of candy I have! It tastes awfully queer!"

"So does this piece I have!" groaned the dudish student.

"Oh, Mr. Tubbs, what kind of candy is it anyway? My teeth are -- are stuck fast in it!"

At this moment the aunt of the young lady came in. She looked in wonder at the others, for both were making wry faces.

"It's the candy, Aunt Mabel!" cried the young lady. "It -- it tastes so queer!"

"Ha! Let me see that box?" exclaimed the aunt, who was a portly person. "I read in the newspaper only yesterday of some folks being poisoned by eating cheap candy." And she looked severely at poor Tubbs.

"This is -- er -- not cheap candy, my dear Mrs. Garlett," spluttered William Philander. "It is some of the best to be had in Ashton, I assure you."

By this time the lady had taken something from the box and was sampling it. As it chanced to be a piece of the rubber band she made slow progress in chewing it.

"I never saw such candy!" she declared, with vigor. She took another piece. "That was all right," she added, a moment later. "But this piece! Why, I declare, it tastes like wax! And it is wax, too," she continued, inspecting the lump more closely.

"Wax!" gasped poor William Philander, hollowly.

"Yes, wax, Mr. Tubbs."

"Oh, you must be mistaken, my dear Mrs. Garlett!"

"Humph! I think I know wax when I see it. And this is rubber -- nothing but rubber!"

"Oh, Aunt Clarabel!" murmured the young lady.

"Let me look at that box!" cried the lady of the house. She commenced to make an inspection, holding the box close to a lamp. "Humph! Rubber bands, beans, slate pencils, and polishing wax!" she declared. "Mr. Tubbs, do you call this a box of candy?"

"Upon my word, Mrs. Garlett, I --  -- " gasped the dudish student. He did not know how to finish.

"It's just some old horrid joke!" declared Miss Ruggles, haughtily. "One of your college jokes, I presume!" And she gazed scornfully at poor Tubbs.

"No, no, I -- er -- I didn't -- I really --  -- " gasped William Philander.

"You can have your box of candy back, Mr. Tubbs," went on the girl, sarcastically. "I do not wish it. And allow me to bid you good evening!" And with a stately bow she passed out of the room.

"I'll keep this box of so-called candy and have it investigated," said Mrs. Garlett. "I don't want to be poisoned. Good night, Mr. Tubbs."

"But, my dear Mrs. Garlett --  -- "

"I said good night," interrupted the lady of the house. "Mary will show you to the door," she added, and then, in complete bewilderment, poor William Philander rushed out of the residence, and along the garden walk in the direction of the road leading to Brill.



Chapter IX

A Breakdown On The Road


"I rather think that was rough on William Philander," remarked Dick, with a serious shake of his head.

"Oh, he has got to be taken down somehow," replied Tom, "That's right," added Stanley. "Why, the way he acts towards some of the fellows is outrageous. Just because they don't dress as well as he does he thinks them beneath his notice."

"And I wouldn't waste any sympathy on that girl," put in Spud. "She is as bad as Tubby, when it comes to cutting the fellows she doesn't care to know."

"Well, I guess it will all pass over," remarked Sam. And it must have, for a few days later William Philander and Clarabel Ruggles were seen out driving together and apparently as friendly as over. The dudish student had sent the young lady a letter stating he thought some of his fellow collegians had doctored the box of candy, and this explanation was accepted by the girl and her aunt. Then William Philander sent the girl some candy he was sure was all right, and also a big bouquet of roses; and that was the end of the unpleasantness.

It must not be thought that in those days the girls at Hope Seminary were forgotten. Whenever the Rover boys got a chance they visited the place, and many a nice time they and the girls had together. On those occasions Dick and Dora would roam off together, the others making no attempt to follow them, and the pair would plan the many things they hoped to do in the future.

"You have not heard from Josiah Crabtree, have you?" questioned Dick, on one of these visits.

"Not a word -- and I don't want to hear from him," replied Dora.

"He's in hiding, but he'll let us hear from him sooner or later -- mark my words."

"Oh, I wish he hadn't escaped, Dick!" And Dora clung tightly to his arm.

"Well, that can't be helped."

"Is there anything new about your father's business?"

"Nothing of any importance."

"How does he feel?"

"In his last letter he said he felt somewhat better and was going to take a trip to New York. How is your mother?"

"Quite well. But the fact that old Crabtree is at large disturbs her very much. As soon as she heard of it, she went over to the Lanings' home to stay."

The boys had driven over to Hope in a carriage. When they started to return to Brill it was quite dark.

"We've got to hurry up," remarked Tom, as they rode away, Sam driving the team.

"Why so?" asked Dick. "We have no boning to do to-night."

"Have you forgotten the spread Bob Grimes is going to give? He said it was to be the finest yet given at Brill, and I don't want to miss it."

"That's so!" cried Dick. "Sure, we want to be on hand, since we are invited. Bob is a first-class fellow."

"Queer we forgot about that feast," murmured Sam. "But I suppose we were thinking too much of the girls," and he grinned sheepishly.

"What time is the spread to come off, Tom?" asked his big brother.

"Ten o'clock sharp, so Bob said."

"In his room?"

"His room and the one next to it. They connect, you know."

"We'll get there in plenty of time -- unless we have a breakdown -- which I don't expect."

"Don't be too sure of that. This carriage is none too good. I said so when Abner Filbury brought it around for me."

"The wheels do appear to be somewhat shaky," remarked Sam.

"We miss the biplane, for making quick trips," returned Tom, with a sigh. "We ought to get a runabout -- an auto runabout, I mean."

"That's the talk!" cried his younger brother. "If we had one of those we could run over to Hope whenever we pleased."

The main road was being repaired, so, at a certain place, the boys had to turn off on a side road for a distance of nearly a mile. Here the going was anything but good, and they went down in more than one rut or hollow.

"Be careful, Sam!" warned Dick. "Don't drive so fast."

"Oh, go ahead," put in Tom, impatiently. "We are losing a lot of time on this side road."

Just then came a narrow turn, with a down grade, very uneven and full of rocks. Over the latter bumped the carriage. Then came a sudden jounce, followed by a crash.

"Whoa!" yelled Sam to the team, and brought them to a standstill at the foot of the hill.

"What broke?" asked Dick, anxiously.

"The back axle, I think," answered Tom, as he leaped to the ground.

The boys had a lantern with them and with this they looked for the damage done. Tom's guess proved correct -- the back axle had given way close to the left wheel.

"What's to be done now?" asked Sam, in some dismay. "Say, I don't think that was my fault," he added, quickly.

"I told you to be careful," returned Dick. "Now we are in a pickle and no mistake."

"If we had a wire we might bind up that axle," said Tom, looking at the fracture, which was in the form of a long split.

"But we haven't any," said Dick. He looked into the carriage. "Nothing here but the hitching strap and I don't think that will do."

"There is a farmhouse," said Sam, pointing to a light in a nearby field. "Maybe I can get help there."

"We'll see," said Dick. "Just draw up alongside the fence -- so that nobody will run into the carriage. Now that the main road is shut off, everybody has to use this one."

Soon the carriage was safe by the roadside, and then the three Rovers hurried to where the light gleamed from the kitchen windows of a small farmhouse. Dick knocked on the door of the place.

There was a stir from within, and then the door was opened, revealing an old man, who held a lighted lamp in his trembling hand.

"Who be yeou?" he drawled.

"We have had a breakdown on the road," answered Dick. "We thought we might get some help here."

"A breakdown, eh? What sort?" And the old man gazed curiously at the boys.

In a few brief words the Rovers explained matters.

"If you can let us have some wire, or straps, we'll pay you for them," went on Dick.

"I hain't got much," replied the old man. "I'm poor, I am -- with havin' sech rheumatism I can't work the farm. But yeou kin look in the barn an' see wot there is."

The boys waited to hear no more, but hurried to the structure indicated -- a building all but ready to fall down. In a harness closet they found a few old straps and a coil of fence wire.

"I guess these will answer," said Dick.

"Anyway, let us try them. Sam, you go back and pay the old man whatever he wants, while Tom and I do the mending."

"All right," answered the youngest Rover, and hurried off in the direction of the farm-house.

Sam found the old man sitting by a small table, eating a frugal meal of beans and bread and coffee.

"We found three old straps and some fence wire," said the youth. "What do you suppose they are worth?"

"Well, I'm a poor man, I be," whined the old man. "I don't think yeou be goin' to rob a poor, old man."

"Not at all," answered Sam, kindly. "How much do you want?"

"Them tudder fellers wot had a breakdown give me a dollar fer wot they got," said the old man, shrewdly.

"If I give you a dollar, will that be all right?"

"I guess so," answered the old man. He knew what three straps and what wire were meant, and knew they were not worth half the amount offered.

"Who had the other breakdown?" asked Sam, as he handed over a dollar bill.

"Some fellers in an autymobile -- a couple o' weeks ago, or so."

"Some men in an automobile!" cried Sam, with sudden interest. "Who were they?"

"I dunno. They left the autymobile in the barn one night an' come fer it the next day. They give me a dollar."

"How many men?"

"Two I think there was, although one on 'em kept putty well out o' sight, as if he didn't want to be seen."

"How did the man look that you saw?"

"Oh, he was a tall feller, with a face that stuck out here," and the old man pointed to his chin.

"And did he have real heavy eyebrows?"

"He sure did -- eyebrows 'most as heavy as a moustache."

"How did the other man look?"

"I dunno -- didn't git no good sight o' him. But, say, wot you askin' about them fer? Do you know 'em?"

"I think I know one of the men, but I am not sure," returned Sam, and went outside to join his brothers.

Dick and Tom were deeply interested in what the old farmer had told their brother, and as soon as the strapping and wiring of the split axle was completed all of the boys went into the house to ask the farmer more about the two men and the automobile.

"I can't tell yeou nuthin' more," said the farmer. "They left the autymobile in the barn all night an' paid me a dollar fer it. I don't know who they was, or where they went."

"Can you remember the date this happened?" asked Dick.

"I certainly kin do that, fer it was on my birthday, the tenth."

"The day Crabtree escaped!" murmured Dick, and Sam and Tom nodded.

"Where did they go?" asked Tom.

"I dunno. They went off at night."

This was all the old farmer could tell, and a few minutes later the boys left him. All were rather thoughtful as they got into the carriage once more and drove off.

"Just to think of it!" cried Tom. "Crabtree was around here a night and a day, and nobody knew it!"

"It's too bad we didn't get news of it before," returned Dick. "We might have followed up that 'autymobile,' as the old man called it. But it's too late now. They must be miles and miles away. Crabtree may be in Canada, or on his way to Africa, or China."

"I don't believe he'd go to Africa or China," said Tom. "I think he'll hang around, trying to do us or the Stanhopes or Lanings an injury."

"Just what I think," put in Sam. "I'd like to know who the fellow with the pointed chin and heavy eyebrows is."

"He must be some old friend, or he wouldn't help Crabtree to get away."

"Either an old friend, or else Crabtree paid him pretty well for his services."

"Well, Crabtree is gone, and that is all there is to it."

All the way to Brill the boys discussed the situation. At first they thought they would notify the authorities about what they had learned, but finally concluded that this would do no good. Too much time had elapsed since the automobile had stopped at the old farmhouse.

Arriving at the college, they turned the carriage over to Abner Filbury, explaining about the axle and offering to pay for the damage done. Then they hurried to their room, to get ready for the feast Bob Grimes was to give.

As they entered the dormitory they saw a letter lying on the table. It bore a special delivery stamp and was addressed to Dick.

"Hello, what's this?" cried the oldest Rover boy; "A letter from home, and sent by special delivery. What can it mean?"

"No bad news, I hope," said Sam, his face sobering.

"Read it, Dick," put in Tom. "It must be something important."



Chapter X

Startling News


Sam and Tom watched with interest while Dick tore open the envelope and took out the letter it contained. The oldest Rover boy scanned the communication hastily.

"What is it?" questioned both of his brothers, impatiently.

"It's from Uncle Randolph," replied Dick. "He says father went to New York several days ago."

"Is that all?"

"No, he adds that he sent father a telegram and so far no answer has come back," went on Dick, seriously. "He thinks something has happened to dad."

"Oh, Dick," cried Sam. "What could happen to him?"

"A great many things, Sam -- in a big city like New York. He might get run down by a street car, or an automobile, or be hurt in the subway, or on the elevated railroad. He wasn't very well, remember."

"Yes, I know that. Is that all?"

"Uncle Randolph wants to know at once whether we have heard from dad during the past three days."

"We haven't had a word," broke in Tom "I thought it kind of strange, too."

The other boys read the letter, and then the three talked the matter over. They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and Stanley appeared.

"Going to the spread, aren't you?" he questioned. "Hurry up -- it's getting late."

"I don't think I can go," answered Dick. "I've got something I must attend to -- this letter from my uncle," and he held the communication up. "Sam and Tom can go."

"I don't feel much like it -- now," murmured Sam.

"Neither do I," added Tom.

"Oh, you might as well go," urged Dick. "I'll attend to the message to Uncle Randolph. Everything may be all right -- and there is no use of the three of us disappointing Bob. You go, and explain why I didn't come."

"Maybe you can come later," suggested Stanley.

"I'll see. But I must get word to my uncle first," answered Dick.

While Sam and Tom got ready to attend the spread Bob Grimes was to give, Dick hurried downstairs again. In the hallway he ran into Paul Orben, one of the older students whom he knew real well.

"Why in such a hurry, Dick?" questioned Paul, good-naturedly grabbing him by the shoulder.

"I want to get to town -- to send a telegram home," answered Dick. Then, struck by a sudden idea, he added: "Paul, is your motorcycle ready for use?"

"It is, and if you want to use it to run down to Ashton with, take it," answered the other, readily. He had once been up in the Dartaway and was glad of a chance to pay the debt he thought he owed the Rovers.

"Thanks very much, I'll use it," returned Dick.

"Come on, then, and I'll make sure that it is all right."

The two young collegians hurried to a room attached to the gymnasium, where bicycles, motorcycles, and other things were kept. Soon the motorcycle was brought out and Paul gave it a brief inspection.

"All right," he announced. "I thought it would be."

"Then I'm off," answered Dick, and pushing the machine along the path towards the road, he hopped into the seat and turned on the power.

Dick had never had much experience in running a motorcycle, but he had tried one enough to know how it should be handled, and soon he was well on his way and riding at a fair rate of speed. The road was good, and he had a fine headlight, and almost before he knew it he had reached Ashton and was approaching the depot.

He had been afraid the ticket and telegraph office would be closed, but he found the man inside, making up a report.

"I want to rush a message home," he said. "And I want to arrange to have it telephoned to our house. I will pay the bill, whatever it is."

"It will depend on whether we can get the operator at Oak Run," said the man. "He may have locked up for the night."

The message was written out, and Dick waited in the depot for an answer. Quarter of an hour passed slowly and then the telegraph operator came to him.

"Sorry, Mr. Rover, but Oak Run doesn't answer. I guess the office is closed for the night."

"Try for Spotstown," said Dick, naming another railroad station several miles further from his home.

Again came a wait.

"Same story -- can't get Spotstown, either," said the operator.

"Well, I've got to get somebody, somehow," murmured the oldest Rover boy. "I guess you can get New York City, can't you?" he asked, with a faint smile.

"Of course."

"Then I'll write another message."

Dick knew that when his father was in the habit of going to the metropolis he usually stopped at a large place on Broadway, which I shall call the Outlook Hotel. He accordingly addressed a message to the manager of that hotel, as follows:

"Is Anderson Rover at your hotel? If so, have him telegraph me; otherwise send me word at once."

"Now I guess I'll hear something," thought Dick, as he turned in this telegram and paid for having it transmitted. "Send it Rush, please," he told the operator.

Again there was a wait -- this time of nearly half an hour. At last the instrument commenced to click in the telegraph office, and Dick waited anxiously while the man took the message down.

"Is it for me?" he asked. And the man nodded, as he continued to write.

When the sheet was passed over the operator looked curiously at Dick -- a look that made the youth's heart sink. With a hand that trembled in spite of his efforts to steady it, the oldest Rover boy held up the paper and read this:

"Anderson Rover was at this hotel until yesterday morning. His baggage is here. Bill unpaid. Left no word.

Manager."

"Gone!" murmured Dick, brokenly. "'Left no word,' 'Bill unpaid!' What can it mean?"

"Something unusual, eh?" said the operator, as he took the bankbill the youth handed out to him for the message and gave back the change.

"Very unusual," was the reply. "I don't know what to make of this." Dick thought for a moment. "I suppose I can't get a train home before morning."

"No, the first train for you is the eight-forty-five to-morrow."

"Too bad! I wish there was a train right away."

There was no help for it, and a few minutes later the youth left the depot, and jumping on the motorcycle, started back for Brill College.

As he rode along Dick's thoughts were busy. What had taken his parent to New York and why had he disappeared so mysteriously?

"He certainly must have gone there on business -- the business that has been bothering him so long," he mused. "But would that cause him to disappear? Maybe he had an accident, or was waylaid for his money."

A thousand thoughts surged through poor Dick's brain, but he could reach no definite conclusion regarding his father's disappearance. Yet he was certain of one thing.

"He didn't leave the hotel that way of his own accord," he reasoned. "He would pay his bill and look after his baggage. It's for some outside reason that he didn't return to his hotel and answer Uncle Randolph's telegram."

When Dick arrived at the college he put the motorcycle away and went directly to his room. Sam and Tom were still away, but he heard them returning just as he was on the point of going after them. As they came in, he motioned for them to close and lock the door. Fortunately, they had their rooms to themselves, Songbird, their only roommate, having gone away for the night.

"What did you learn, Dick?" asked both brothers, quickly.

"Not much -- and still a great deal," he answered, and told them how he had tried to send word home and had then called up the hotel in the metropolis.

"What do you make of this?" asked Tom, after he and Sam had read the brief message from the hotel manager.

"Do you think he met with an accident?" questioned Sam.

"I don't know what to think."

"It looks mighty suspicious to me -- the bill unpaid and baggage left behind," murmured Tom. Then of a sudden he drew a sharp breath. "Oh, Dick, do you think --  -- " And then Tom stopped short.

"What, Tom?"

"I -- I hate to say it, but do you think it's possible that dad got -- got a little bit out of his head -- with that business worrying him?"

"It's possible, Tom. Men have been known to get that way from business troubles, and dad was far from well, we all know that."

"He should have taken somebody to New York with him," put in Sam. "But it's no use talking about that now. The question is, What are we going to do? I can't stay here and study when he is missing."

"Not much -- I couldn't study a thing!" cried Tom.

"I know what I am going to do," replied Dick. "I am going to take that early train home, and see Uncle Rudolph. I'll send another message to that hotel manager, too, and then, unless we get word that everything is O. K., I'm going to New York as fast as I can get there."

"And I'll go along!" cried each of the two brothers.

"Yes, that might be best -- for if he is still missing we may have a great task to learn what became of him. We'll have to hunt the hospitals, and the police headquarters, and the -- the --  -- " Dick was going to add "morgue," but he could not bring himself to utter the word. It was too awful to think that their father might be dead.

"We'll have to explain to Doctor Wallington, or Professor Blackie," said Tom.

"And send word to the girls," added Sam.

"I don't want to worry anybody more than I have to," said Dick. "This may turn out all right after all," he added. But he had his doubts. That something unusual had happened to his father he was certain.

The boys spent some little time in packing their suitcases with such things as they deemed necessary for the trip, and then turned out the lights and went to bed. But none of them slept well. All tumbled and tossed on their couches, trying in vain to solve the mystery that surrounded the disappearance of their parent.

They were up an hour earlier than usual, and it was Dick who took the liberty to knock on the door of the head of the institution.

"Who is it?" asked the worthy doctor, and the young collegian told him. A moment later the head of the college appeared, wrapped in a dressing gown.

"I am sorry to disturb you, sir," said Dick. "But something has happened that has upset me and my brothers a great deal." And he briefly related the condition of affairs, and asked leave of absence for himself and Tom and Sam.

"This is certainly alarming," said Doctor Wallington, sympathetically. "I trust your father is speedily found and that nothing serious has happened to him. Yes, you may go, and remain as long as is necessary. When he is found, let me know."

"Thank you, sir," said Dick, and after a few words more he hurried off. Then he and his brothers got an early breakfast, and had Abner Filbury drive them to the Ashton depot. Only a handful of students saw them depart.

"Wish you success, boys!" cried Stanley after them.

"Yes, indeed," added Spud. "Keep up a stout heart. Maybe it's all right, after all. There may be some mistake somewhere."



Chapter XI

At The Farm


"Oak Run! All out for Oak Run!"

It was the familiar cry of the brakeman of the train, as the cars rolled into the little station at which the Rover boys were to alight. The ride from Ashton had been without incident. They had had to make two changes, and had fretted not a little over a delay of half an hour at one junction point.

"There's old Ricks!" cried Sam, motioning to the station master, who was looking after some baggage. "Remember the fun we had with him on our last trip here, Tom?"

"Indeed, yes," was the reply, and the fun-loving Rover grinned a little.

"No time for fun now," put in Dick, quickly. "We want to get home just as soon as possible."

From one of the telegraph offices along the line the boys had sent word ahead, and at the station they found Jack Ness, the hired man, who had brought the family touring car.

"Glad to see you back," said the hired man, touching his cap.

"Any news, Jack?" asked the three, in one voice.

"You mean from your father?"

"Yes."

"No," and Jack Ness shook his head slowly "Not a line for several days. Your aunt an' uncle are worried 'most to death."

The boys leaped into the touring car, Dick taking the wheel and Sam getting in beside him. Tom and the hired man occupied the tonneau, with the baggage. Away they went, in a cloud of dust, over the frail bridge that spanned the river and through the village of Dexter's Corners. Then they struck the country road leading to Valley Brook farm, their home. Dick increased the speed to thirty miles an hour -- all the car would stand on such a highway.

"Say, we'll have an accident!" cried Jack Ness, in alarm. "It ain't safe to run so fast, nohow!"

"Sit still, Jack; Dick knows what he is doing," commanded Tom. "We want to get home just as soon as we can."

"Well, I don't blame ye fer wantin' to git home, -- but I don't want to git kilt!" murmured the man of all work.

Farm after farm was passed and also a patch of timber land. Then they swept around a turn and came in sight of Valley Brook, with its broad fields and its gurgling brook flowing down to Swift River.

"There's Aleck!" shouted Sam, pointing to a colored man who was standing at the entrance to a lane. He waved his hand and Alexander Pop, one of the servants, and a man who had made many trips with the Rovers, took off his hat and waved in return.

As he swung up to the broad piazza of the house, Dick honked the automobile horn. At once the door flew open and Mrs. Rover ran out, followed by her husband.

"Oh, boys! I am so glad to see you!" cried Mrs. Rover.

"How are you, Aunt Martha!" returned Sam, leaping out and kissing her, an example speedily followed by his brothers.

"Very glad you came," said Randolph Rover, a tall, thin, and studious-looking man, wearing big spectacles. He shook hands all around. "Come right into the house."

"You haven't any word from dad?" questioned Sam.

"Nothing, boys -- and I do not know what to make of it."

"It is a fearful state of affairs," burst out Mrs. Rover, and tears stood in her motherly eyes. "We cannot imagine what has happened to your father."

"I sent another telegram to that hotel," said Dick. "I asked the manager to send his reply here."

It was a rather sad home-coming, and even Tom felt much depressed in spirits. All filed into the house and to the sitting-room, leaving Jack Ness and Aleck Pop to look after the automobile and the baggage.

"We ought to get a message from New York soon," remarked Dick, after his uncle had related the little he had to tell about how Anderson Rover had gone away on the trip to the metropolis. Evidently Randolph Rover knew little about the business that had taken his brother to the city. He was no business man himself -- being wrapped up in what he called scientific farming -- and probably the boys' father had not thought it worth while to take him into his confidence.

Dinner was on the table, and the boys went to the dining-room to eat. But nobody had any appetite, and the fine repast prepared by the cook under Mrs. Rover's directions, was much of a failure. Once the telephone rang and the boys rushed to it. But the call was only a local one, of little consequence.

"I think the best thing I can do will be to go over dad's private papers," said Dick, presently. "They may give me a clew of where to look for him in New York."

"That's the talk!" cried Tom. "Come on, let's get busy." He hated to sit still at any time, and just at present inactivity was doubly irksome.

During the past year a room had been added to the house and this was used as a library and sort of office combined, being provided with a substantial safe and two roller-top desks. One of the desks was used exclusively by Anderson Rover for his private letters and papers. When sick the man had given Dick the extra key to the desk, telling him to keep it. The father trusted his three sons implicitly, only keeping to himself such business affairs as he thought would not interest them.

The boys sat down and, led by Dick, began a careful inspection of the many letters and documents which the roller-top desk contained. A large number of the papers and letters they knew had no bearing on the affair now in hand. But presently Dick took up some letters of recent date and scanned them with interest.

"I guess this is what we are after!" he cried.

"I was afraid it might be that."

"What is it?" asked his brothers.

"That old irrigation scheme -- the one run by Pelter, Japson & Company, of Wall Street, New York."

"Why, I thought dad had dropped that," said Sam, in surprise.

"He tried to. But they held him to some agreement -- I don't know exactly what. They wanted to get more money out of him -- if they could."

"And you think he went to New York on that account, Dick?" asked Tom.

"It looks so to me."

"But that doesn't account for his disappearance."

"Perhaps it does."

"What do you mean?"

"Those fellows may be holding him a prisoner, or they may even have put him out of the way altogether -- although I doubt if they are as bad as all that."

"Some men would do anything for money," grumbled Sam. "But what good would it do to hold him a prisoner?"

"They may want to force him to sign some papers, or give up some papers he is holding, Sam. One thing is certain, they were very anxious to see him -- these letters show that."

"Hadn't we better telegraph to them and see what they have to say?" suggested Tom.

"Perhaps, Tom -- but, somehow, I don't think that would be a wise move to make. Father did not trust them. He said they were sharpers. If we sent them any word it might put them more on guard than they would otherwise be. I think the best thing to do is to go to New York and interview them personally -- if we don't get word from dad before we leave."

"I think --  -- " commenced Tom, and just then the telephone bell rang and all rushed to it. Dick took up the receiver.

"Is this the Rovers' house?" asked a voice over the wire.

"Yes."

"I have a telegraph message for Richard Rover."

"All right, Mr. Barnes," answered Dick. "What is it?" He had recognized the voice of the telegraph operator at Oak Run.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Rover?" returned the operator. "This is from New York City, and is signed, 'Thomas A. Garley.'"

"Yes, yes! Read the message!" cried Dick, and all three boys listened closely while Dick held the receiver.

"He says: 'No news of Anderson Rover. Better come on and investigate.'"

"Is that all?"

"Yes." And the operator repeated the message. "I'll mail the sheet to you," he added.

"All right, much obliged." Dick turned to his brothers. "Shall I send word back that we are coming?" he questioned.

"Yes."

"Take this message down, Mr. Barnes," went on Dick, and dictated what he wished to say. "I'll settle next time I see you," he added, and hung up the receiver.

The uncle and the aunt of the boys wished to know the news, if such it can be called, and the lads told them. At once Mrs. Rover burst into tears.

"I am sure something has befallen Anderson!" she sobbed. "Oh, what shall we do, Randolph?"

"I -- I think I had better go to New York and -- er -- make some -- er -- inquiries," answered her husband, somewhat helplessly, for a visit to the teeming metropolis always appalled him.

"No, you stay here, and wait for some word, Uncle Randolph," said Dick. "Sam and Tom and I are going to New York."

"Oh, boys!" cried Mrs. Rover. "Going alone?"

"Why not, Aunt Martha?" asked Sam. "We are not afraid."

"I know that. But this is -- er -- no ordinary trip. You may get into trouble, and --  -- "

"If we do, we'll get out of it again," put in Tom, grimly.

"Oh, if only we knew what had become of your dear father!" and the lady's eyes filled again with tears, while Uncle Randolph looked deeply sympathetic.

"I think we had better start at once," went on Dick. "We can get the five-thirty train down."

"What, to-night!" exclaimed the aunt. "Why, that will get you to New York at midnight!"

"Just about," said Tom.

"You had better start in the morning. What will you do at midnight in a big city like New York!"

"We'll go direct to the Outlook Hotel," answered Dick. "And then, if we can't find out anything about father, we can go down to the offices of Pelter, Japson & Company in the morning."

"And if you don't find out anything there?" asked Randolph Rover, timidly.

"Then we'll go to the police, and maybe get a detective or two on the case," returned Dick. "And we'll have to look up the hospitals -- in case he met with an accident. But I don't think he has met with any accident," he continued hastily, for he saw how alarmed his aunt was becoming. "For if he had an accident, the authorities would find out, from the things in his pockets, who he was, and notify us, or the hotel."

Mrs. Rover heaved a deep sigh, and her husband shook his head slowly. Dick closed the desk again and locked it, and then the three boys hurried to their rooms, to prepare for the trip to the metropolis.

"Say, I dun heah dat you am gwine to New York," came a voice from the entrance to Dick's bedroom, and looking up from the suitcase he was packing, the oldest Rover boy saw Aleck Pop standing there, an anxious look on his ebony face.

"Yes, Aleck, we are going to take the five-thirty train. You can tell Jack to get the car ready."

"Want me to go along?" asked the colored man, wistfully.

"No, Aleck, not this trip. You stay here and do what you can for my aunt and uncle."

"Yo' father am missing, ain't he?"

"Yes."

"It's too bad. Hope you find him, Dick, I do, indeed! I'll tell Jack about dat auto." And Aleck Pop went off, shaking his head in sorrow. He loved all of the Rovers, and their troubles were his own.



Chapter XII

Off For New York


"Boys, you must take care and not get into trouble."

"And as soon as you have word of your father let us know."

Thus spoke Aunt Martha and Uncle Randolph, as the three Rover boys stood ready to say good-bye. The automobile was already at the door and their suitcases were in the tonneau.

"We'll take care of ourselves," said Dick. "And as soon as we get any word we'll let you know. And remember, Uncle Randolph, if any word comes to the farm you are to forward it at once to the Outlook Hotel."

"Yes, I'll remember that," answered the uncle.

The boys kissed their aunt, who shed silent tears at their departure. To Aunt Martha the great metropolis was a wonderful as well as dangerous place.

"Good-bye!" cried Tom, and was the first to climb into the automobile, getting into the driver's seat. Jack Ness was to go with them as far as Oak Run, to bring the touring car back.

The other lads climbed in, and all those left at the farm waved them an adieu. Then Tom threw in the dutch, and off they sped, down the lane to the main road. Soon a cloud of dust hid them from view.

"It's awful, Randolph!" murmured Mrs. Rover to her husband. "New York is such a busy place -- and there are so many wicked people in it!"

"The boys know how to take care of themselves," answered Randolph Rover. "Why, they even took care of themselves when they were cast away on that island in the Pacific Ocean," he added, referring to happenings which I have related in detail in the volume entitled "The Rover Boys on Land and Sea."

"True -- but -- but I am nervous about this trip. And then, what can have happened to Anderson?"

"That I don't know. Maybe a street car or an automobile ran over him. They have such accidents in New York every day, so I've been told."

"I know it! Oh, it is terrible, this suspense!" And Mrs. Rover walked away, the tears still coursing down her cheeks.

In the meanwhile the touring car was making good time along the road to Oak Run. At Dexter's Corners they stopped at the post-office for letters. There were three -- one for each boy, but not one was postmarked New York. They were from the girls at Brill.

"Glad to hear from the girls," said Sam. "But, just the same, this time I'd rather get word from New York."

"So would I," added Dick.

"Ditto here," echoed Tom, with a long-drawn sigh.

Without waiting to read the communications, the lads kept on to the Oak Run depot. They could hear the train coming through the hills and presently it glided into sight and up to the station.

"Good luck to ye!" shouted Jack Ness, as they boarded one of the cars. And then he turned back towards the farm with the touring car.

The train was not more than half filled, so the three youths had but little difficulty in getting seats. They turned one of the seats over, so that they might face each other, and put their suitcases in the racks overhead.

"Guess we might as well read our letters," said Dick, as soon as they were settled. He was anxious to learn what Dora had written. He had asked her to write to her mother concerning their proposed marriage.

"Just what I say," added Tom, and soon he and Sam had settled back, following their big brother's example.

The communication from Dora was quite long and Dick enjoyed it so thoroughly that he read it twice before stowing it away in his breast pocket. The girl stated that her mother had left everything to her own judgment and that she, in turn, was willing to leave everything to Dick.

"Dear, dear Dora!" he mused. "The sweetest girl in all the world! I only hope I prove worthy of her!" And then he sat back and pictured to himself the happy home they would establish as soon as everything could be arranged. Had it not been for the cloud concerning his father, Dick would have been the happiest youth in the world.

"Well, they are not doing much at Hope," remarked Sam. "Society meetings, fudge patties, and grinding away at themes."

"Just what Nellie writes," answered Tom. "Well, you can't expect much fun when you are trying to get an education!" And he sighed, as he thought of what was before him at Brill. In a way, he envied Dick his opportunity to break away and get out into the business world.

It had been too early to get supper before leaving home -- although their aunt had offered it -- so about seven o'clock the lads went into the dining car attached to the train. They found a table for four vacant and took possession, and presently ordered what they wanted.

"Hello! look there!" exclaimed Tom, in a low voice, after looking around the dining car, and he pointed to a man at one of the tables for two.

"It's that lawyer who settled for the smashed biplane," returned Sam. "Must be going to New York, too."

"Most likely his profession takes him to the city quite often," remarked Dick.

"Wonder if he'll speak to us if he sees us," ventured Sam.

"I don't know and I don't care," came from his big brother. "I didn't like him at all -- he was too crafty-like."

Their food served, the boys fell to eating with that gusto that characterizes youths who are still growing. They had about half finished when Dick felt himself touched on the arm. At his side stood Belright Fogg.

"Taking a little trip, eh?" remarked the railroad lawyer, with a bland smile.

"Yes," answered Dick, shortly.

"To New York, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Well, you got settled about that flying machine, didn't you?" went on the lawyer, and dropped into the vacant seat opposite Dick, on the side where Tom sat.

"We did -- but we had some trouble," replied Tom.

"That was a mistake -- to remove the machine," said Belright Fogg. He gazed at the boys a moment. "I understand you sold the wreck for quite a price," he continued.

"We didn't get as much as we wanted," said Sam. "We are still quite something out of pocket."

"But not as much as the railroad company!" The lawyer gave a brief chuckle, which surprised the lads. "Oh, it's all right, so far as I am concerned," he continued. "Maybe you'd be interested to know that I no longer represent that road."

"You don't?" and now Dick was interested.

"No, I handed in my resignation three days ago," answered Belright Fogg. He did not add that he had been asked to resign by the head of the railroad company, because of irregularities in his accounts and because of several professional shortcomings.

"Going to give up law?" asked Tom, for the want of something better to say.

"Not at all, my boy. I am going down to the city to practice my profession. There is a much larger field for my abilities down there than up here," Belright Fogg answered, loftily.

"Yes, New York is pretty large," responded Tom, dryly.

"I expect to open my offices in a few days," went on the lawyer. "If you ever have any business down there, come in and see me. I will mail you one of my cards," and with another bland smile, and a bow, he passed out of the dining car.

"Oh, my, but we are some pumpkins!" murmured Tom. "First thing you know he'll be putting all the other lawyers in New York out of business."

"I shouldn't want him for a lawyer," remarked Sam. "He doesn't impress me very favorably."

"Handed in his resignation, eh?" mused Dick. "More than likely he had to do it. No, I shouldn't want anything to do with him."

The boys finished their meal, and after paying the bill, returned to their former seats. They looked around for Belright Fogg, but he was evidently in some other car of the train.

It was dark, so they could see little of the country through which they were passing. At one station at which they stopped, a newsboy came through the train, crying his wares, and Dick purchased several metropolitan evening papers and handed them around.

"Nothing but politics, a murder, a big auto race, and a new war in Central America," remarked Tom, thumbing over his paper. "How tired the reporters must get of writing about the same kind of things every day."

"They must have exciting times getting the news, sometimes," returned Sam.

"Here's an advertisement that will interest you," remarked Dick, and he pointed to the bottom of a page. "Pelter, Japson & Company advertise themselves as brokers and dealers in high-class Western securities, and they offer stock in that Sunset Irrigation Company. That's the company dad was interested in."

All of the boys read the advertisement carefully, but it added nothing to their stock of knowledge. Then they looked the newspapers over some more, and finally threw them away.

"Wish we were in New York," sighed Sam. He was growing tired, having been on the go since early morning.

"We'll be there inside of half an hour," returned Dick, after consulting his watch.

Presently the long train rolled into the city and came to a stop at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. Then they rolled on and on, through the city, past block after block of apartment houses, stores and offices, and private dwellings.

"Talk about a bee hive!" murmured Tom. "You can't beat New York City, no matter where you go!"

"Well, Chicago is a close second," answered Dick.

"And St. Louis and Philadelphia, and some other cities," put in Sam. "Ours is a big country and no mistake."

The passengers were already getting their belongings together, and in the parlor cars the porters were brushing off the people and, incidentally, pocketing various tips. Then the train rolled into the Grand Central Depot, now called the Grand Central Terminal.

"Last stop!" was the cry, and the boys piled out, each with his suitcase. The sleepy crowd moved along the long platform, in the glare of the electric lights, and through the depot into the busy street.

"Cab!" "Taxi!" "Carry your baggage!" Such were some of the cries which greeted the boys' ears as they emerged on Forty-second Street. The clang of the street car gongs added to the din, and newsboys were everywhere, crying the latest editions of the afternoon papers.

"I'll get a taxi to take us down to the hotel," said Dick, and soon the brothers were in a taxicab, with the suitcases in front, next to the driver. "Outlook Hotel," he ordered, and away they moved, out of the maze of vehicles, for certain thoroughfares of the metropolis are crowded nearly every hour out of the twenty-four.

"Somebody told me that New York never sleeps, and I guess that is true," remarked Sam. "It is half-past twelve and look at the people!"

The taxicab turned over into Fifth Avenue and sped down that noted thoroughfare for about ten blocks. Then it made another turn westward and reached Broadway, and almost before they knew it, the boys were at the main entrance to the Outlook Hotel.

Leaving the driver to turn the baggage over to the hotel porters, Dick paid the fellow and hurried into the building, with Tom and Sam at his heels. They found the night clerk and his assistant at the desk.

"I am Richard Rover," said Dick, to the head clerk.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Rover," was the answer. "I am glad you have come."

"Have you any word about my father?" went an Dick, quickly.

"Nothing, Mr. Rover. We have made all sorts of inquiries, but we haven't learned a single thing, excepting that he walked out of this hotel alone and didn't come back."



Chapter XIII

At The Outlook Hotel


The news had not been totally unexpected, yet the three lads felt very much depressed. They had hoped that some sort of word might have been received concerning their father while they were speeding towards New York on the train.

"I wish you would give me all the particulars," went on Dick.

"Here comes the manager, -- he can tell you more than I can," replied the clerk, and he nodded in the direction of a tall, heavy-set individual who was approaching.

"So you are Mr. Rover's sons, eh?" said Mr. Garley, as he shook hands. "I am sorry for you, indeed I am. This is certainly a puzzle. Come in here and I will tell you all I know," and he led the way to a small reception parlor that was, just then, unoccupied. He drew two chairs up to a small sofa, so that all might sit close together.

"I don't suppose any word came from the farm for us?" suggested Sam, as he was about to sit down.

"If anything came in the name of Rover I'd know about it," returned the hotel manager. "I am very much interested in this case."

"Have you spoken to the police about it?" asked Tom.

"Not yet. I thought that perhaps you would not like it. Sometimes, you know, men go away and leave no word, and, later on, they come back, and they don't want anything said about it. So we have to be careful."

"What have you got to tell us?" asked Dick.

"It isn't very much. In the first place, though, I don't think your father was in the best of health. I noticed that, and so did one of my clerks and one of the elevator men."

"Did he have an attack while he was here?" cried Sam.

"I don't know about that. But we all noticed that he was feeble at times -- and that he seemed to be very much worried over something. He was continually getting his notebook out and doing some writing or figuring, and then he would shake his head, as if it didn't please him at all."

"Yes, he was worried over some business matters," answered Dick. "But that wasn't bad enough to make him go off like this and leave no word. When was he last seen?"

"In the morning, about ten o'clock. He came down in one of the elevators with a small package in his hand -- a package, so the elevator man said, that looked like some legal documents. He seemed to be very much disturbed, and the man said he talked to himself. He hurried out of the side door of the hotel, but one of the doormen saw him go to the corner and turn down Broadway -- and that was the last seen of him, so far as we knew."

"And what of the things in his room?" questioned Dick.

"Outside of the usual cleaning up, I have had everything left as it was," answered the hotel manager. "You may go up there, if you wish."

"We will, -- and we'll most likely want rooms, too."

"The room next to his is vacant, you can have that if you wish."

"All right, we'll take it," returned Tom. "Do they connect?"

"Yes. I'll have the hallman unlock the connecting door for you."

They were soon in an elevator, a boy bringing up their baggage. They passed to the fourth floor of the hotel and to the rear.

"Your father wanted a quiet room, so we put him on the court," explained the manager of the Outlook Hotel, as he unlocked the door and turned on the electric lights.

It was a typical hotel room of the better class, with a brass bed, a bureau, a desk, and several chairs. At one side was a small bathroom.

On a chair rested Mr. Rover's suitcase, locked but unstrapped. On the bureau were his comb and brush, a whisk broom, and some other toilet articles. On some hooks hung a coat and a cap. They glanced into the bathroom, and in a cup on the marble washstand saw his toothbrush.

"He certainly meant to come back," murmured Tom.

"Yes, and that very soon -- or else he wouldn't have left these things lying around," added his younger brother.

Dick passed over to the coat that hung on a hook and felt in the pockets. They contained nothing but some railroad timetables.

"Can't you call up some of your father's business friends or acquaintances?" suggested the hotel manager.

"He had very few acquaintances in the city," answered Dick. "He used to have some close friends, but they are either dead or have moved away. As for the business men he had dealings with -- I guess I had better see them in the morning."

"Then, if there isn't anything more I can do, I'll leave you," returned the hotel manager.

"Nothing more at present," answered Dick.

With the hotel manager gone, the boys closed the door leading to the hallway and sat down to discuss the situation. The door between the two bedrooms had already been opened by a hallman, so that they would have ample sleeping accommodations when they wished to retire. But just now they were too excited and worried to think of sleeping.

"Maybe we had better put the police at work," suggested Sam.

"We surely ought to do something," added Tom.

"What can the police do -- with no clews to work on?" asked their big brother.

"They might look around in the hospitals for him."

"I don't think we'll find him in any hospital."

"Why not, if he met with an accident?"

"I don't believe there was any accident," continued Dick, earnestly.

"Do you think he met with foul play at the hands of those men he came to see?" demanded Sam.

"It looks that way to me, Sam."

"Then we ought to have them locked up at once!"

"How can we -- when we have no evidence against them?"

"Let us look into dad's suitcase," suggested Tom.

"I'll see if I can unlock it."

Dick had a bunch of keys in his pocket, as did Tom and Sam, and the boys tried the keys one after another. At last they found one which fitted, and the suitcase came open.

The bag contained the usual assortment of wearing apparel which Mr. Rover was in the habit of carrying when on a trip that was to last but a few days or a week. In addition, there were several letters and documents, placed in a thick manila envelope and marked with the owner's name.

The boys read the letters and documents with interest. From them they learned that Mr. Rover had been requested to come to the city immediately, to see about some business connected with the Sunset Irrigation Company. The documents were some transfers of stock which they did not quite understand.

"He came down here to see Pelter, Japson & Company, that's certain," remarked Dick. "It eras evidently the only reason why he came to New York. Now the question is, Did he go and see those men, and did they waylay him, or did they hire somebody to do it?"

"I wish we knew more about those men," said Tom. "You can soon size a fellow up when you talk to him."

"Not always," answered Sam. "Sometimes the smoothest talkers are the greatest rascals. Don't you remember how nicely Josiah Crabtree used to talk to Mrs. Stanhope, and see what a rascal he turned out to be!"

"I wonder if they have captured him yet," mused Tom.

"Never mind Crabtree now," put in Dick. "What we want to do is to find father. I don't know exactly how we are going at it, but I think I'll have some sort of plan by morning."

"We can go down to Pelter, Japson & Company and make them tell what they know," said Sam.

"They'll tell what they feel like telling, Sam, -- and that might not do us any good. Mind you, I don't say they did father any harm. But I know they didn't like the way he was getting after them, for they knew that, sooner or later, he might sue them and possibly put one or more of them in jail for fraud."

For fully an hour the boys talked the situation over, and by that time Sam was so sleepy he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Then they retired, Dick remaining in the apartment his father had occupied, and Sam and Tom taking the next room.

For over half an hour Dick turned and tossed on the bed -- his mind filled with thoughts of his father. What had become of his parent? Had he been hurt, or killed, or was he being held a prisoner by his enemies? What if his father should never be heard of again? The last thought was so horrible it made the youth shiver.

"We've got to find him!" he murmured, as he drew the bedclothes around him. "We've got to do it!"

At last Dick fell into a troubled sleep, following the example of his brothers, who had also found difficulty in settling themselves.

Presently the oldest Rover boy awoke with a start. He sat up in bed, wondering what had thus awakened him.

From the next room came the regular breathing of Sam and Tom, showing that they were still in the land of slumber. Dick listened, but no unusual sound broke the stillness.

"It must have been my nervousness," he thought. "Father's disappearance has been too much for me. Well, it's enough to get on anybody's nerves."

He prepared to lie down again, when a faint scraping sound caught his ear. He listened intently.

Somebody was at the hallway door, trying to insert a key in the lock. But the key would not go in, because of the key already there.

"Maybe it's father coming back!" thought the youth, and leaped from the bed to the floor. Three steps took him to the door and he quickly turned the key and caught hold of the handle.

As Dick started to fling the door open he heard a muttered exclamation of dismay in the hall outside. Then came the sound of retreating footsteps, and a slight tinkle, as of metal striking metal.

"Hi, stop! Who are you?" called the youth, and the cry aroused Tom and Sam. He flung open the door and leaped into the semi-dark hallway. The figure of a man was just disappearing around a corner. Dick saw that he wore a heavy beard and that was all.

The oldest Rover boy was thoroughly aroused now, and calling to Sam and Tom to follow, he darted after the flying individual. But by the time he reached the corner of the corridor the man was out of sight. He heard a distant door shut and then all became quiet.

"Who was it?" asked Tom, as he joined Dick.

"Was the fellow in your room?" asked Sam.

"No, but he was trying to get in," answered Dick. "When I woke up he was trying to put a key in the lock. When I started to open the door, thinking it might be dad, the fellow ran away."

"Was it a hallman?"

"I don't think so."

"Where did he go to?"

"Somewhere in this part of the hotel. I just heard a door shut."

"Then he must be on this floor," said Tom. "Say, we ought to investigate this. Did you get a look at him, Dick?"

"Not much of a look. I saw he had a heavy beard."

By this time one of the hallmen was coming up, and to him the boys explained what had happened. He was much interested, for he knew about the disappearance of Mr. Rover, and said he would report to the office.

"I think I heard something drop," said Dick, as the boys returned to the rooms, to put on some clothing. "Hello, here they are! A bunch of keys!" And he held them up.

"One of 'em is new," said Sam, examining the bunch.

"Maybe it was made for the lock of the door to the room father occupied," suggested Tom.

"It's like the old key," returned Dick, comparing the two. "That rascal, whoever he is, must have had the key made for the sole purpose of getting into this room!"

"But for what reason?" questioned Sam.

"To get at dad's private papers," answered his big brother. "Boys, if we catch that man maybe we'll be able to find out what has become of father!"



Chapter XIV

Dick Makes A Discovery


While the boys were discussing the situation one of the night clerks of the hotel arrived, having been summoned by the hallman. He listened with interest to what the lads had to tell.

"I'll set the house detective on this," he said. "We can't allow anybody to prowl around, trying to use false keys."

"We want to catch that man ourselves," said Dick. "We are going to set a watch for him. No more sleep for us to-night."

"I don't blame you," returned the clerk. "If you spot him, call up the office and we'll give you all the help you want."

The boys hurried into their clothing, and then, led by Dick, walked noiselessly through the various hallways of the big hotel in the direction where the oldest Rover boy had heard the door shut. But though they passed many doors, Dick could not determine which was the right one.

"Let us set a regular watch," suggested Tom "We can take turns. One can watch while the others sleep."

"All right, I'll watch first," answered Dick.

"Call me in an hour, Dick," returned Tom.

"And call me an hour after that -- if you want me," added Sam.

The hallway was long and but dimly lighted. At the end was a sofa, and after walking up and down several times, Dick sat down on this. The long journey from Valley Brook farm had made him sleepy, but he resolved to keep wide awake, in case the mysterious individual should again show himself.

"He's got to come out of his door some time, unless he tries to get away by a fire escape," thought the youth. "And I guess all the fire escapes on this side of the building are at the end of the hall. I hope I've got him trapped, whoever he is."

Half an hour went by and nothing unusual happened. Then Dick heard a distant elevator stop, and two men got off and came down the hallway. They stared rather curiously at the youth.

"What's the matter?" asked one, presently.

"Waiting for a friend," was the answer.

"Humph! rather late," remarked the man.

"Better say early, Jack," laughed the other. "It's ten after two."

"Is that so! Great Scott! Time we got to bed!" And the two men passed into a nearby room, locking the door after them.

After that came another period of silence, broken only by the sounds of the two men undressing. To keep himself awake Dick commenced to walk up and down the long hallway again.

"I guess I'll call Tom," he thought, at last, after more than an hour had passed. "I've got to get some sleep, or I won't be worth anything in the morning. And if I am to call on Messrs. Pelter, Japson & Company I want to have my wits about me."

He stepped around the corner of the hallway, in the direction where his own room was located. He did not know that a man with eager eyes was watching him, -- a man who stood on a chair in one of the rooms, peering through the transom light of the door.

"Gone at last -- I was afraid he would stay here all night!" muttered the man. "Now is my chance to get away. I didn't think they'd get here to-night. I should have gotten that key made sooner." And opening the door noiselessly, he came out into the hallway. He wore a thin overcoat and a slouch hat, and a heavy beard covered his face.

Dick hurried his steps and called Tom, and then went back to the other hallway, unwilling to leave it unguarded even for a few minutes. He was just in time to see somebody disappearing down a broad flight of stairs to the floor below.

"Hello! who's that?" he asked himself, and ran towards the stairs. When he arrived there he looked down, to see the man going down further, to the ground floor of the hotel.

"The same fellow, I'll bet all I'm worth!" cried Dick. "There is that heavy beard! He must have been watching for a chance to get away! What a chump I was to let him get out! I've got to stop him!" And he bounded down the stairs three steps at a time.

By the time Dick reached the next floor the man was in the lower corridor of the big hotel. Here, in spite of the hour, quite a few people were stirring -- coming in from late suppers after an evening at the play or opera. The man moved into the crowd and towards the main entrance on Broadway.

"Hi! Stop him! Stop that man!" cried the oldest Rover boy, as he, too, gained the lower corridor. But the man had already gotten out on Broadway. As Dick came out he saw the fellow run across the street to a distant corner and leap into a taxicab that was empty. The driver was on the seat and the turnout started rapidly away.

"You're not going to get away if I can help it," muttered Dick, desperately, and looked around for another taxicab. One stood halfway down the block, the driver taking a nap inside.

"Wake up!" exclaimed Dick, shaking the man. "See that taxi? I want to follow it! Don't let it get out of your sight, if you want your fare and a couple of dollars besides."

"I'm on!" answered the driver, and leaped into his seat, while Dick got into the cab. Away they started, in the full glare of the electric lights of Broadway.

The course was downtown, and the first taxicab made rapid progress. The man inside looked back and when he saw Dick following him, he spoke hurriedly to his driver. Then the cab turned swiftly into a side street, and, reaching Fifth Avenue, shot northward on that well-known thoroughfare.

"Can you catch that other taxi?" asked Dick, anxiously.

"I can try," was the grim answer. "He's going some, though!"

"Maybe they'll be held up at some cross street."

"Not this time in the morning," answered the driver, "They've got a straight road to the Park."

On and on went one taxicab after the other. Fifty-fifth Street was passed and still the first turnout kept well in the lead. But then a big furniture van appeared out of a side street and the cab ahead had to slow down.

"Now is your chance!" cried Dick. "Run up alongside of 'em!"

His driver did as requested. But then came a mix-up, as two more cabs appeared, and Dick's was caught between them. He looked ahead and saw the man with the heavy beard leap to the ground.

"Guess your man is going to run for the Park!" cried the taxicab driver. "Hold on -- I want my money first, young fellow!"

Dick had leaped to the ground, bent on catching the fleeing individual. He pulled some bills from his pocket.

"Here is five dollars -- wait for me!" he cried. "Or maybe you had better come along. That fellow is a criminal."

"I'll wait here," answered the taxicab driver. He did not wish to become mixed up in an affair which he did not understand.

The corner of Central Park at Fifty-seventh Street was already in sight. The bearded man ran swiftly across the broad plaza and the sidewalk. Then he darted along the side of the Park and on to the path leading to the menagerie. In a moment more the darkness of the place swallowed him up.

"Hey there, what are you running for?" It was a challenge from a Park policeman, as he stepped in front of Dick.

"I wanted to catch that man who just ran in here," explained the youth.

"I didn't see any man."

"Well, he went in here just now. He ran away from the Outlook Hotel in a taxi and got out just below here."

"Who is he?" asked the policeman, becoming interested.

"I don't know. But he tried to get in my room at the hotel. The hotel men want to catch him."

"Humph! Well he's gone now."

Dick continued to look around for the escaped man, but it was all to no purpose. Then he returned to where he had left the taxicab. He found his driver in earnest conversation with the other driver.

"That fellow didn't pay me a cent!" complained the other driver, bitterly. "An' after me doing my best for him, too!"

"Why did you try to run away?" asked Dick, coldly.

"I thought it was all right. He said he had a 'phone message that his father was dying and he must git up town at once, and he promised me big pay. I didn't know he was trying to git away from anybody."

"Well, it's too bad he got away from all of us. By the way, can you describe him to me?" went on Dick, curiously.

"Don't you know him?"

"Only by reputation -- and that's bad," and Dick smiled grimly.

"He was tall and thin and didn't have much hair on his head. I think them whiskers was false."

"Anything else that you remember?"

"He had two of his front teeth filled with gold. I noticed it when he yawned under the electric lights."

"Two front teeth filled with gold!" cried Dick, in amazement. "And tall and thin! Can it be possible!"

"Do you know him after all?" asked the man who had given the information.

"Perhaps I do. Tell me some more about him. How was he dressed and how did he talk?"

As well as he was able the taxicab man described the individual who had gotten away. As he proceeded Dick became more and more convinced that he was on the right trail.

"Here is a dollar for what you have told me," said he, to the driver. "If you spot that rascal, have him arrested, and call up the Outlook Hotel," he added.

"All right, I'll remember that," was the ready answer.

"I'll go back to the hotel," said the youth, to his own driver. He knew that Sam and Tom would be wondering what had become of him.

It took but a short while to reach the Outlook Hotel, and there Dick found not only Sam and Tom, but also a clerk and several others awaiting his return. He settled with the driver, and dismissed him.

"Do you know anything about the man who got away?" asked Dick, of the clerk.

"Not much. He came here several days ago and registered under the name of Peter Smith, of Pittsburgh. All he had was a small valise, and that is still in his room."

"Anything in it?"

"I don't know. We can go up and take a look."

"It's a pity you didn't catch the rascal, whoever he is," was Tom's comment.

"Wait," whispered Dick, to his brothers. "I've got something to tell you."

All passed upstairs in an elevator, and the clerk led the way to the room which the patron calling himself Peter Smith had occupied. All the apartment contained was a rusty-looking valise.

"Must have picked that up at some second-hand store," was Sam's comment.

The valise was unlocked and the clerk opened it. It contained nothing but a comb and brush and some magazines.

"Humph! A dead beat!" muttered the clerk. "He put the magazines inside to make the valise feel as if it was filled with clothing. It's an old game. Be intended to leave without paying his bill. I wish you had collared him!"

"I wish I had," answered Dick; and then he and his brothers returned to their own rooms.

"What have you got to tell?" demanded Tom, when they were alone.

"I've found out who that man was," answered Dick.

"Who?" questioned Sam.

"Josiah Crabtree."



Chapter XV

At The Brokers' Office


Sam and Tom gazed at their brother in amazement.

"Josiah Crabtree!" exclaimed the youngest Rover.

"How did you find that out?" questioned Tom.

"I suspected Crabtree as soon as I saw the man jump into the taxicab," answered Dick. "There was something about his form, and in the way he ran, that looked familiar. Then the taxi driver told me he had two front teeth filled with gold. That put me on the trail, and from what the man told me I am sure the fellow was old Crabtree."

"But if it was Crabtree, what has he to do with dad's visit to New York?" asked Sam.

"That remains to be found out. But one thing is sure. Crabtree knows that father is missing, -- and he had that extra key made to get into the room during father's absence."

"But where is dad? Do you imagine Crabtree had anything to do with his disappearance?" came from Tom.

"I certainly do. Maybe Crabtree is holding him a prisoner."

"Then Pelter, Japson & Company haven't anything to do with it?"

"I wouldn't say that, Tom. The whole crowd may be working together."

"You think Crabtree knows those other men?"

"It may be so -- I am not sure. But I am sure of one thing," went on Dick, decidedly. "Dad didn't meet with any accident. His disappearance is due to Crabtree, and, likely, to some of his other enemies."

"Well, that clears up one corner of the mystery," said Sam. "But it doesn't get us any nearer to finding dad."

"I think it does, Sam. If we can locate Crabtree, I think we can locate father."

"But how are we going to locate Crabtree?"

"I don't know. But if we keep our eyes and ears open we may learn something. In the morning some of us can call on those brokers and see what they have to say," continued the big brother.

"Some of us? I thought we were all going?" remarked Tom.

"I've got a new plan, Tom; I'll tell you about it in the morning. Now, as there is no use of watching that room any longer, let us try to get a little sleep."

"It will be very little," murmured Sam, consulting his watch. "It is nearly five o'clock already!"

"We'll sleep until eight o'clock. Those brokers don't get to business until nearly ten."

Once more the boys retired, and, after much turning, all dropped into slumber. Dick had made up his mind to awaken at eight o'clock and promptly at that hour he opened his eyes. His brothers were still asleep and he allowed them half an hour longer, for he knew they needed it.

"Now then, Dick, what's your programme?" asked Tom, while he was dressing.

"My programme is this," answered the big brother. "Instead of the three of us calling on Pelter, Japson & Company I think one is enough -- and that ought to be me, for I have already met Mr. Pelter, once, when I came to New York with dad."

"But what do you want to leave us out for?" grumbled Sam.

"I don't want to leave you out -- I want you to be doing something else, for we have no time to lose in this matter. I want you, Sam, to come with me, and when I go into the offices, I want you to hang around outside and watch for old Crabtree. If he is in league with the brokers he may be looking for a chance to interview them, but he will be on his guard, knowing that we are here."

"What am I to do?" asked Tom.

"I think you had better go up to Central Park, Tom, and see if you can find out anything there about Crabtree. Maybe some of the night prowlers around there saw him last night. Anyway, I don't want you to be seen at the offices with me -- for I've got another plan in my head -- if this one fails," went on Dick.

"All right, Dick, we'll do what you say," was Tom's reply.

The boys went below and obtained breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Then they went to the desk, to ask for letters, and then to the telegraph office, to send a brief message to the farm.

"Have you discovered anything?" questioned the hotel manager, as he came up to them.

"Not a great deal," answered Dick. "But we hope to get on the track of something to-day."

"Hope you do. What about those two rooms?"

"We'll keep them for the present, Mr. Garley."

"All right."

"And I want you to watch out, so that no outsider gets into them," went on Dick.

"Leave that to me, Mr. Rover. My men have their instructions. We can't afford to leave our guests go unprotected."

"Good! If anybody tries to get into our rooms I want you to have him arrested and held."

"He'll be held, don't worry about that," answered the hotel manager, grimly.

A little later the three Rover boys separated, Tom walking over to Fifth Avenue, to take an auto bus going uptown, as that would land him close to the Park entrance.

"We might as well take a Broadway car down to Wall street," said Dick, to Sam. "We have plenty of time, and I don't like the air in the subway."

"I like the street cars better anyway," responded the younger brother. "A fellow can see more."

As was to be expected, the car was crowded, and the boys had to take "strap seats," as Sam called them -- standing up in the aisle, holding on to a strap to keep from falling or sitting down suddenly into somebody's lap when the car made a turn. They swept down past Union Square and block after block of tall business buildings.

"My, what a big place New York is!" remarked Sam. "It's a regular bee hive and no mistake."

"We are coming down to the Post Office," said Dick, a little later.

"Gracious! See the building opposite!" gasped Sam. "It's higher than a church steeple! Wonder how many stories it is?"

"Fifty stories," answered a young man standing beside him.

Soon the car was in lower Broadway, and the boys watched out for Wall street, that narrow but famous thoroughfare opposite Trinity church. It was soon reached, and, in company with several men and boys, they left the car.

Dick had the address of the brokers in his pocket and the place was easily found. The offices were located in an old building -- one of the oldest on the street, and also one of the shabbiest. But it was five stories in height and boasted of two elevators, and was, from appearances, filled with prosperous tenants. In Wall street rents are so high that many a person doing business there is willing to take whatever quarters he can get.

"Now you hang around in the street here until I come back," said Dick to Sam. "Keep out of sight all you can, so that if Crabtree comes along he won't see you. I'll go up and see what Pelter, Japson & Company have to say."

"How long will you be gone, Dick?"

"Not more than half an hour at the most -- and maybe not half that," responded the big brother.

Sam dropped behind and Dick entered the dingy office building. From the directory on the wall the oldest Rover boy learned that the brokers were located on the fourth floor, rooms 408 to 412, -- the numerals really meaning offices 8 to 12 on floor 4. He got into one of the narrow elevators and soon reached the fourth floor.

The offices of Pelter, Japson & Company were located in the rear, overlooking the roof of a restaurant on the street beyond. Dick entered a tiny waiting room and an office boy came to ask what he wanted.

"I wish to see Mr. Pelter," said Dick.

"Not in yet."

"When do you expect him?"

"Ought to be here now."

"Then I'll wait," and Dick dropped on a chair. He had hardly done so when the door opened and a burly individual hurried in. He gave Dick an inquiring look.

"Wants to see you, Mr. Pelter," said the office boy. "Just came in."

"Want to see me? What is it?" and the head of the brokerage firm stepped up to Dick.

"You are Mr. Pelter?"

"Yes."

"I am Richard Rover -- Anderson Rover's son."

"Ah! indeed!" cried Jesse Pelter, and gave a slight start. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Rover," and he held out his hand. "Will you -- er -- step into my office?"

He led the way through two offices to one in the extreme rear. This was well furnished, with a desk, a table, several chairs and a bookcase filled with legal-looking volumes. In one corner was a telephone booth, and a telephone connection also rested on the desk.

"I came to see about my father," said Dick, as he sat down in a chair to which the broker motioned.

"You mean, about your father's business, I suppose."

"No, about my father. Do you know where he is, Mr. Pelter?"

"Know where he is? What do you mean? Isn't he in New York?" The broker pretended to arrange some papers on his desk as he spoke and did not look at Dick.

"He has disappeared and I thought you might know something about it."

Dick looked the man full in the face. He saw the broker start and then try to control himself.

"Well that -- er -- accounts for it," said Jesse Pelter, slowly, as if trying to make up his mind what to say.

"Accounts for what?"

"Why, he didn't come back here as he said he would."

"He has been here then?"

"Yes, a number of days ago. We had quite some important business to transact. He said he would come back the next day and sign some papers, and fix up some other matters. But he didn't come."

"Did he say he would be here sure?"

"He did. So he has disappeared? That is strange. Perhaps some accident happened to him."

"I hope not. I knew he came to New York to see you and your partners. I thought you could tell me something about him."

"I don't know any more than that he called here one day and said he would come in again the next, Mr. Rover. If he is -- er -- missing you had better notify the police, -- unless you have some idea where he went to," continued the broker.

"I have no idea further than that he came to New York to see you -- and that he came here from his hotel."

"See here! Do you mean to insinuate that we -- er -- may know where he is -- why he is missing?" demanded Jesse Pelter, sharply.

"I insinuate nothing, Mr. Pelter. But if you expected him the next day after he was here, and he didn't come, why didn't you telephone to him?"

"I -- er -- I didn't know where he was stopping. If I had known, I might have telephoned to him. Although he had a right to stay away from here if he wanted to."

"He is transacting quite some business with you, isn't he?"

"We have done quite some business together in the past, yes," answered the broker, coldly.

"And matters were not going very well, were they?" questioned Dick, sharply.

"They were going as well as could be expected."

"You owed my father a great deal of money, didn't you?"

"We did owe him something. But we don't owe him anything now. We settled up with him in full," was the reply, which filled Dick with new astonishment.



Chapter XVI

More Discoveries


"You settled up with him in full?" gasped Rick.

"Yes -- some time ago."

"Not for that stock in the Sunset Irrigation Company."

"I was not talking about the Irrigation Company. That is another affair. Your father was to see us about that on the morning when he -- er -- when he failed to come here. I -- er -- I thought he had gone back home to get certain documents which he stated he did not have with him."

"And you haven't seen or heard of him since?"

"Not a word, Mr. Rover -- I give you my word."

"Did he leave any of his papers with you when he was here last?"

"No." Jesse Pelter took up the telephone on his desk. "Give me 2345 River!" he said to Central. He turned to Dick. "You will have to excuse me, Mr. Rover, I have some important business to transact."

"It isn't as important as finding my father,". answered Dick, bluntly.

"I do not know how I can aid you."

"Perhaps you don't care to try," returned Dick, pointedly, as he arose.

"What do you mean?" demanded the broker, and hanging up the telephone receiver, he, too, arose.

"Never mind what I mean, Mr. Pelter. If you will give me no aid, I'll find my father alone," and having thus spoken, Dick marched from the offices, leaving the broker staring after him curiously.

"Hum! Looks like a smart young man!" murmured Jesse Pelter, to himself. "And I thought Anderson Rover's boys were all school kids! This lad has grown up fast. I wonder what he'll do next? I guess I had better keep my eye on him."

When Dick reached the street he saw nothing of Sam. He looked up and down, and then walked slowly in the direction of Broadway. On the corner he came to a halt.

"He must be somewhere around," he mused. "Perhaps I'd better go back and wait for him."

"Dick!" The cry came from Sam, as he arrived on a run. "Did you learn anything?"

"Not much. But you look excited, Sam. What's up?"

"I think I saw Crabtree!"

"You did! Where? Why didn't you collar him?"

"I didn't get the chance," returned the youngest Rover, answering the last question first. "It was on the corner below here. I was standing in a doorway, watching up and down, when I saw a tall man come along slowly. He halted at the corner and presently another man came out of the side street and touched him on the arm. The second man wore a heavy beard and a slouch hat and colored eyeglasses, but I am almost sure it was Josiah Crabtree."

"Why didn't you go up and make sure? You could have pulled the beard from his face -- if it was false."

"Just what I thought. But I decided that first I would listen to what the two men had to say. When I got closer to the pair I made another discovery.

"What was that."

"The first man had a pointed chin and the heaviest pair of eyebrows I ever saw."

"What!" ejaculated Dick, and his mind ran back to the jail at Plankville, and to what had been said about the man who had visited Josiah Crabtree. And then he thought of the mysterious automobile and its driver.

"Yes, I know what you think, Dick -- and I think the same -- that that man was the one who aided Crabtree to escape from jail," said Sam.

"What did the men say, Sam?"

"I didn't get a chance to listen. As I was coming up I saw the first man give the second man some money. Then the second man looked up and saw me, and shoving the money into his pocket, he dove across the street and into the crowd. That made me feel sure it was Crabtree, and I ran after him pell-mell. I followed him for about half a block. But the crowd was too much for me, and he got away. I was going to tell a policeman, but then I thought he couldn't do any more than I could, and I made up my mind I'd wait for you."

"What became of the other fellow -- the man with the pointed chin?"

"I don't know. He went off somewhere while I was after Crabtree -- if it was Crabtree," answered Sam.

"Show me which way Crabtree went," said Dick, and the brothers walked in the direction the fugitive had taken. But, though they spent over an hour in looking for the man, not a trace of him could be found.

"Well, this proves one thing anyway," said Dick, as he and Sam started on the return to the hotel. "Crabtree is in league with Pelter, Japson & Company. If he wasn't, he wouldn't show himself so close to their offices."

"Just what I think," returned his brother. "And another thing, Dick; I think that man with the pointed chin is in with the brokers, too."

"More than likely. For all we know he may be one of the firm!" went on Dick suddenly. "Wait, I've got an idea. I think I'll go back to those offices."

"And see if the man with the pointed chin is there?"

"Yes."

"All right. Want me to go back, too?"

"You might hang around as you did before. I don't know of anything else to do."

The boys walked back, and while Sam stationed himself in the street Dick walked into the office building which he had before visited. He was just in time to see a boy come from the elevator, some letters in his hand.

"Their office boy," he thought. "Maybe I can get something out of him."

He walked up to the youth and nodded pleasantly.

"You're the boy from Pelter, Japson & Company, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yep," was the laconic reply.

"I want to find a man connected with your concern -- I don't know his name," continued Dick. "He has a pointed chin and very heavy eyebrows."

"Oh, you mean Mr. Japson," said the boy, quickly.

"Is that Mr. Japson?" repeated Dick, scarcely able to suppress his astonishment.

"Sure it is. He's got a very long chin, and his eyebrows is so heavy they come right down over his eyes. I don't see why he don't cut 'em off some -- I would quick enough," went on the office boy.

"Is Mr. Japson in the offices now?"

"No."

"Are you sure of that? He was coming down."

"I know it. But he just telephoned to Mr. Pelter that he couldn't come -- something important."

"How long ago was this?"

"Oh, just a couple of minutes ago."

"Is Mr. Pelter there yet?"

"No, he went out as soon as he got the message. Nobody there but a clerk."

"When will Mr. Pelter be back?"

"I dunno -- maybe not till late -- or maybe not till to-morrow," answered the office boy, and hurried away.

In a thoughtful mood Dick rejoined Sam, and the pair this time hurried to the subway, to get a train uptown.

"I've found out who the second man was," said the oldest Rover boy. "It was Japson, of Pelter, Japson & Company. Sam, I begin to think this is some deep game. This fellow Japson aided Crabtree to escape from the Plankville jail and in return Crabtree is aiding these brokers in their efforts to get the best of father!"

"If we can prove that, we ought to have the brokers arrested."

"But we can't prove it, absolutely. But I am convinced that I am right. The office boy told me that Japson telephoned to Pelter that he could not come in. More than likely Japson was afraid you would be on guard and spot him. As soon as Japson telephoned in Pelter went out -- most likely to meet his partner."

"And maybe to hunt up Crabtree, Dick."

"Perhaps."

"But what of father?" went on the youngest Rover, anxiously.

"I can't answer that question, Sam. But it is going to be answered sooner or later -- if I have to have all those men arrested. I am certain in my own mind that they are responsible for dad's disappearance. They got him out of the way so that they could get the best of him in that Sunset Irrigation Company scheme."

"I think we ought to watch the men and see where they go."

"So do I. But, now they know we are on guard, they will be very careful."

"Do you think they had father abducted?"

"That is just what I do think. If you'll remember, that is one of Crabtree's favorite tricks. He would not dare to put father out of the way -- take his life, I mean -- and that would be the only other thing he could do."

"Where could they take him to, in such a city as this?"

"Oh, there are a dozen places -- empty stores and basements, vacant flats and apartments. And then they may have taken him away from New York, in an automobile, or on some vessel in one of the rivers."

"I'd give a good deal to know where he is now!" cried Sam, bitterly.

"So would I, Sam. Well, we'll do what we can," added Dick, with determination.

It did not take the boys long to return to the Outlook Hotel. They looked around for Tom, but he was not in sight. However, he arrived a few minutes later. His face showed that his quest had been an unsuccessful one.

"I talked to everybody around that end of Central Park," he said. "One man saw Crabtree, but he couldn't tell where the rascal went to. Did you learn anything?"

"We did," answered Dick. "Come on to dinner and we'll tell you."

While the three ate a hasty midday meal, Dick and Sam told of their discoveries. Tom listened with interest.

"I think you are right!" he cried. "Crabtree is in with the brokers, and the whole bunch is a bad one. I think they are holding dad a prisoner somewhere. The question is, Where? And how can we get to him and rescue him?"

"We might watch those offices," suggested Sam. "But those fellows will be on guard, and we may not learn anything for days and days."

"We could have them arrested," suggested Tom. "But it won't do any good without positive evidence."

"There is something about this whole affair that I can't understand," said Dick. "That man Pelter claims that he settled up with father for everything excepting this Irrigation Company project. Father never told me that he settled up -- and I think he would have said something if it was so."

The three boys talked the affair over from every possible standpoint, but could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. All were sorry that they had not captured Josiah Crabtree.

"Let me get my hands on him and I'll make him tell what has become of dad," said Dick.

The meal concluded, they went up to their rooms, to talk the matter over further.

"I suppose Aunt Martha and Uncle Randolph are as anxious, almost, as we are," said Sam. "Hang the luck! I wish old Crabtree was back in jail, and Pelter, Japson & Company were with him!"

There was a knock on the door and a boy appeared with a telegram. It was addressed to Dick.

"Maybe it's from dad!" cried Sam and Tom, in a breath.

Dick tore open the envelope and read the message rapidly. His brow darkened and he shook his head slowly.

"What does it say?" asked Sam.

"Who it is from?" added Tom.

"It is from Uncle Randolph," answered Dick. "Listen!" And he read as follows:

"Important news. Your father's signature demanded on important documents inside of three days, or great financial loss and dishonor to all of us.

"Randolph Rover."



Chapter XVII

An Important Telephone Message


"There's the answer!" cried Tom.

"It's as plain as day!" added Sam.

"You are right," came from Dick. "I see it all now." He signed for the telegram and dismissed the boy, closing the door after him. "They are keeping father a prisoner somewhere, so that he cannot sign those documents."

"And it means a big financial loss and dishonor to all of us," went on Tom. "That must mean Uncle Randolph as well as dad."

"I wish Uncle Randolph had sent some particulars," sighed Sam.

"They may come in by mail -- most likely they will," answered Dick. "It would be just like him to send a letter and then telegraph afterwards."

"Well, one thing is clear," remarked Tom. "We have got to find dad, and do it pretty quickly, too. We know -- or, at least, we are pretty sure of it -- that he is in the power of Crabtree and Pelter, Japson & Company. Now the question is, What are we going to do about it?"

"I said this morning I had an idea, Tom," answered his big brother. "I don't know whether it will work out or not, or if you'll care to try it. You know I told you to go to Central Park while Sam and I went down to those offices. I did that so that those brokers wouldn't see you. They don't know you, and you can go down and interview them as a stranger. Do you catch the idea?"

"I do!" cried Tom, eagerly. "And I'll do it! But what shall I say?" he asked, suddenly sobering.

"You might state that you had heard of the Sunset Irrigation Company and thought of investing, or something like that. Maybe they might give you some information that would be valuable for us. And, while there, you may hear something about Crabtree, or something about where father may be."

"I'll go this afternoon," cried Tom. The idea of playing the spy pleased him greatly.

"But you want to be careful," warned his older brother. "If cornered, those brokers may prove to be desperate men."

"I'll be on my guard, Dick."

"Sam and I can go down part of the way with you, and when you go in, we can hang around outside, one at the upper and one at the lower street corner. Perhaps by doing that, we'll catch another sight of Crabtree, although I think, for the present, he'll keep away from Wall street and meet those brokers somewhere else, or telephone to them."

It was not long after this when the three Rover boys set out for the lower part of the great metropolis. They took the subway, that being the quickest way to get there. Dick gave Tom directions how to find the brokers' offices, and then the brothers separated as agreed.

Tom had fixed himself up for the occasion, wearing a slouch hat and a flowing tie, in the manner of a young man from the West or South. He carried a pocket full of timetables and another pocket full of legal-looking documents. He also carried half a dozen visiting cards, with the name and address:

Roy A. Putnam Denver, Colo.

With eyes on the alert for the possible appearance of somebody who might know him, Tom walked into the office building where Pelter, Japson & Company did business and entered the elevator. He was the only passenger, and arriving at the fourth floor, he found himself alone in the corridor leading to the brokers' offices.

"Guess I'll listen a bit and see if I can hear anything," he told himself, and tiptoed his way to one of the doors.

He listened intently, but the only sound that broke the stillness was the click of a typewriter and the occasional shifting of some papers. Then he tiptoed his way to the next door, that marked Private.

Straining his ears, Tom caught the scratching of a pen and then a deep sigh, as if somebody had just completed an important bit of work. Then he heard the footsteps of a man, walking from the inner to the outer office.

"If he comes out, I'll have to show myself," thought the youth. But the man did not appear, instead Tom presently heard him return to the inner office. Then the telephone rang and the man answered it.

"Yes," Tom heard him say. "All right. Wait a second," And then the man kicked shut a door between the offices, to assure himself of privacy.

There followed a long wait, during which time the man in the office was probably receiving some message.

"To-morrow morning?" Tom heard him ask "What time? Ten o'clock. That is rather early, but I can go there directly from my home." There came another pause. "Leave that to me," cried the man. "I'll make him do it!" He paused again. "I am not afraid of those boys," he added. "I'll be there, sure." Another pause. "Yes, the boat is the best place. Nobody can disturb us there. Good-bye." And then the man hung up the telephone receiver.

Tom had taken in every word that the man said. If it was Pelter he must be talking to Japson, or Crabtree, or somebody else in the affair. And Tom did not doubt but what by "those boys" the man had meant himself and his brothers.

"And when he said, 'I'll make him do it,' he must have been speaking of father," he reasoned. "And he mentioned a boat. Maybe they have dad on a boat."

Tom waited for some time longer in the corridor, but nothing of importance occurred. Then he stepped loudly to the main door of the offices and entered.

The same boy Dick had met was there and asked him what he wanted.

"I want to see about some shares in the Sunset Irrigation Company," answered Tom. "Anybody in I can talk to?" And he handed out one of the cards he had fixed up.

"I'll see," answered the office boy, and disappeared into the inner office with the card.

A moment later Jesse Pelter appeared, holding the card in his hand. He smiled pleasantly.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Putnam," he said, bowing. "I am Mr. Pelter. I'll be glad to let you know all about our Irrigation Company and its prospects."

He ushered Tom into his private office and offered him a chair.

"Want to make an investment for yourself?" he said, suggestively.

"If it's a good one," returned Tom, with an assumed grin. "A fellow who comes into a fat legacy has got to do something, hasn't he?"

"Surest thing you know," responded Jesse Pelter. "And this Irrigation Company of ours is the best thing in the world for rapid money making," he continued. "Just come on from Denver, Mr. Putnam?"

"I've been in New York a couple of days," answered Tom. "I want to look around a bit before I invest anything. I heard something of this company before I reached here."

"No doubt! No doubt! It is a big thing, and our rivals are all watching and envying us. Did you get our printed prospectus?"

"No, but I saw one somewhere, some time ago."

"Here you have it, with a map of the property. The shares are now selling at sixty-five, but next week I think we'll have to advance them to seventy or seventy-five, owing to the demand."

"Could a fellow buy five thousand dollars' worth at sixty-five?" asked Tom, trying to show an interest.

"You could, if you were quick about it."

"Well, I want to know something more about this property first," continued Tom. "I don't want to throw any money away."

"Quite right. I see you are a level-headed young man and that is the kind I like to deal with. We'll go over this matter carefully." And then Jesse Pelter plunged into the details of the irrigation scheme, showing up its many good points, and how, in the near future, it was bound to make a lot of money for all who invested in it.

"And you have the shares to sell?" asked Tom.

"Oh, yes."

"Do you own the property, Mr. Pelter?"

"Our company owns it -- that is, we have a controlling interest in it."

"There are no other big stockholders?"

"None at all. We have invested heavily, -- buying out the old company and reorganizing it. All of the other stockholders are small ones. You see, we have such faith in this scheme that we don't want to let too much stock get away from us."

Tom did not see, but he did not say so. Not a word had been said about Mr. Rover and his interest -- Mr. Pelter ignored Tom's father entirely. And yet the youth knew that his parent had fifty thousand dollars or more tied up in that very company!

"I'd like to know some of the people who have invested in this stock," said Tom, after the matter had been talked over for nearly an hour.

"I will give you some names," was the broker's reply, and he wrote them down. "They are the principal stockholders outside of ourselves."

Tom took the list and glanced at it. His father's name did not appear, nor did the names of two other men he knew were interested in the concern.

"Thank you," said the youth, rising. "I will look into this. It might be a good investment for me."

"Finest in the world," returned Jesse Pelter. "Better let me put you down for five thousand dollars' worth of shares to-day."

"No, I want to think it over first."

"Supposing I hold the shares for you until to-morrow?" went on the broker, persuasively.

"You can do that, if you wish," answered Tom.

"Do you want to leave a deposit on them?"

"I didn't bring any money with me -- that is, not enough."

"You might write out a check, Mr. Putnam."

"No, I'll think it over first."

"Then I'll hold the shares and look for you to-morrow," returned Jesse Pelter, somewhat disappointedly. He loved to get his hands on another's money at the first interview. "Please come in after lunch," he added. "I have an important engagement for the morning."

With the map and prospectus and list of names in his pocket, Tom left the offices. He saw that the man with the pointed chin and heavy eyebrows was not present. The force consisted of Mr. Pelter, the office boy, a girl at a typewriter, and a very old man who was at the books.

"Japson must be keeping out of the way," mused Tom, as he descended to the street. "I wonder if it was he or old Crabtree who talked to Pelter over the 'phone?"

Tom soon rejoined his brothers and all three walked away from the vicinity of Wall street. The youth told of his interview with the broker, and of the talk he had overheard while Jesse Pelter was at the telephone.

"They must have been talking about father!" cried Dick, eagerly.

"Maybe they have him a prisoner on a boat!" added Sam.

"It looks that way to me," said Tom. "And I know what I think we ought to do," he continued.

"So do I," answered Dick, quickly. "Watch this Pelter to-morrow, when he leaves his home, and see where he goes to."

"Right you are."

"Where does he live?" questioned Sam.

"I don't know, but we can easily find out."

The boys presently passed an office building in which there was a large telephone station, and there they hunted up Jesse Pelter's home address.

"He lives up in the Bronx," said Dick, taking down the street and number. "We can find out up at the hotel how to reach the place. Let us go back to the Outlook and see if there is any letter from home. Maybe we'll get more news about that financial loss mentioned in that telegram."



Chapter XVIII

On The Hudson River


When the boys returned to the Outlook Hotel they found several letters awaiting them. There was one each from the girls and also a communication from Songbird, written partly in verse, and telling of matters at Brill.

But the letter that interested them most just then was one from their Uncle Randolph, in which he explained something of the financial matters mentioned in the telegram. Their uncle was not a good business man, and often got his statements mixed, but from the communication the boys learned the truth.

There were two matters of importance -- the irrigation scheme and the purchase of a large tract of land which would be benefited by the flow of water, when the irrigation plant was put into operation. In both of the schemes the Rovers held large interests -- that is, they held what were called options, for which Anderson Rover had put up large sums of money, and he had likewise induced some friends to let him put up money for them. In order to clinch their hold on the two business propositions Anderson Rover must sign certain papers and have them delivered to the right parties inside of the next three days. Should he fail to do this, then his options on the property would terminate, and Pelter, Japson & Company would be able to step in and gain control. The brokers had at first tried to gain control by getting Anderson Rover to assign his interest in the options, but this the boys' father had refused to do.

"And now that father wouldn't turn the control over to them, they have had him kidnapped, so that he can't sign those papers and serve them," said Dick. "The case is as plain as day."

"And they got old Crabtree to manage the kidnapping," put in Tom.

"But how did they know about Crabtree?" asked Sam.

"Most likely he has been mixed up in some of their shady transactions of the past," replied Dick. "When he got in jail, he sent for Japson and made him fix it up so he could escape. That fire helped the rascals. Then both came down to New York, and all hands hatched the plot to put dad out of the way."

"Poor dad! If only we knew he was safe!" murmured Tom.

"That's just it -- he may be suffering terribly!" added Sam.

"I think we'll find out something definite to-morrow -- when we follow Pelter," said Dick. He, too, was greatly worried.

The evening proved a long one to the boys, even though they spent some time in penning letters to the girls and to the folks at home. Dick had received a most sympathetic letter from Dora, in which the girl stated that she wished she was with him to help him.

"Dear Dora!" he murmured, as he placed the letter in his pocket. "I wish all this trouble was over, and we could be married and go off on our honeymoon!"

The boys had found out from the hotel clerk how to reach the address in the Bronx, as the upper portion of New York city is locally called. They could take a subway train to within two blocks of Pelter's home.

They were up bright and early, and after a hasty breakfast went out to a nearby store, where all purchased variously-colored caps of the automobile variety, and also some automobile goggles.

"We'll pass for chauffeurs in a crowd," said Dick. "The goggles will change our appearance, even if we only wear 'em on our foreheads."

They were soon on a subway train and being whirled northward. The train was an express, making but few stops, and almost before they knew it, the guard called out their station.

Dick had consulted a street map at the hotel, so he knew exactly how to turn. They easily located the apartment house in which Jesse Pelter resided, and then stopped at a nearby corner to await his appearance.

"We have got to be very careful how we follow him," said Dick. "If he spots us, it will be all up with us. I think Sam had better go first. I will follow, and Tom, you can bring up the rear. And let us all act as if we were perfect strangers to each other."

Then came a wait of nearly half an hour. At last they saw the front door of the apartment open and several men came out. Two of the men turned in one direction and the other man hurried off alone.

"There he is -- there's Pelter!" cried Dick, in a low voice. "Now, Sam, see to it that he doesn't get out of your sight."

"I'll do my best," answered the youngest Rover, and walked off after the broker.

As Jesse Pelter hurried along he consulted his watch. Then he hastened his steps, making his way to the nearest railroad station. He boarded a train, and the boys followed, Sam getting in the same car with the broker and Dick and Tom entering the next car, but keeping in sight of their brother.

A number of stations were passed and then the broker left the train and the boys did likewise. On the street Jesse Pelter called a cab that was handy and entered it.

"Say, this looks as if we might lose him!" cried Dick, in alarm. Then he chanced to see another cab, and hurried to it, waving for Tom and Sam to do the same. He ordered the driver to keep the first turnout in sight, but not to get too close.

"I can do that with ease," said the driver, with a broad grin. "It's Jerry Dillon's cab, and Jerry's horse is no good at all."

The two cabs rolled on for several blocks, and then the first turned in the direction of the Hudson River. It halted near the railroad, and Jesse Pelter sprang to the ground. He paid the driver of the cab and dismissed him. Then he hurried along the railroad on foot.

"I guess he is going up to the dock yonder," Said Tom, while the boys got out.

"Looks like it," answered Dick.

All left the cab and hurried after Jesse Pelter, who was now all but out of sight. He passed between two buildings and the boys followed him slowly.

"Wait!" cried Dick presently. "Look!"

"Why, it's Crabtree!" exclaimed Sam, as another figure came into view -- that of a heavily-bearded man with a slouch hat.

"Exactly," returned Dick. "Now keep back, or we may spoil everything," he continued, cautiously.

The three boys saw Pelter and Josiah Crabtree converse earnestly for several minutes. The man who had escaped from jail pointed to a big bundle he carried and Pelter nodded. Then both walked slowly across the railroad tracks to a dock jutting out into the Hudson.

At the dock lay a rowboat, with a man who looked like a sailor at the oars. Pelter and Crabtree climbed down into the boat, which was quickly shoved away. Then the sailor took up the oars and commenced to row out into the broad river.

"Now we are stumped!" murmured Tom, as he and his brothers watched the departure of the rowboat from behind a shed at the inner end of the dock.

"Let us watch that rowboat as far as we can," returned Dick. "I don't believe they intend to row very far."

"Maybe they are going to one of the vessels anchored out yonder," remarked Sam.

"More than likely."

The sailor was pulling up the stream, close to the shore, and the brothers could watch him with ease. The tide was running out and the oarsman had all he could do to make any headway.

"If he is going to keep to the shore, we might follow him on foot," suggested Tom, after several minutes had passed, and while the rowboat was still clearly in view.

"He is turning out now!" cried Dick. "See, I think he is making for yonder two-masted schooner."

The rowboat had turned out and in a few minutes more the boys felt certain it was headed for the schooner.

"Oh, if we only had a rowboat!" groaned Tom.

Dick did not reply. He was watching a steam tug that had come up the river. A line had been thrown from the tug to the schooner and made fast.

"The steam tug is going to tow her down the river!" exclaimed Sam. "Oh, Dick, what shall we do?"

"Dad may be on that schooner!" supplemented Tom.

Dick gazed up and down the stream. A rowboat was coming along, manned by two boys. Dick gave the lads a hail.

"Hi! want to earn a dollar quick?" he asked.

"How?" questioned both lads, in a breath.

"See that schooner? We want to get on board of her as quickly as possible."

"All right -- but let us see the dollar first," answered one of the lads, shrewdly.

The rowboat came to the dock and the three Rovers leaped on board. Dick produced a dollar bill, and the boys commenced to row with all the power at their command.

In the meantime the first rowboat had reached the schooner's side and the men and the sailor had gone on hoard. The boat was tied fast to the stern and orders were given to the captain of the tug to go ahead.

"Stop! stop! You rascals!" cried Tom, as the schooner commenced to move down the Hudson. And in his anger he shook his fist at those on the vessel.

At first the actions of the boys attracted no attention. Then there was a stir on the rear deck of the craft.

"Somebody in a rowboat, calling to you," remarked the captain of the schooner, to Josiah Crabtree.

"To me?" exclaimed the former teacher, in surprise. "I will see about this."

He hurried to the stern of the schooner. The rowboat with the Rovers had now come quite close. Josiah Crabtree gave a start.

"Can it be possible?" he gasped.

"What is it?" asked Jesse Pelter, who had stepped up.

"Those young men in yonder boat! Unless I am mistaken they are Anderson Rover's sons!"

"Is it possible!" ejaculated the broker. "Oh, there must be some mistake."

"No, no! I know them well! And see, they are motioning to us! They want us to stop!"

"They must have seen and followed us!" said the broker, and his manner showed his sudden fear.

"Want to take those fellows on board?" questioned the captain of the schooner.

"No! no!" cried Josiah Crabtree. "Tell the captain of the tug to hurry up! That we er -- that we must make better time!"

"I will, sir," said the captain of the schooner, and hurried forward to give the necessary order.

A big steamboat was passing up the river and the wash from this sent the rowboat containing the Rover boys dancing up and down. The lads at the oars headed the craft to meet the rollers, and the schooner passed further and further away.

"They are leaving us!" groaned Sam. "Oh, what luck!"

"Mr. Rover!" yelled Dick, at the top of his lungs. "Are you on board? Rover! Anderson Rover! It's Dick! Dick!"

For fully a minute no answer came back. Then there was a commotion on the deck of the schooner and a man appeared, clad in a torn suit of clothing and hatless.

"Dick! Where are you?" was the exclamation, and the man rushed to the stern of the craft. "Dick! And Tom and Sam! Help me!"

"It's father!" yelled Dick. "Stop that schooner! Stop her, I say!"

"Get back there!" exclaimed Josiah Crabtree, catching Mr. Rover by the arm. "Get back, I say! Help me, somebody! This man is crazy!"

He and Jesse Pelter hustled Anderson Rover back, and then the boys saw their father disappear from view. Swiftly the tug and the schooner gathered headway. The boys shouted in vain. They looked around for some other boat to come to their aid, but none was in sight. Then the schooner passed down the Hudson River and the Rover boys were left in the rowboat, gazing at each other in dismay.



Chapter XIX

The Search For The Schooner


"Anyway, we have got the name of the schooner," remarked Sam, after a moment of silence. "She's the Ellen Rodney."

"And we ought to be able to follow her somehow," added Tom.

"We must!" cried Dick. "Let us get to shore and see what we can do."

"Don't we get that dollar?" queried one of the boys who rowed the boat.

"Yes," answered Dick, and handed the money over. "Now get us to shore as quickly as possible."

"If you want to catch that schooner, why don't you go downtown after her?" asked the second boy of the rowboat.

"Just what I was thinking of doing," answered Dick. "I think we can get down there ahead of them. The only question is, Can we get anybody down there to go out after the schooner?"

"You can get a boat at the Battery, if you're willing to pay for it. Plenty of tug captains down there looking for jobs."

"Then we'll get to the Battery as fast as possible," said Tom.

The boys who had been rowing the boat were tired, so Tom and Dick took the oars, and thus the little craft was speedily brought back to the dock from which it had started.

"You can get an elevated train over there," said one of the boys, pointing with his hand. "It will take you right to the Battery."

The Rover boys lost no time in leaving the dock and crossing the railroad tracks. Then they fairly ran to the nearest station of the elevated railroad. Dick purchased the tickets and dropped them in the box. Then came a wait of several minutes on the platform.

"Train for South Ferry!" called out the guard, as a rumble was heard.

"Does that go to the Battery?" questioned Dick.

"Sure."

The boys piled on board and away swept the line of cars, on the way downtown. But it was a local train, making all the stops, so their progress was not as fast as they wished.

Here and there, through the cross streets, they caught sight of the glistening river, with its numerous craft. Once Tom thought he saw the Ellen Rodney, but at that distance he could not be sure.

At last the train swept around a curve into the Battery, as the little park at the extreme lower point of the great metropolis is called. Here were located several ferries and also some shipping offices, as well as the Aquarium. Dick almost ran to the nearest shipping office.

"I want to stop a schooner that is coming down the Hudson River," he said, to the clerk in charge. "Can I hire a boat around here to take me out?"

"Anything wrong?" asked the clerk, curiously.

"Yes, very much wrong."

"In that case, why don't you put the harbor police on the job?"

"Can I get them handy?"

"Yes, the office is up there," and the man pointed it out.

"Thanks," returned Dick, and headed for the place in question, with Tom and Sam at his heels.

An officer was in charge of the office of the harbor police and he listened with interest to what the boys had to tell.

"This is certainly a serious matter," he said, when they had finished. "Those men are actually kidnapping your father -- in fact, they have already kidnapped him. We'll have to get after them."

"You have a boat handy?"

"Yes, several of 'em."

The officer touched a bell and another man in uniform appeared. He was given some instructions, and then the second man told the Rover boys to follow him. He led the way to a dock where a steam tug lay, the smoke pouring from the funnel.

"Quick work here, Andy!" he cried, to an officer on board. "We've got to catch a schooner coming down the river -- the Ellen Rodney. Do you know her?"

"I've seen her," was the answer, from the tug officer.

"The fellows on board the schooner are kidnapping the father of these boys. I reckon it's a serious case -- a money affair," he added, in a lower tone.

"Who is the man?"

"Anderson Rover is his name. If you find him, and the boys make a charge, place all hands under arrest."

"I will."

The steam tug was fully manned, carrying a crew and several police officers. The Rover boys were told to get aboard, and the tug was headed out into the Hudson, or, as here called, the North, River.

"You don't suppose they have passed here, do you?" questioned the captain of the tug.

"I don't think so -- unless that towing tug was an extra fast one," answered Dick.

"They wouldn't dare to run too fast, with so many ferryboats crossing the river. It would be too dangerous."

The police tug swept out into the bay and then started slowly up the river, moving from one shore to the other. The police officer in charge had a pair of glasses and he used these on the various craft that came into view, and also allowed the boys to use them.

"Ought to be along soon," said Tom, after a quarter of an hour had passed. "It took us quite some time to get down here, you know."

"Maybe they didn't come down the river," suggested the officer.

"Didn't come down?" cried Sam. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe they thought you would come down here and wait for them and so changed their plans and went up the river instead."

"That's so!" exclaimed Tom. "They might do that."

"Well, if they went up the river, we ought to be able to catch them sooner or later," put in Dick.

"Let us hope so," returned the officer.

Soon they had passed up the river to a point opposite the Twenty-third Street ferries. Here a number of boats were moving up and down the stream, and from the Hoboken shore a big trans-Atlantic steamer was coming out, to start on its trip across the ocean.

"That looks like her!" cried Sam, pointing to a craft behind the trans-Atlantic steamer.

"So it does!" returned Tom.

They made a semi-circle, other boats giving way to the police tug. But when they got closer to the schooner in question, all the Rover boys uttered a cry of dismay. It was a craft similar to the Ellen Rodney, but that was all.

"Either we missed her or else the schooner went up the river," said Dick, at last.

"Looks that way," returned Tom, with a sigh.

They continued to move up the stream, scanning each shore closely. They passed numerous boats, but not one that looked like the craft they were after.

"Well, here we are, at the spot where Crabtree and Pelter got aboard," said Dick, a while later. "So, either we have missed them, or else the Ellen Rodney went up the river instead of down."

The boys were much disheartened, for they had thought that the police tug would surely locate the craft and that they would thus be able to come to their father's rescue. They scarcely knew what to do next.

"I'll go up the river a bit further, if you say so," said the police officer in charge of the tug.

"Perhaps we had better run down first and make another search on our second trip," suggested Dick. "I shouldn't like them to get out into the Bay and give us the slip."

The tug was turned back, and a little later they reached the vicinity of the Battery once more. Then began another search up the river, from shore to shore, as before. But not a trace of the schooner could be found.

"Must have gone up the river," said the police official. "We'll try it for a way and see."

This they did, the police tug moving from side to side as before.

"This is the end of it, so far as we are concerned," said the officer in charge of the tug, at last. "We don't go up the river any further than this."

"All right then," answered Dick, much disheartened. "I guess the only thing for you to do is to put us ashore."

"Sorry we couldn't find that schooner. Of course, if you'll make a regular charge against these men we'll send word up the river to be on the lookout for them."

"We'll make the charge," answered Dick.

The steam tug turned in on the New York City side and the Rover boys went ashore.

"I'll make the regular charge a little later," said Dick. "It may be that I'll have some men in the city arrested first." And then he and his brothers moved off, after receiving instructions from the police official as to what might be best to do.

"Are you going to have Japson arrested?" asked Sam.

"If I can find him. But I guess he'll keep out of sight for the present, Sam. You must remember one thing -- these rascals only want to keep dad a prisoner for three days. After that they will let him go -- and then it will be too late to save that property."

"Would that be so if we could prove that dad had been kept a prisoner?" asked Tom, with much anxiety.

"I don't know. Another thing, they may make dad sign certain papers. Don't you remember Pelter said over the telephone that he would 'make him do it'? They'll force father into something -- if they can."

"Well, what's our next move?" asked Sam, impatiently.

"As it is after noon, we had better visit a quick lunch room and get a bit to eat. Then I think we had better hire some private tug to take us up the river. I am almost certain now that the Ellen Rodney went that way."

"If she went up the river she might go all the way to Albany," said Tom.

"Possibly, but I think those rascals would be too afraid to do that. They'll leave the schooner at the first chance they get, and take father with them."

The boys did not have to walk far before they came to a small shedlike building displaying the sign, "Quick Lunch." They entered and ordered some sandwiches, pie, and coffee. While they were eating they questioned the proprietor about some craft to take them up the river.

"We are hunting for a schooner," explained Dick. "We don't know just where she is. We'll pay somebody well for finding her for us."

"I know a young fellow who owns a motor-boat," said the quick lunch man. "He could take you anywhere you'd want to go."

"Just the thing!" cried Dick, quickly. "Where is that fellow?"

"He ought to be here now -- he generally comes in about noon for sandwiches and coffee."

"I wish he would come now," murmured Sam.

After that they did not hurry their lunch, hoping the owner of the motor-boat would appear. He came in ten minutes later -- a bright, cheery individual, not much older than Dick.

"Sure I can take you anywhere along the river, if you are willing to pay for it," said he, in answer to a question from the oldest Rover boy. "Just give me time to get a mouthful and I will be with you."

"Let us take some lunch along," suggested Tom. "There is no telling how long this search will last."

"We might take a little," answered Dick. "But I don't think we'll be on the river long."

Ten minutes later the crowd was on the way to the river, to a dock where lay the motor-boat. It was not a very elegant craft, but it had a good engine and could travel well -- and that, just then, meant everything to the Rover boys. A bargain was struck for the run, and the boys and the owner got aboard. And then the search for the schooner was begun anew.



Chapter XX

A Minute Too Late


"Well, this looks like a wild goose chase, Dick."

It was Sam who spoke, from the bow of the motor-boat. For over two hours they had been moving up the Hudson River, slowly, scanning one shore and the other with care. They had noted many boats, but nothing that looked like the schooner for which they were so eagerly searching.

"They had a pretty good start of you," said John Slater, the owner of the motor-boat. "Maybe they are up to Nyack or Haverstraw by this time."

"Well, all we can do is to keep on and watch out," said Tom, with a sigh. His disposition, for fun seemed to have entirely left him.

Another half hour went by, and they came in sight of a number of lumber barges, all heavily loaded. The barges were being towed by a big tug.

"I know the captain of that tug," said John Slater. "We might ask him about the schooner."

"A good idea," answered Dick.

They were soon close to the steam tug and the motor-boat owner waved his hand to the captain of the larger craft, who waved in return.

"I want to find a schooner named the Ellen Rodney!" shouted John Slater. "Did you pass her, Captain Voss?"

"I did," was the answer. "She was opposite Nyack, heading in to shore."

"Opposite Nyack!" exclaimed Dick, "How far is that from here?"

"Not more than two miles," answered John Slater, as he turned his motor-boat up the river again.

"We ought to be able to catch them now!" cried Sam, his face brightening a bit.

"Wish we had the police along," remarked Tom. "Bringing those rascals to terms may not be as easy as you imagine."

"I've got a gun on board," said John Slater. "A double-barreled shotgun I keep on hand to guard against river thieves. I use it to go gunning with, too."

"Good! Better bring it out and let us look at it," returned Dick.

The weapon was produced and found to be in good condition and loaded. It was placed on one of the seats, an oilskin raincoat being thrown over it to hide it from view.

"We won't use force unless it is necessary," said Dick, grimly.

They soon came in sight of Nyack, but nothing that looked like the schooner came into view.

"Maybe they went further," suggested Sam. "Their turning in might have been a bluff -- to throw us off the trail."

"Or they may have sent a message ashore -- maybe a message to Japson!" cried Dick.

"Of course they would want to put him on guard -- and put those at the offices on guard, too," murmured Tom.

They continued on up the river, with their eyes ever on the alert. It was now growing late in the afternoon and the sky was clouded, as if a storm was coming.

"Look!" cried Dick, suddenly, and he pointed ahead and to the right.

"The schooner, sure enough!" said Tom. "And see, a rowboat is alongside!"

"Maybe we are just in time," added Sam. "I hope so."

Without delay, the motor-boat was headed in the direction of the Ellen Rodney. As they drew closer they saw but one man on the deck of the schooner, -- a burly fellow who looked like a sailor.

"Schooner ahoy!" shouted Dick, as they ran alongside.

"Ahoy, the motor-boat!" cried the burly man, coming towards them.

"Are you the captain?"

"No, the captain is ashore," was the short answer.

"I'll come aboard," said Dick, and without waiting for another word from the man he made his way to the deck, followed by Tom. He had already directed Sam to remain in the motor-boat with John Slater, to summon assistance if necessary.

"What do you want here?" demanded the burly man, surlily.

"I guess you know well enough," answered Dick, shortly. "Where is that man who is a prisoner?"

"You mean the crazy man?"

"He isn't crazy, and you know it."

"Those men who had him in charge said he was crazy," grumbled the burly individual.

"Where is he?"

"What is that to you?"

"Everything. That man is my father, and they have kidnapped him. Maybe you know that kidnapping is a State's prison offense," added the oldest Rover boy, sharply.

"Humph! I ain't had nothing to do with any kidnapping, young fellow," growled the man. "I'm the mate o' this schooner, that's all. If anything is wrong, you'll have to see the captain about it."

"You say he went ashore?"

"Yes."

"Did those men and my father go with him?"

"All of 'em went, yes."

"Who was left here besides you?"

"Those two dago sailors, that's all," and the mate pointed to two men who lay on the forward deck, asleep.

"Are you willing to have me take a look around?" went on Dick, after a pause.

"You'll have to wait till the captain gets back," answered the man, doggedly. "If there is anything wrong I don't want to be mixed up in it."

"If you want to keep out of trouble you'll help us all you can," put in Tom. "This is a serious business."

"I don't know a thing about it," and the man shrugged his shoulders.

Without another word Dick walked across the deck and descended into the cabin. The burly man's face clouded and he made a move as if to follow him.

"You stay here," said Tom, and put his hand in his hip pocket, as if about to draw some weapon.

The man changed color and shifted uneasily.

"All right, have your own way," he said. He was a coward at heart, and as he had not been in the plot against Anderson Rover he did not wish to get any deeper into the trouble.

It did not take Dick long to convince himself that his father was not on board the schooner. He called his parent's name, and then passed swiftly through the cabin and several staterooms and also a cook's galley. He saw where somebody had been locked in one of the staterooms, for the compartment was in disorder and the door was marred and cracked.

"Dad must have struggled to get away," he murmured. "I hope they didn't hurt him."

When Dick came on deck he found Tom guarding the burly man. The two sailors were still asleep -- or pretended to be.

"Nothing doing below," he announced. "I guess they took him ashore."

"We might as well go ashore, too, then," said his brother. "We are wasting valuable time here." He turned to the mate. "Will you tell us where they went? It will be to your interest to open your mouth."

"They mentioned the old Blue Horseshoe Tavern," growled the burly mate. "But I don't know if they went there."

Dick said no more, but hurried over the side, followed by Tom. As he left the schooner the fun-loving Rover could not help but bring from his hip pocket an extra handkerchief and flourish it at the mate.

"There's my gun, how do you like it?" he cried, with a grin.

"Go to grass!" grunted the burly fellow, and scowled deeply.

In a few words the pair told Sam what they had learned. The motor-boat was headed for a nearby dock, and a few minutes later the Rovers leaped ashore.

"I don't know if I will need you again or not," said Dick to John Slater.

"If it wasn't for watching my boat I'd go along," said the motor-boat youth. "I am interested in this case."

"Here is your money. But I wish you would hang around a while," went on Dick, paying him.

"I sure will hang around, and I'll watch that schooner."

"Good! Our address in New York is the Outlook Hotel," said Dick.

The boys saw nobody around the dock, which was in the rear of a small lumber yard. They walked through the yard to an office in front. A road ran out of the side of the yard and the boys wondered if the men they were after had taken that.

Nobody but a boy of fifteen was in the office, clicking out a letter on an old typewriter.

"The boss ain't around -- he had to go to New York on business," he announced, as soon as the boys appeared. "Want to leave an order for anything?"

"We are looking for some men who came ashore a while ago," said Dick. "Did you see 'em?"

The boy shook his head.

"Ain't nobody been here all afternoon," he said.

"Do you know anything of a place called the Blue Horseshoe Tavern?"

"Sure I do. It's up on the post road -- the place where all the auto parties stop," was the knowing reply.

"How far from here?"

"Not over a quarter of a mile."

"Which way?"

"I'll show you," and the boy reached for his cap. Going outside, he led them from the yard to a road running up a hill.

"Keep right on that till you get to the Blue Horseshoe," he said. "You can't miss it, because it's the only place around here."

They thanked the lad and hurried on. By this time it was quite dark and a few drops of rain had begun to fall.

"The Blue Horseshoe Tavern must be one of the old-time roadhouses that has had a revival of business since auto parties became popular," said Dick, as he and his brothers trudged along. "I wonder what those rascals will tell the proprietor?"

"Most likely the same old story -- that dad is crazy," answered Tom. "That's Crabtree's favorite game."

They had just turned a curve in the road and come in sight of a low, rambling tavern, when they saw a big touring car of the enclosed pattern coming towards them. To avoid the machine, which was being driven rapidly, they leaped to the side of the road.

As the touring car came closer, they saw that two men sat on the front seat, -- the driver and a man who had his hat pulled far down over his face and his coat collar turned up.

"Look!" yelled Tom, pointing to the man beside the driver.

"Look into the car!" yelled Sam.

The automobile rolled on, lost to sight in less than a minute, around the bend of the road. It was headed in the direction of New York City.

"The man on the front seat with the driver was Pelter!" exclaimed Tom.

"And dad was inside the car!" gasped Sam.

"You are right," returned Dick. "And Crabtree and another man was with him. Dad looked as if he had his hands bound behind him."

"What shall we do now?"

"How can we follow that car?"

"How did they get that auto so quick?"

"I think I know how they got the auto," said the oldest Rover boy, after a pause. "There must be a garage at the tavern. Come on and see. Maybe we can get another auto and follow that car!"



Chapter XXI

Captain Rodney's Testimony


It was raining steadily when the three Rover boys reached the Blue Horseshoe Tavern, an ancient hostelry standing at the junction of two main roads. In the rear was a barn, and a big carriage shed which had been converted into a garage. The youths headed for the latter place and entered quickly, to get out of the downpour.

A colored man came forward to see what they wanted.

"Can we hire a car here, and at once?" questioned Dick.

"Sorry, boss, but we ain't got no car in jest now," answered the colored man. "I expect one back in about an hour."

"The car that just went out?" demanded Tom.

"Yes, sah."

"Can't you get us any sort of a car?" pleaded Sam.

"Ain't got nuffin' in 'ceptin' a roadster, an' that won't run -- sumthin' the matter with the carburetor."

"Are you sure that other car will be back in an hour?" demanded Dick.

"I think so. The gents as took it said they didn't want to go more than ten miles."

"All right, we'll wait till the car gets back," answered Dick, struck with a sudden idea.

"But, Dick, we'll lose valuable time," whispered Sam.

"Perhaps not, Sam. If we got a car now we wouldn't know where to go. If that driver comes back and takes us --  -- "

"Oh, I see."

"Fine!" murmured Tom.

"You call us as soon as that car shows itself," said Dick, to the colored man. "We'll be in the tavern."

"Yes, sah," was the reply, and the man readily pocketed the quarter that the oldest Rover tossed to him.

The boys ran to the tavern by a side entrance which was not far from the shed. They walked along a porch until they came to some windows opening from a dining room.

"Look in there!" cried Tom, coming to a halt.

The others did as directed and saw, at one of the tables, the man they had seen on the deck of the Ellen Rodney. "It's Captain Rodney," went on Tom, who had learned the name from the schooner's mate.

"And he is alone, which proves that the others were in that auto with dad," returned Sam.

"I'm going to interview him!" cried Dick. "And maybe I'll have him arrested."

All three boys walked into the dining room of the tavern and took seats at the same table with the master of the schooner. He started, and was about to spring to his feet, when Dick stopped him.

"Sit where you are," said the oldest Rover boy, sternly. "If you attempt to leave I'll call the police."

"What do you -- er -- mean?" stammered the man, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"I reckon you know who we are, Captain Rodney," said Tom.

"I don't."

"We are Anderson Rover's sons," said Sam.

"Never heard of that man," faltered the captain.

"You had him a prisoner only a short while ago."

"Oh, you mean that crazy man who was aboard my schooner? I thought his name was Brown."

"See here, Captain Rodney, you can't fool us, so you had better not try," said Dick, sternly. "You know the game those men are trying to play. They are going to prison for it, -- and you'll go, too, if you are not careful."

"What! you threaten me!" roared the man, growing red in the face.

"I do."

"I can have the law on you for it."

"Go ahead, the sooner the better," responded Dick, coolly. "Those men are rascals and you know it. Now, I am going to give you one chance -- just one," went on Dick, looking the master of the Ellen Rodney squarely in the eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"As I said before, those men are rascals. They abducted my father, and you aided them. I can prove it. As soon as we rescue my father we are going to prosecute those rascals. If you want to save your own skin you had better help us all you can."

At these plain words the face of Captain Rodney became a study.

"They told me he was a crazy man -- a brother to one of the others -- and they wanted to get him to some sanitarium."

"If that was so, why did they run away?"

"I didn't know they ran away -- until just now."

"You started to go down the river," said Tom.

"Why did you change your mind and come here?"

"They chartered the schooner for a week -- I was under their orders."

"Where were they going at first?"

"Down the Jersey coast and back. They said they thought a little ocean air would do the crazy man good before they put him in the sanitarium. I own up that I was suspicious, but they claimed everything was straight."

"They were going to take my father down the coast for several days so that he could not sign important papers," returned Dick. "It is a well-laid plot to do our family out of a great deal of money and dishonor my father."

"Well, I ain't in it, I give you my word. I chartered my vessel to 'em, that's all."

"We will take you at your word, then. But you must tell all you know about them and their plans," said Dick, after a pause.

"And if I do that, will you -- er -- drop the charge against me?" questioned the master of the Ellen Rodney, eagerly.

"If you don't, we are going to have you placed under arrest as soon as we can get an officer."

"Don't do that! I never had any trouble before and I don't want it now. I'll help you all I can -- if what you say its true, and that man is your father."

After that the captain was quite willing to talk, and he told how Crabtree and Japson had come to him and questioned him about the schooner, and finally chartered the craft for a week. They had at first wanted to pay him at the end of the time, but he had insisted upon receiving his money in advance and it was then paid over. He had been told that the strange man was Crabtree's brother, who had gone crazy because of the loss of his money in a Western irrigation scheme.

"They said they would take him down the coast for three or four days, to brace him up a bit. Then we were to run in at Absecon, near Atlantic City, and land all hands. They said they would go from Atlantic City to Lakewood, where the sanitarium was located."

"Probably they intended to let him go at Absecon and then deny that they had ever touched him," said Dick.

"Maybe -- I don't know anything about that," replied the captain.

"But how did you come to change your plans?" asked Tom.

"When you came out in that rowboat and the crazy man -- excuse me, I mean your father -- cut up so, they hustled him back to one of the state-rooms," went on Captain Rodney. "Then they had a long talk. I think they were afraid you would go down the river by train and try to head them off."

"Which we did," murmured Sam.

"After a while Pelter and Japson came to me and said they must come up the river -- that a sister of the crazy man lived up here, and they must visit her before they went down the coast. I was suspicious, but what could I do? I had chartered my vessel and I had my money, so I obeyed orders. Then we came up here as fast as we could. The steam tug was dismissed, and we came ashore to this place. Then they hired an auto and went off -- and that's all I know about it."

"You don't know where they went?" cried Dick.

"No more than what they said -- that they were going to the crazy man's sister."

"Which was false," muttered Tom.

"What were you to do?" asked Dick.

"They told me I might sail up the river to Newburgh and wait there for a telegram."

After that the captain talked freely. But what he had to say shed but little more light on the subject. The boys came to the conclusion that he had been dragged into the plot without knowing what it was, but that he had been willing to lend his help, provided he was well paid for it.

"When the proper time comes I shall want your testimony," said Dick, at the conclusion of the interview. "In the meantime I advise you to have no more to do with those fellows."

"They shan't come near the schooner, even if they did charter her," growled Captain Rodney.



Chapter XXII

Hot On The Trail


The boys had no appetite, but as they were in the dining room they ordered a light lunch and paid for it. Then they saw an automobile come splashing through the mud of the road.

"There is that car!" cried Sam, as he recognized the driver.

The boys ran out and made their way through the rain to the garage. The enclosed touring car had just entered and the driver had shut off the power. The wind shield had been up, but the man had gotten quite wet and stood shaking the water from his coat.

"Here's the car!" cried the colored man, coming forward.

"So I see," returned Dick. He turned to the driver. "Pretty bad traveling, I imagine."

"You bet! The road is a mass of slippery mud. I came near skidding half a dozen times."

"Where did you go?" and Dick stepped closer to the chauffeur.

The man started and looked at the oldest Rover boy sharply.

"What's that to you?" he asked, shortly.

"Everything. We want to go to the same place."

"And as quickly as you can get us there," added Tom.

The chauffeur surveyed the three Rovers in amazement. Then he took off his coat and shook it briskly.

"Sorry, but I can't take you," he said, slowly. "I've got another job in -- er -- in half an hour."

"You are going to take us," said Dick, firmly. "And right away. What did those men pay you?"

"What is that --  -- "

"How much -- out with it? I haven't any time to spare."

"Ten dollars."

"All right. You'd like another ten, wouldn't you?"

"Sure. But --  -- "

"Ten dollars to get us to the same place inside of twenty minutes," went on Dick, and showed a roll of bankbills.

"Can't do it -- in this slippery weather," answered the man, his eyes glistening at the sight of the money. "Make it in half an hour."

"All tight then."

"I'll put on the chains," cried the chauffeur, and brought out the anti-skidding chains for the rear wheels. The boys got the colored man to assist him, and the chains were soon adjusted. Then the car was backed out of the garage and the three Rovers leaped inside.

"Now, don't lose a minute," said Dick.

"I won't. But we are taking chances on this road, sir, I can tell you that."

It was still raining steadily, and the highway was a mass of oily mud, -- a splendid compound upon which to skid. On and on rushed the touring car at a rate of speed varying from twenty to thirty-five miles an hour.

"I could eat this road up if it was dry," shouted the chauffeur. "The machine is good for fifty miles an hour."

"Well, don't climb a tree, or a stone wall," cautioned Dick, grimly.

Ordinarily the Rover boys might have been anxious because of such wild riding, but now every thought was centered on their father. How he was faring, and would they be able to rescue him?

Twice the touring car made dangerous lurches to one side, once fairly brushing some trees which lined the roadway. But the driver stuck to his post, and gained the middle of the roadway again, and rushed on as rapidly as ever.

"I'll wager he doesn't own the machine," muttered Sam. "If he did, he'd be more careful of it."

"Well, he owns his own neck," returned Tom, grimly. "So maybe he'll be careful of that."

They passed through several small villages, the inhabitants gazing out curiously at the rushing and swaying car. Then they took to a side road, where the traveling was worse than ever.

Suddenly the car made a turn. They had struck a rut in the road and even the chains did not save them. Around swung the automobile. There was a grinding of the brakes and the power was shut off. Then came a jar that sent the Rover boys in a heap.

"Something has happened sure!" cried Tom, who was the first to get up.

They looked out of the door of the enclosed car. They had come up to a mass of bushes beside the road, and the left front wheel had struck a rock and was twisted around. The mud guard on that side had crumpled up.

"I guess the journey is over -- so far as this car is concerned," muttered Dick, as he leaped out, followed by his brothers.

The chauffeur was trying his steering wheel. The right wheel responded, but that which had hit the rock did not.

"Out of commission!" he said, with a frown. "I was afraid something would happen."

"If it's only the steering gear it won't cost much," said Dick. "How much further to that place?"

"Not over half a mile."

"Then we'll walk it!" cried Tom.

"Of course," added Sam.

"Ain't you going to pay me!" exclaimed the chauffeur, in dismay. "I did my best."

"Yes, I'll pay you," responded Dick. "And give you an extra five for the repairs. Now tell us just where that place is, and what sort."

"It's a country home, -- a white place, set in a lot of trees, -- with a wind mill back of the barn. Got a green hedge in front -- the right side of the road -- you can't miss it."

"Did you hear the name of the owner?"

"Belongs to one of the crowd -- man named Japson. It's an old country home that was in his family for years. He don't live there, but it's furnished, I understand."

The boys said no more, but as soon as the chauffeur was paid, they set off through the rain. It was a disagreeable journey, and but little was said. All wondered what would be best to do when they reached the place for which they were bound.

"I wish we had the sheriff and his posse with us, as we had when we rounded up those rascals at Plankville," said Tom.

"Or if we only had John Slater's shotgun," added Sam.

"Never mind. As I understand it, we are three to three," said Dick. "And we can arm ourselves with heavy sticks," which they presently proceeded to do, tearing up some bushes for that purpose.

It was not long before they came in sight of a long, high hedge. Back of it was a white house, surrounded by numerous old trees. Over the trees showed the top of an old wind mill, used for pumping water from a driven well.

"Think we had better go right up to the door and knock?" asked Sam, as they halted at the edge of the hedge.

"No, I think we had better spy around a little at first," answered his big brother.

All crawled through a gap in the hedge and, skulking from tree to tree, gradually neared the house. Near one of the windows grew some bushes, and they crept along to these. Then Dick looked through the window.

He saw Pelter and Japson seated at a table, going over some legal papers. Nobody else was visible.

"Perhaps Crabtree took father to some other place, after the chauffeur left!" thought the youth, in dismay.

The window was closed, so the boys could not hear what was being said. They consulted among themselves, and walked around the house, being careful to keep well under the windows, which were rather high.

"Here is a cellar door, let us try that," said Tom, and he raised it up, and almost before they knew it, they were in the cellar under the building.

Above them they could hear footsteps and a murmur of voices. Evidently Josiah Crabtree had joined the brokers.

"You stay here and I'll investigate further," said Dick, after a pause, during which he had espied a stairs leading upward to the rear of the house.

He mounted the stairs and came out into a wide kitchen. No one was present, nor did any fire burn in the big stove. From the kitchen a door led to a dining room, which, in turn, led to a sitting room. In the last-named room were the three men.

"Do you think he'll raise a row?" Pelter was asking.

"He can't raise much of a row, with that towel bound over his mouth," replied Josiah Crabtree.

"It's lucky we had this place to come to," put in Japson. "I only hope they don't get on our trail and follow us."

"I don't think they will follow us here," said Pelter. Then followed a murmur, as he and the other broker went over the legal papers on the table.

Dick wondered what he had best do next. He gazed around the kitchen and saw a small side door, opening on an enclosed stairs leading to the second floor. He went up the stairs noiselessly.



Chapter XXIII

The Rescue


The oldest Rover boy had reached a rapid conclusion. This was that his father was not on the first floor of the house, nor in the cellar. Consequently, if he was in the building at all -- and Dick believed he was -- he must be somewhere upstairs. While the three rascals were in the sitting room he intended to make a quick investigation.

With his stick still in his hand, in case of attack, Dick reached the second floor and entered a small bed chamber. Opening from this was a second room, containing a cot. Beyond the rooms was a closet, and that was all.

"Too bad! This stairs leads only to a kitchen addition!" murmured the boy. "How can I get into the main house? Why didn't they cut a door through?"

He looked out of a window and saw the roof of a porch. At the end of the roof was another window, one of a room in the main building. Without hesitation Dick raised the sash of the window at which he stood and stepped out on the porch top. Soon he was at the other window.

It was locked, but the catch was not a strong one, and with the blade of his pocketknife he easily pushed it back. Then the sash came up and he stepped into the bedroom beyond.

The room was empty and the bed showed that it had not been used for some time. Dick crossed the apartment and opened a door leading to a wide hallway. From downstairs came a murmur of voices. The rascals were still in consultation.

Swiftly the oldest Rover boy passed from one room to another of the big house. Each was empty, and in the last he came to a halt, somewhat dismayed. Then he thought of an enclosed staircase he had noticed, leading to the next floor, and he hurried to this.

The third floor of the building was but an open garret, piled high with old furniture and discarded things generally. The two windows were covered with dirt and cobwebs, and as it was dark outside, because of the rain, Dick could see but little.

"Father!" he called softly. "Father, are you here?"

He listened and heard a tapping, coming from one end of the garret. He moved over in the direction and struck a match. Then he gave a cry, half of gladness and half of dismay.

His parent was there, bound to an upright of the garret floor. He had his hands behind him, and a towel was tied over his mouth. With deft fingers Dick unloosed the towel, and then he cut his father's bonds with his pocketknife.

"Oh, Dick! How glad I am that you have come!" gasped Anderson Rover, when he could speak. "That towel nearly smothered me!"

"Did they hurt you any, Dad?" asked the boy anxiously.

"Not so very much, Dick. We had several rough and tumble fights, -- when I tried to get away from them. But they were too many for me. Have they gone?"

"No, they are in the sitting room below, talking matters over."

"And you came here all alone?" asked Mr. Rover, stretching his cramped limbs.

"No, Tom and Sam are down in the cellar. I told them I would come upstairs and investigate."

"Good! Then we are four to three. I am glad to know that. It will make it easier to get away from them."

"Have you done anything for them -- I mean, signed any papers, or anything like that?" asked the son, anxiously.

"No. They wanted to keep me from signing certain papers that must be signed inside of two days, Dick."

"I know it."

"They also wanted me to sign other documents, and Crabtree said if I didn't do it he would leave me here to starve!"

"The rascal!" muttered Dick. "We have got to get him back to jail, that's sure! Are you sure you are well enough to go with me, Dad?"

"I -- I think so, Dick. But this has been an awful strain on me," sighed Anderson Rover.

He was very pale, and the hand he placed on Dick's shoulder trembled greatly.

"After this you must let me attend to business for you," said the son. "I am old enough to do it. You need a complete rest."

"Yes, Dick, but your college career --  -- "

"We'll talk about those things later, Dad. First, I want to get you away from here, and in a safe place. Then we'll attend to Crabtree, Pelter and Japson," added Dick, grimly.

"The business matters have been too much for me -- I realize it now," sighed Anderson Rover. "I must take a rest -- a good, long rest. They would not have gotten the best of me if I had been stronger."

"Come," said Dick. "Don't make any noise if you can help it," he added, in a whisper.

He guided his parent, and both tiptoed their way to the second floor of the dwelling. Then they entered the bed chamber opening on the top of the porch, and so made their way down to the kitchen and then into the cellar.

"Father!" cried Sam and Tom, simultaneously, and rushed to embrace their parent.

"My boys!" murmured Anderson Rover, and the tears stood in his eyes. Never before had he realized how much they were to him.

"Come on -- no time to talk now," said Dick, in a low voice. "We'll get away from here first."

"But those rascals -- " began Sam.

"We'll take care of them, Sam, never fear."

The boys led their father from the cellar and across the back yard to the barn. From the barn a lane ran to the main road. The lane had a hedge that practically hid it from the house.

"Wait here, in the barn," said Dick. "But keep out of sight."

"Where are you going?" asked Tom.

"To watch on the road for a wagon or an auto, to take us to the nearest town or railroad station."

"Going to leave those men here, Dick?"

"Not much! I thought Sam might take dad back to New York, while you and I had it out with Crabtree and the others."

"Good! I'm with you!" cried Tom.

Dick posted himself on the highway, and presently saw a covered wagon approaching, drawn by a spirited team. The driver was a young man, evidently from some nearby town.

"Going to town?" asked Dick, as he stopped the fellow.

"Yes, want a ride?" and the young man smiled.

"I don't, but another fellow, my brother, and my father, do," said Dick. "If you'll take them, we'll pay you."

"All right," was the answer. "Come right along."

"How far is it to the railroad station?" went on Dick.

"About two miles."

"Will you take 'em over?"

"Sure -- I'm going there myself."

Dick hurried back to the barn, and soon Sam and Mr. Rover were in the wagon. Before Sam left his big brother gave him some instructions in private. Then the wagon went on through the rain.

"Thank heaven! dad is safe!" murmured Tom, when the wagon had disappeared. "I hope Sam doesn't let him out of his sight until those business affairs are settled up."

"He is going to take him to the Outlook Hotel first," answered Dick. "But he is going to do more than that, Tom -- if it is possible."

"What?"

"I told him to stop in that town and send some help here -- a police official, or a constable, or some men. Crabtree has got to go back to jail, and I think we ought to have Pelter and Japson locked up, too -- although that may depend upon what father may have to say."

"Then we can't do anything until somebody gets here from town," said Tom, somewhat disappointedly.

"We can watch those rascals and listen to what they are talking about," returned Dick.

Both boys returned to the barn, to get out of the rain. Then they sneaked to the cellar of the house and up to the kitchen, and then to a little storeroom next to the dining room. From the storeroom they could catch much of the conversation coming from the three men in the dining room.

There were some matters Dick and Tom did not understand. But from what was said they learned that Japson was a distant relative of Josiah Crabtree and the two had been in several shady transactions together. Crabtree had agreed, if aided in his escape from the Plankville jail, to assist the brokers in making Anderson Rover a prisoner and keeping him such until he signed certain documents and until the time had passed when he could no longer take up the options which were so valuable to the Rovers and their friends.

"Well, I think these documents are all right," the boys heard Jesse Pelter say, presently. "Now we can turn them over to Belright Fogg and tell him to go ahead."

The boys looked at each other in amazement. Belright Fogg! The lawyer who had tried to outwit them in their claim against the railroad company because of the smashed Dartaway! Was that fellow mixed up in this game also? It looked like it.



Chapter XXIV

From A Garret Window


"This is getting interesting!" whispered Tom.

"I should say so," murmured Dick.

"That must have been what was bringing Belright Fogg down to New York City."

"It looks like it."

"Well, if he is mixed up in this he can get pinched with the rest of the rascals."

"Right you are."

After that the boys listened to more of the talk between the brokers and Josiah Crabtree. From what was said it was easy to guess that the plotters expected to make quite a large sum of money out of their evil doings.

"But you have got to get Rover's signatures to those papers," said Jesse Pelter.

"We'll do it!" cried Josiah Crabtree. "Even if we have to starve him into it."

"I hope those boys didn't come after the schooner," muttered Japson.

"I reckon Captain Rodney will know how to throw 'em off the scent," returned Crabtree.

"We were lucky to find that automobile at the tavern," went on Pelter.

Some more talk followed and then Japson exclaimed:

"Why can't we make Rover sign those papers now? Maybe we can scare him into it."

"We might try," answered his partner, slowly.

The men arose and Japson lit a lantern, for he knew it was dark in the garret. Then, one behind the other, they filed out into the hallway and went upstairs.

"They are going to find out something pretty soon!" chuckled Tom.

"Come on, let us follow 'em, Tom," answered his brother. "I've got a new idea."

"What is it?"

"Perhaps we can lock 'em in that garret until help arrives."

"Just the cheese, Dick! I remember there was a lock on the door, -- and maybe we can fasten it in some other way, too -- so they can't break out."

"They can't get out by the windows -- they are too high from the ground."

By this time the three men were mounting the garret stairs. They had to pass around a pile of furniture to get to where Anderson Rover had been kept a prisoner.

"Quick now!" cried Dick, as the men disappeared from view. He closed the garret door and turned the key in the lock. "Get a chair or two, Tom, so we can wedge the door fast."

Tom understood, and ran into a nearby room, to bring out a square table. The stairway to the garret ran from a right angle of the wall, so that the table could be stood up against the door, with the bottom of the four legs against the wall opposite. Some books chanced to be handy, and the lads were able to place these against the wall under the feet of the table legs, thus wedging the door fast.

"Now I reckon they'll have their own job getting out!" cried Tom, grimly.

"Go to a front window and watch the road," ordered his big brother. "If you see any help coming, call them."

Tom at once departed, to station himself at the window of one of the front bed chambers. By this time a clattering of feet could be heard on the garret stairs.

"He has locked the door on us!" came a cry in Jesse Pelter's voice.

"How did he get free?" asked Japson. "I thought we tied him good."

"He cut the ropes!" cried Josiah Crabtree. "But how he got hold of his knife to do it, I can't guess."

Dick had to smile to himself. Evidently the rascals thought his father had liberated himself and turned the tables on them.

"Hi, Rover! Are you out there?" called Jesse Pelter. "If you are you had better unlock that door."

To this call Dick did not answer.

"He must have run away!" exclaimed Japson. "Break the door down! We must catch him!"

"That's the talk!" added Josiah Crabtree, in great excitement.

"Touch the door at your peril!" cried Dick, sharply. "I am armed and I will stand no nonsense!"

"Who is that?" asked Japson.

"That wasn't Rover's voice," added his partner.

"I think I know who that is," answered Josiah Crabtree, and his voice commenced to tremble. "Dick Rover, is that you?" he called, faintly.

"Yes. Don't you dare to touch that door, Crabtree," replied Dick.

"Is it Dick Rover?" questioned Pelter.

"Yes."

"Anderson Rover's oldest son? The one who was in the rowboat with the others?"

"Yes."

"Then we have been followed after all!" shouted Japson, hoarsely. "We have been trapped!"

"You've hit the nail on the head," called out Dick. "Now, don't touch that door, or it will be the worse for you."

"Is he alone?" whispered Pelter.

"No, I am not alone!" answered Dick. "Hi, Tom, am I alone?" he called.

"Not much!" answered Tom. "We are all on deck here, and all armed. You just sit still and suck your thumbs until the officers come," he added, dryly.

"The officers!" shrieked Josiah Crabtree, and was so overcome that he sank down on one of the steps of the stairs.

"See here, Dick Rover," said Jesse Pelter, after a pause. "Let us see if we can't -- er -- patch this up somehow."

"You can do your patching-up after you are in jail, Mr. Pelter."

"If you have me arrested, boy, you will be sorry for it!" growled the broker.

"We can ruin your family, and disgrace your father," added Japson. "Better let us go and fix this up without the police."

"No, I am going to have you locked up," replied Dick, determinedly. "As to what charge will be brought against you, I'll have to consult my father about that first."

"You lock us up and you'll get nothing out of us!" growled Japson. "We can ruin your family, and we'll do it!"

"Can't we get out another way?" asked Josiah Crabtree, in a whisper.

"I don't think so," said the owner of the house. "We can go up and look around."

All returned to the garret floor and walked to one window and the other. The distance to the ground was all of twenty-five feet, too far for any of them to risk a drop.

"We might make a rope of these old blankets," suggested Jesse Pelter. "Talk to Rover at the door while I try it."

His partner went back to the door, while the others commenced to make a rope by tearing a blanket into strips and tying the ends together. The back window was raised and the rope lowered.

"Nobody in sight!" cried Crabtree, looking down. "Oh, I trust we can get away from them!" He saw a term in prison staring him in the face.

"Don't lose any time!" cried Japson. "Here, tie the end fast to that old bed. Now let me get out!"

"I'll go first!" cried Josiah Crabtree, and shoved the broker aside. With trembling hands he grasped the improvised rope and slipped out of the window.

In the meantime Dick commenced to suspect that all was not right and called to Tom.

"Go below and outside and look at those windows," he said. "If they try to drop, shy some stones at 'em!"

"I will!" answered Tom, and ran down the stairs three steps at a time. He looked up at the front of the house but saw nothing unusual. Then he dashed to the rear.

"Hi! stop!" he called out, as he saw Josiah Crabtree dangling just under the garret window. "Get back there, or I'll fire at you!" And looking around, Tom saw a sharp stone and picked it up.

As he did this there was a sudden tearing sound, and the blanket-rope parted at the point where it passed over the window sill. Josiah Crabtree uttered a wild yell of terror and clutched vainly at the sill and the clapboards under it. Then he came tumbling to the ground, doubling up in a heap as he did so. Tom expected him to arise and run, but he lay still where he had fallen.

"He's hurt, seriously hurt!" muttered the youth. "Maybe he's killed!"



Chapter XXV

What Happened To Tom


Tom glanced up, to see the white face of Jesse Pelter peering down upon him.

"You had better let us out of this!" cried the broker, hoarsely.

"You stay where you are -- if you know, what is best for you!" returned Tom.

"Is he dead?" went on the broker, referring to Crabtree.

"I don't know."

The youth ran up to the former school teacher and turned him over. As he did this Josiah Crabtree gave a gasp and a groan and opened his eyes.

"Oh! Oh! what a -- a fa -- fall!"

"If you hadn't tried to get away it wouldn't have happened," returned Tom, briefly. He could have but little sympathy for such a hardened rascal.

Josiah Crabtree sat up and then tried to get to his feet. There was a cut on his forehead from which the blood was flowing.

"Oh! oh!" cried the man and put his hand to his left leg. It was twisted under him in a peculiar fashion. To get up on it was impossible, and Crabtree fell back with a cry of pain and fright.

"My leg! It is broken! Oh, what shall I do? Rover, please help me!" And the former teacher turned a look of genuine misery on Tom.

"Let me examine it," said the boy, in a more kindly tone. He approached the man and felt of the injured limb. By the way it was doubled up Tom felt certain it must be broken, perhaps in two places.

"I don't know what I can do," said Tom. "I guess you need a doctor. I'll carry you to the barn, if you say so -- or into the house."

"Can't you -- you --  -- " began Josiah Crabtree, and then another look of pain crossed his face and he fainted.

Alarmed, Tom picked up the tall, thin form and carried the man into the house, for it was still raining, although not as hard as before. He placed Crabtree on an old couch in the sitting room and, getting some water, laid a wet cloth over his bruised and swelling forehead. Knowing but little about broken limbs, he did not attempt to do anything for the broken leg but placed that member out in a somewhat straight position. He called up to Dick and told his brother of what had happened.

"Keep the other fellows up there, Tom!" yelled back the big brother. "Don't let 'em get away!"

At this Tom ran out of the house once more. With the fall of Crabtree had come the greater portion of the blanket-rope. Pelter had disappeared from the window, and evidently he and Japson were in consultation.

"See here, Rover, we want to talk to you!" called out the broker, reappearing at the window a minute later. "Call your brothers."

"What do you want?"

"We want to fix matters up with you."

"You can do that after you are in jail."

"You'll gain nothing by having us arrested."

"That remains to be seen."

"We have got the upper hand in those deals with your father and if you have us locked up we won't let go -- no matter what happens," put in Japson.

"We'll make you let go," returned Tom, with determination. "You fellows have reached the end of your string, and the sooner you realize it the better it will be for you."

"Bah! Do you think we'll give up the things we have fought so hard to get? Not much!"

While Japson was speaking Pelter had stepped back into the garret. Now he came again to the window, at the same time whispering to his companion.

"Hello, Dixon!" he called, as if to somebody behind Tom.

As was but natural, the youth below turned quickly, thinking some friend of the broker's had appeared. The moment Tom turned, Pelter hurled something down at him. It was an old wooden footstool, and it struck the youth squarely on the head. Down went poor Tom in the grass, senseless.

"Now is our time!" exclaimed Pelter. "Quick, with that other rope!"

A second rope, also made from sections of a blanket -- but stronger than the first -- was produced. As the lower end struck the ground, Pelter commenced to slide down, closely followed by his partner. Evidently they were both willing to risk their lives in an effort to escape. The thought of going to jail filled them with grim terror.

Reaching the ground, neither of the men hesitated an instant over what to do next. The man who owned the place knew it thoroughly, and he turned in the direction of the barn, and his partner went after him. They crossed a back lot, and then, coming to a side road, took to that, running as fast as their wind and strength permitted.

In the meantime Dick, hearing Crabtree groaning, came down in the sitting room to look at the sufferer. The man was still flat on his back.

"Oh, my leg!" he groaned. "Oh my leg! Can't you get a doctor?"

"Perhaps, -- later on," answered Dick.

"Oh, Rover, I never thought I would come to this!" whined the criminal. "Oh, the pain!"

"We'll do what we can for you, Crabtree. You had better lie still for the present."

Dick listened in the hallway. As nobody seemed to be at the garret stairway, he ran outside, to learn how Tom was faring.

"Tom! Tom! What happened to you?" he cried, in horror, when he beheld his brother on the ground. Then he saw the footstool and a cut on Tom's head and understood what had occurred. The dangling rope told the rest of the story.

"They have gotten away!" he groaned. "And after all our efforts to hold them prisoners until help came! Too bad!"

He wanted to go after the brokers, but just now his concern was entirely for his brother.

He turned Tom over and then ran for some water. When he returned Tom was just opening his eyes.

"Dick! Some -- something hi -- hit me!" gasped the hurt one.

"They threw that wooden footstool at you, Tom. I'm afraid you're badly hurt."

"Am I? I -- I feel mighty queer," returned Tom, and then he closed his eyes again.

Dick was now more alarmed than ever. He carried his brother to the dining room, and laid him on some chairs, with a doubled-up blanket from a bed for a pillow. He washed Tom's head and bound it up as best he could. Once or twice the injured youth opened his eyes for an instant, but he did not make a sound.

"It was a fearful blow, -- it must have been!" thought Dick. "I hope they didn't crack his skull!"

Josiah Crabtree was still groaning in the next room, but Dick paid little attention to the man. Nor did he think of the rascals who had escaped. All his thoughts were centered on Tom.

"If I only knew where to get a doctor," he mused. Then he ran out of the house by the front door and looked up and down the road.

A carriage was approaching, containing three men. As it drew closer Dick saw that one of the men wore a shining badge on his coat and carried a policeman's club.

"Want me here?" he cried, on catching sight of the youth.

"Are you a policeman?"

"I am."

"Then come right in."

The policeman and the other two men followed Dick into the house. The youth took them first to where Josiah Crabtree lay.

"There is a man who escaped from the jail at Plankville. He tried to get out of a garret window and had a fall. I guess his leg is broken."

"If that's the case, he won't need much watching from me," replied the policeman, grimly.

"The other two rascals who were with him got away, after hitting my brother with a footstool and hurting him quite badly. Here he is. Can I get a doctor anywhere around here?"

"Doctor Martin lives up the road about half a mile," said the man who had driven the carriage.

"Will you get him for me, just as soon as you can?"

"I will," said the man, and went off at once after the physician.

While he was gone Dick told his story to the policeman and the other man, who was a local constable. Both listened with interest, and said they would make a hunt for Pelter and Japson.

"They may go back to New York," said Dick. "If they do, telephone down there to have them arrested." And he gave the address of the brokers' offices.

It was about half an hour later when Doctor Martin, and elderly physician, arrived. Dick escorted him at once to where Tom lay, still in a semi-conscious state.

"A bad case, I am afraid," said the doctor, after a brief examination. "His skull may be fractured. We had better get him to the hospital at once!"



Chapter XXVI

Dick Takes The Reins


It was long after dark before an ambulance could be brought to the old house. Tom was still unconscious, in fact he had not even opened his eyes for the past half hour. Dick's heart was filled with fear. Was it possible that his brother, so full of fun and high spirits, was so badly hurt that he was going to die?

"No! no! Not that!" groaned poor Dick, and sent up an earnest prayer to heaven that Tom might be spared.

The doctor had said that Josiah Crabtree's leg was broken in two places, above and below the knee. The physician had done what he could for the sufferer, and Crabtree was to be removed to the hospital after Tom was taken there.

Neither the policeman nor the constable had come back to the house, so Dick did not know whether or not the brokers had been captured. To tell the truth, he hardly thought of the men, so anxious was he concerning Tom's condition.

"Can I go to the hospital with you?" he asked, when they were about to take Tom away.

"If you wish, Mr. Rover," said the ambulance doctor. "Hop up on the seat with the driver." And Dick did so.

It was a drive of several miles and during that time Dick said but little. Once Tom roused up, to murmur something about his head, but that was all.

As soon as the hospital was reached, Tom was placed in a private room, Dick asking for such accommodations.

"Do your best for my brother," said he, to those in attendance. "Don't let money stand in the way. I'll see that all bills are paid."

"We'll have the best doctor we can get for your brother," answered the physician in attendance, and then he sent for a specialist.

After that there was nothing to do but to wait. Dick went down to the office and called up the Outlook Hotel in New York by telephone. He found that Sam had just arrived there with his father, and told his younger brother of what had occurred.

"Don't worry father too much about it," said he. "Maybe it will all come out right in the end -- anyway I hope so." And then he told Sam to get the police to watch the offices of Pelter, Japson & Company, and also look out for Belright Fogg.

Before the specialist arrived to care for Tom, the ambulance came back with Josiah Crabtree. The former teacher of Putnam Hall showed his cowardly nature by groaning dismally every time he was moved. He was placed in a public ward, and those in attendance were told that he was an escaped prisoner and must not be allowed to get away again, under any circumstances.

"He won't try it himself for a good many weeks," said one of the doctors, grimly. "Those breaks are had ones. He'll be lucky if he gets over them."

At last the specialist came and took charge of Tom. For over an hour Dick waited for a report on his brother's condition. When the specialist came to the youth he looked unusually grave.

"Your brother's case is a peculiar one, Mr. Rover;" said he. "I do not find any crack in the skull. But he has received a great shock, and what the outcome of that will be I cannot say."

"You don't think he will -- will die?" faltered Dick, hardly able to frame the words.

"Hardly as bad as that, Mr. Rover. But the shock has been a heavy one, and he will need close attention for some time. I will come in again to-morrow morning and see him."

"Well, do your best," said Dick, brokenly,

"I always do that," answered Doctor Garrison, gravely.

There were no accommodations for Dick at the hospital, so he found a room at a hotel several blocks away. From the hotel he sent another telephone message to Sam, telling him what the specialist had said. Then he asked Sam if he would come up.

"If you'll do that I can go down and help father," he added.

"All right -- I'll come up to-night or first thing in the morning," said Sam.

It was eight o'clock in the morning when the youngest Rover boy appeared. He was as anxious as Dick concerning Tom, and both waited for the specialist to appear and report. Tom had regained consciousness for a few minutes, but that was all.

"He is no worse," reported Doctor Garrison. "I hope to see him improved by this afternoon. I will call again about three o'clock." And then he left directions with the nurse as to what should be done.

"This is terrible, Dick!" murmured Sam, when the brothers were alone, in the room at the hotel. "Poor Tom! I can't bear to see him lay as he does!"

"I feel the same way, Sam," answered Dick. "But I think I ought to go down to New York and help father with his business affairs. He isn't well enough to do anything alone."

"That's true, Dick; and this news about Tom has upset him worse than ever."

A little later they separated, Sam promising to send word both to New York city and to Valley View farm as soon as there was any change in Tom's condition. Dick hurried to the railroad station and a little later got a train that took him to the Grand Central Depot.

The youth found his father at the rooms in the Outlook Hotel, he having promised to remain there until Sam returned, or Dick arrived. Mr. Rover looked much careworn, and Dick realized more than ever that his parent was in no physical or mental condition to transact business.

"You ought to return to the farm and rest, Father," said he, kindly.

"I must fix up these papers first, Dick," was the answer. "But tell me about poor Tom! Oh, to think that those villains should strike him down that way!"

"They are desperate and will stop at nothing now," answered the son.

Then he told as much as he could about his stricken brother. Anderson Rover shook his head sadly.

"I am afraid he will never get over it, Dick!" he groaned.

"Let us hope for the best, Father," answered the son, as bravely as he could.

Then he questioned his father about the investments in the Sunset Irrigation Company and in the lands out west, and soon the pair were going over the matters carefully.

"I think we need the services of a first-class lawyer -- one we can trust absolutely," said Dick.

"But where can you find such a lawyer?" asked the father.

"Oh, there must be plenty of them." Dick thought for a moment. "One of my best chums at Putnam Hall and at Brill was John Powell -- Songbird. You know him. He has an uncle here, Frank Powell, who is a lawyer. The family are well-connected. Perhaps this Frank Powell may be the very man we need. I can call him up on the telephone and find out."

"Do as you think best, Dick," sighed Mr. Rover. "From now on I shall leave these business matters in your hands. I realize that I am too feeble to attend to them properly."

Dick lost no time in communication with Mr. Frank A. A. Powell, as his name appeared in the telephone book. When the youth explained who he was the lawyer said he would be glad to meet the Rovers. His office was not far from the Outlook Hotel, and he said he would call at once, Dick explaining that his father was not feeling very well.

Mr. Powell's coming inspired Dick with immediate confidence. He was a clean-cut man, with a shrewd manner but a look of absolute honesty.

"My nephew has often spoken of you," he said, shaking hands with Dick. "I shall be pleased to do what I can for you."

"It's a complicated case," answered Dick. "My father can tell you about it first, and then I'll tell you what I know, and show you all our papers."

A talk lasting over an hour followed. The lawyer asked many questions, and studied the various documents with interest.

"From what I can make out, Mr. Rover, that concern -- Pelter, Japson & Company -- are a set of swindlers," said he, at last. "If I were you I'd close down on them at once, and with the heaviest possible hand. To give them any leeway at all might be fatal to your interests."

"Do as you think best, -- with Dick's advice," returned Mr. Rover. "I am going to leave my business affairs in his hands after this," he added.

"Then we'll go ahead at once!" cried the lawyer. "I will draw up the necessary papers and you can sign them. We'll get after that whole bunch hot-footed!"

"And don't spare them," added Dick, thinking of poor Tom. "They deserve all that is coming to them."

"And they'll get it," said the lawyer, briefly.



Chapter XXVII

Dan Baxter Gives Aid


The next morning was a busy one for Dick. He visited the lawyer's office at an early hour and then went to the police station.

"We are watching those offices in Wall Street," said the officer at the desk in the station. "But so far neither Pelter nor Japson has shown himself. The clerks say they are out of town one in Boston and the other in Philadelphia, but can't give any addresses."

"Well, don't let up on the watch," replied Dick. "We want to get them if it can possibly be done. I may have another charge to make against them," and he told of how Tom had been struck with the footstool and was now in the hospital.

"They sure must be rascals," returned the man at the desk. "Well, we'd do all we can. But maybe they've cleared out for good."

Towards noon came a telephone message from Sam to the hotel. Dick had just come in and he answered it.

"Tom is a little better," said the youngest Rover. "He is conscious and has asked about dad and you. He has taken a little nourishment, too."

"What does the doctor say about the case?" questioned Dick, anxiously.

"He said it is a strange case and that he will watch it closely. I heard him say to the nurse to watch Tom very closely."

"Why, that he was so low?"

"No, that he might go out of his mind. Oh, Dick, wouldn't that be awful!" and Sam's voice showed his distress.

"You mean that he might go -- go insane, or something like that?"

"Yes, -- not for always, you understand, but temporarily."

"Well, all they can do is to watch him, Sam. And you keep close by, in case anything more happens," added Dick, and then told his brother of what had been done in the metropolis towards straightening out the business tangle.

Mr. Powell was to see some people in Brooklyn regarding the land deal in which Anderson Rover held an interest, and he had asked Dick to meet him in that borough at four o'clock. At three o'clock Dick left the Outlook Hotel to keep the engagement.

"You had better stay here until I get back, in case any word comes in about Tom," said he to his father.

"Very well, Dick; I shall be glad of the rest," replied Anderson Rover.

He had already given the particulars of how he had been kidnapped while on his way to meet Japson. The broker had come up accompanied by the disguised Crabtree, and he had been forced into a taxicab and a sponge saturated with chloroform had been held to his nose. He had become unconscious, and while in that condition had been taken to some house up in Harlem. From there he had been transferred to the Ellen Rodney on the evening before the boys had discovered his whereabouts.

"They treated me very harshly," Mr. Rover had said. "Mr. Crabtree was particularly mean."

"Well, he is suffering for it," Dick had answered. "Sam telephoned that his leg was in very bad shape and the doctors thought he would be a cripple for life."

To get to Brooklyn Dick took the subway, crossing under the East River. He did not know much about the place, but had received instructions how to reach the offices where he was to meet Mr. Powell and the others.

There was a great rush on the streets, owing to a small fire in the vicinity. Dick stopped for a minute to watch a fire engine at work on a corner, and as he did so, somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

"Dick Rover! of all people!" came the exclamation. "What are you doing in Brooklyn?"

Dick turned quickly, to find himself confronted by a tall, heavy-set youth, dressed in a business suit.

"Dan Baxter!" he cried. "How are you?" and he shook hands.

As my old readers well know, Dan Baxter was an old acquaintance of the Rover boys. When at Putnam Hall he had been a great bully, and had tried more than once to get the best of our heroes. But he had been foiled, and then he had drifted to the West and South, and there the Rovers had found him, away from home and practically penniless. They had set him on his feet, and he had gotten a position as a traveling salesman, and now he counted the Rovers his best friends, and was willing to do anything for them.

"Oh, I'm pretty well," answered Dan Baxter, with a grin. "My job agrees with me."

"What are you doing, Dan?"

"Oh, I'm still selling jewelry -- doing first-rate, too," added the former bully, a bit proudly.

"I am mighty glad to hear it."

"How are you and the others getting along, Dick?" went on Baxter curiously. "Thought you were at Brill College."

"I'm here on business," and Dick gave the other a brief account of what had happened.

"Sorry Tom got hurt and hope he will come out all right," said Dan Baxter, sympathetically. "But who are those men you mentioned?"

"A firm of brokers; named Pelter, Japson & Company."

"What!" ejaculated Dan Baxter. "Did you say Japson?"

"Yes, Dan. Do you know him?"

"Sure I do. He used to be in a jewelry firm in Albany. They tried to stick our firm -- but we shut down on 'em. But that isn't all, Dick. I saw Japson to-day -- not two hours ago."

"You did? Where?" And now Dick was all attention.

"I visited a -- er -- a lady friend of mine. She lives in an apartment house near Prospect Park. I might as well tell you that some day we are going to be married. Well, when I was coming out of the place I saw Japson go in -- he and two other men."

"Dan, show me that place -- and do it as quickly as possible!" cried Dick. "Come on -- don't tell me you can't. I'll pay you for your time!" And Dick caught the other youth by the arm.

"I'll do it willingly, Dick, and there won't be any time to pay for, even if it takes a week!" cried Dan Baxter. "I am glad to be able to do you a favor, indeed I am!" And he gazed admiringly at the oldest Rover boy. "Just you come with me."

Dan Baxter led the way to the nearest elevated station and they ran upstairs to the platform and soon boarded a car bound for the vicinity of Prospect Park.

"The young lady lives in the Nirwick Apartments," explained Baxter. "It is a big place, with elevator service. I don't know to which apartment Japson went, but maybe the elevator man can tell us."

"Describe the other two men to me, if you can, Dan."

The young traveling salesman did so, and Dick came to the conclusion that one of the men must have been Pelter. The identity of the third was a mystery.

"Maybe it was that Belright Fogg," thought the youth. "Well, I'll soon find out -- if they are still at the apartment house -- and I hope they are."

At last the elevated train reached the proper station and Dick and Baxter alighted. The latter led the way for a distance of two blocks.

"There is the apartment," said Baxter, pointing the building out. "If you want those men arrested, hadn't you better call a policeman or two?"

"I can do that later, -- after I have spotted them," answered Dick.

A colored man ran the elevator. He had often seen Dan and knew him.

"The gentlemen you mean went up to the fourth floor -- to the apartment that was rented last week."

"May I ask who rented it?" asked Dick.

"A lawyer, sah -- a Mr. Fogg. He's got a queer first name."

"Belright?"

"That's it, sah; Belright Fogg."

"Just as I thought," murmured Dick "They didn't go out, did they?"

"I don't think they did. I didn't see 'em, and I don't think they would go downstairs without using the elevator, although they could use the stairs."

"Which apartment is it?"

"On the fourth floor -- the apartment in front, on the right," answered the elevator man.

"I'll go up," said Dick. He motioned Baxter to one side. "Dan, will you go out and get a policeman or two, just as quickly as you can?" he whispered.

"I will," returned the young traveling salesman, and hurried out on the street again.

Dick stepped into the elevator and in a few seconds was deposited on the fourth floor of the apartment house. He walked to the front and to the right, and stopped in front of one of the doors. From the room beyond came a murmur of voices. He listened intently. The voices were those of Pelter, Japson and Fogg.



Chapter XXVIII

The Capture


With bated breath Dick knelt at the door and applied his ear to the keyhole. At first he could hear only indistinctly, but gradually he caught the drift of the conversation between the rascally brokers and the former railroad lawyer.

"Then you want me to date those papers a week back?" he heard Belright Fogg ask.

"That's it," answered Pelter.

"And remember, we signed them just before we went to the West," added Japson.

"And remember also that you saw us take a train at the Grand Central Depot," went on Pelter.

"Oh, I'll remember that," returned the lawyer, with a sly chuckle. "And I'll remember also that I got two telegrams from you -- one from Chicago and one from Detroit." And he laughed again.

"That alibi ought to fix us up," remarked Japson. "Anyway, it will set the authorities to guessing."

"It will help, provided that fellow, Crabtree, doesn't squeal," said Pelter. "He gave his word, when we were in the garret, that he would keep mum, no matter what happened. But if he was badly hurt he may have told everything."

"Fogg, you must try to see him in the hospital," said Japson. "Tell him it will do no good for him to tell anything, and that, if he keeps mum, we will remain his friends and do all we possibly can for him."

"You are piling a lot of work on my shoulders," grumbled the lawyer. "And shady work, too. What do I get out of this?"

"You know what I promised you," answered Jesse Pelter.

"A thousand isn't enough. Just look at the risk I am running."

"Well, if you help us to clear ourselves, we'll make it two thousand dollars," cried Japson. He paused a moment. "Quite a swell apartment, Fogg."

"It's good enough."

"Why can't we stay here for a day or two?" questioned Japson.

"I -- er -- suppose you could," answered the lawyer, with some hesitation. "But don't you think you would be better off out of the State, or in Canada?"

"That's what I say!" cried Pelter. "Canada for mine. I've been wanting to visit Montreal and Quebec. Now is our chance."

"All right, whatever you say," answered Japson. "Maybe we would be safer out of the country until this matter blew over. Hang the luck! It was too bad to have Rover get away from us as he did. If we could have held him back a couple of days longer that land and maybe those stocks would have been ours."

"He's got some smart sons, that man," observed Fog. "I know, for I once ran up against them," and he told about the biplane incident.

"They are altogether too smart," growled Pelter. "I'd like to wring their necks for 'em!"

"Well, we'll turn the trick on 'em yet," said Japson. "Remember, the game isn't ended until the last card is played."

"That's right," thought Dick. "And it won't be long before I play the last card!"

"After this affair is a thing of the past, I am going after those business interests of the Rovers," went on Jesse Pelter. "They are pretty well tangled up -- they got so while Rover was sick. I think we can make something out of them yet."

"Not if I know it," murmured Dick, to himself. "You are a first-class fellow to put in jail -- you and the others, too!"

The talk in the apartment went on, covering the things Belright Fogg was to do while Pelter and Japson were in hiding in Canada. The unscrupulous lawyer was to produce a power of attorney dated some days before, so that he might act in place of the brokers. He was also to do his best to help the brokers prove an alibi when accused of the abduction of Anderson Rover.

"I'm getting dry," remarked Japson, presently. "Fogg, haven't you got something to drink, and some cigars?"

"Sure I have," answered the lawyer, and Dick heard him leave the apartment and go into a dining-room.

While Dick was listening at the door he also kept his ears open for the return of Dan Baxter. Presently he heard the elevator come upstairs, and then there sounded a low whistle -- a whistle Dick had heard many times while he was a cadet at Putnam Hall.

Eagerly the oldest Rover boy tiptoed his way down the corridor. Baxter came forward to meet him, accompanied by two policemen, and the elevator man, who wanted to know what the trouble was.

"The two brokers are in that room," whispered Dick, pointing to the door of the apartment. "They are planning to skip out to Canada and leave their affairs in the hands of the lawyer who has rented this apartment. He is almost as much of a rascal as any of them, for he is to take their power of attorney dated some days back, and is going to try to prove an alibi for them. I heard 'em arrange the whole thing."

"The rascals!" murmured Baxter. "Glad you cornered 'em, Dick."

"You helped, Dan -- I shan't forget that," returned Dick, warmly.

"What do you want us to do?" asked one of the policemen.

"I want all three men arrested," answered Dick. "I'll make a charge against them. Don't let 'em get away. They'll do it if it's possible."

"All right, but you must come along to make the charge," answered the bluecoat.

"All right."

"Please don't make no more row in the house than you can help," put in the elevator man. "This is a swell apartment and we don't like rows. I didn't know that lawyer who took this apartment was a crook."

"We'll do the job as quietly as possible," answered the second policeman, who chanced to know the elevator man.

"Dan, I think you can help me out," suggested Dick. "You might go to the door and call out that there is a telegram for Belright Fogg. Then, when he opens the door, push into the room and we'll follow."

"Want me to help?" asked the elevator man, who was becoming interested.

"If you will," said Dick. "You can guard the stairs -- so they can't run down that way."

"I'll do it."

Without further delay Dan Baxter walked to the door at which Dick had been listening. He chanced to have an old telegram envelope in his pocket and this he produced. He knocked loudly on the portal.

"Who is there?" cried the lawyer, in a somewhat startled voice, and Baxter heard several chairs shifted back as the occupants of the apartment leaped to their feet.

"Telegram for Mr. Fogg -- Belright Fogg!" drawled Dan, in imitation of an A. D. T. youth.

"A telegram, eh?" muttered the lawyer. "Wonder what is up now?"

He came to the door and unlocked it cautiously. He was going to open it only a few inches, to peer out, but Baxter threw his weight against the portal, sending the lawyer backwards and bumping into Jesse Pelter.

"Hi, what's this?" stammered Belright Fogg. "What do you mean by --  -- "

He got no further, for at that instant Dick came into the apartment, closely followed by the two policemen.

At once there was a wild commotion. Pelter and Japson let out yells of alarm, and both tried to back away, into the next room. But Dick was too quick for them and barred their progress.

"Let me go!" yelled Pelter, and tried to hurl Dick to one side. Then Japson struck out with his fist, but the oldest Rover boy dodged.

"So that's your game, is it?" cried Dan Baxter, as he saw the attack. "Two can play at that!" And drawing back, the young traveling salesman hit Japson a blow on the chin that bowled the broker over like a tenpin.

In the meantime Dick had grappled with Pelter and was holding the rascally broker against the wall. One of the policemen already held Fogg, who was trembling from head to foot in sudden panic.

"Surrender, in the name of the law!" said the bluecoat. And he made a move as if to draw a pistol.

"I -- I sur -- render!" gasped Belright Fogg, and up went his hands, tremblingly.

The other policeman produced a pair of handcuffs and in a twinkling they were slipped upon Japson's wrist. Then the bluecoats turned towards Pelter.

"You shan't arrest me!" yelled that broker, savagely, and with a wrench, he tore himself from Dick's grasp and started through the rooms to the rear of the apartment.



Chapter XXIX

Brought To Terms


"Stop him!"

"He must not get away'"

Such were some of the cries that echoed through the apartment as Jesse Pelter ran for the rear room.

He knew there was a fire escape there and thought he might reach the ground from that.

But Dick was at his heels, determined that the broker should not escape if he could possibly prevent it.

The window to the fire escape was open, for a maid in the kitchen had just set out some cooked dish to cool.

Pelter made a leap for the window, nearly scaring the maid into a fit. She screamed loudly, and as she did so Dick made a wild leap and caught Pelter by the foot.

"Let go, Rover!" yelled the broker, hoarsely.

"I won't! You are not going to get away, Pelter."

There was a struggle, and the broker aimed a blow at Dick's head. Then the oldest Rover boy suddenly caught the rascal by the neck and banged his head vigorously against the window casing.

"Ouch! Don't!" groaned the broker. "Oh, my skull is broken!"

"Then keep still," answered Dick, grimly, and he continued to hold the man. Soon one of the policemen came up, and then, much against his will, the head of the firm of Pelter, Japson & Company was handcuffed like his partner in crime.

"You'll suffer for this, Rover; see if you don't!" growled Jesse Pelter, after the excitement was over. "I have done nothing wrong, and I can prove it. This is all a plot on the part of you and your family to get our firm into trouble."

"You can do your talking when you are in jail," answered Dick, briefly. "I know what I am doing."

"Maybe you got Crabtree to hatch up a story against us," came from Japson.

"Never mind what Crabtree confessed," said Dick. "You'll get what is coming to you, never fear."

"I guess I had better send in a call for the patrol wagon," said one of the policemen. "Can you watch 'em, Jake?"

"Sure," answered the second bluecoat. "I guess the young fellows will help."

"I will," said Dick.

"So will I," put in Dan. He turned to Dick. "I'm mighty glad to be of service to you. It kind of helps to -- to -- pay off old scores, eh?" he faltered.

"Yes, Dan; you are doing us a great service, and I shan't forget it," returned Dick, with warmth.

A number of tenants in the apartment house had been alarmed by what was going on, and among them were the girl Baxter was engaged to marry, and her mother. Dan quickly explained matters to them, and introduced Dick, and the latter told of the service Baxter had done. Then the police patrol wagon came along, and the prisoners and the others went below.

"Maybe I had better go to headquarters with you," suggested Dan to Dick.

"Yes, you'll have to go," put in one of the policemen.

The ride was not a long one, and as soon as the prisoners were brought in, Dick explained the situation and asked that the authorities in Brooklyn communicate with those in New York. This was done, and then Pelter, Japson, and Fogg were held for a further hearing.

"Can't we get bail?" demanded the lawyer.

"Certainly, if you wish," was the reply. And then the amount was fixed, and the prisoners sent out a messenger, to see if they could not get somebody to go on their bail bonds.

Dick's parting with Baxter was very cordial. The oldest Rover boy realized that the former bully of Putnam Hall was greatly changed and that he had done him a great service.

"I wish you all kinds of luck, Dan," he said. "You've got a nice position and a fine girl, and you ought to do well."

"Do you like her, Dick?" and Dan blushed a little. "We expect to be married soon."

"Well, I am going to be married myself before long."

"Is that so? Good enough! I guess I know the girl," and Dan grinned.

"You do, Dan."

"Give her my best regards, and tell her I think she is getting the best fellow in the world!" said Baxter, and shook Dick's hand. And thus the two former enemies parted.

Dick had already called up Mr. Powell on the telephone, telling the lawyer of what had occurred. Now he engaged a taxicab to take him to the place which he had started out to visit when coming to Brooklyn. It was rather late, but the lawyer had persuaded the people he had come to see to wait.

An interview lasting over an hour followed. The lawyer had already explained many things, and now Dick told of others.

"You have opened our eyes, Mr. Rover," said one of the men present, when Dick had finished. "We rather suspected Pelter, Japson & Company and we were bewildered by what your father proposed to do. Now all is perfectly clear, and, if you wish us to do so, we'll stand by your father to the end."

"Thank you very much!" cried the youth, in delight.

"Your father is not very well, you say," said another of the men. "In that case --  -- "

"I am going to transact his business for him, after this," answered Dick. "He is going to place it in my hands."

"You are rather young, Mr. Rover. But the way you handled those brokers shows you can do things. I wish you success."

"I shall rely upon Mr. Powell for assistance," said Dick.

"And I'll do what I can," put in the lawyer.

When Dick got back to the Outlook Hotel it was quite late. But he had telephoned to his father, so Mr. Rover was not alarmed. The youth found his parent smiling pleasantly.

"Good news all around!" cried Anderson Rover.

"Then you've heard from Sam?" asked Dick, quickly.

"Yes, he sent in word about an hour ago. Tom is doing very well, and the specialist says he will soon be himself again."

"That's the best news yet!" cried Dick, and his face showed his relief.

"Yes, it is even better than this news you sent me -- that Pelter and Japson have been captured."

"Well, I am mighty glad we rounded up those rascals," said the son.

"So am I."

"Did Sam say anything about Crabtree?"

"He said Crabtree was about the same. The doctors are doing what they can for him. But he will most likely be a cripple for life."

"That's bad. But he has nobody to blame but himself."

After that Dick had to sit down and tell his father the details of all that had occurred. Then he got a late supper, and some time after that he and his parent retired. The youth was thoroughly tired out, but happy.

The next few days were as busy as those just past had been. Dick and his father ran up to where Tom lay in the hospital. They found the sufferer had come to his senses. Sam and a nurse were with him.

"Oh, I'll be all right again, in a few days!" cried Tom, with a brave attempt at a smile. "I guess I fared better than old Crabtree. They tell me he'll limp for life."

"Limp for life!" cried Dick.

"That is what they say."

"What a terrible affliction!" murmured the oldest Rover boy. "But he has nobody to blame but himself."

"Tom, are you quite comfortable here?" asked Mr. Rover, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, they do all they can for me, Dad," was the answer.

"We must send you home as soon as we can."

"Well, I'll be willing to go," returned Tom. He thought of the quiet farm, and of his Aunt Martha's motherly care, and gave a deep sigh.

"He can be moved in four or five days -- the doctor said so," put in Sam. "I've figured it all out. We can take him to the train in an auto, and I'll see that he gets to Oak Run all right. There Jack can meet us with our own machine, and the rest will be easy."

"I can go along," said Dick.

"It won't be necessary, Dick," said Tom "You stay in New York and get Dad's affairs straightened out."

The matter was talked over, and it was at length decided that Sam should remain with Tom and take him home, while Mr. Rover and Dick returned to the city.

Four days later the youngest Rover got permission from the specialist who had attended Tom to take him home. An easy-riding automobile was procured, and in this the two brothers drove to the nearest railroad station. A compartment in a parlor car had already been engaged, and Tom was placed in this and made as comfortable as circumstances permitted. The ride was a long and tedious one for the youth, and by the time he had made the necessary changes to get to Oak Run he was pretty well exhausted, and had a severe headache.

"Poor boy!" murmured the hired man, who had brought the family touring car to the station.

"Dis am de wust yet, de werry wust!" came from Aleck Pop, who had come along. Both men aided Sam in getting Tom into the car, and then Jack started for Valley Brook farm, running the machine with the greatest possible care.

Aunt Martha stood on the piazza ready to receive the boys, and when she beheld Tom's pale face the tears streamed down her cheeks.

"My boy! My poor boy!" she cried. "Oh, what a terrible happening!" And she bent over and kissed him.

"Oh, don't worry, Aunt Martha; I'll soon be myself again," answered Tom, as cheerfully as his spirits permitted.

"I've got the front room all ready for you," went on the aunt. And she led the way into the house and to the apartment in question. Here the sufferer was put to bed, and his aunt did all in her power to make him comfortable. The local doctor had already been notified, and soon he appeared, to read a note written by the city specialist and listen to what Sam had to tell him. Then he took charge and said Tom must be kept very quiet.

"It shall be as you say, Doctor," said Mrs. Rover. And after that, for a number of days, nobody but the members of the family was allowed to go in and talk to the youth.

In the meantime, Dick and his father had several interviews with their lawyer, and also with a lawyer who represented Pelter, Japson, and Belright Fogg. The brokers and Fogg were anxious to hush matters up, and promised to do whatever was wanted by the Rovers if they would drop the case against them.

"I think we had better arrange matters, Dick," said Mr. Rover, with a sigh. "I am tired of fighting. If they will do the fair thing all around, let them go."

"Just as you say, Father," replied Dick. "But they must give up everything that belongs to us."

"Well, you can see to it that they do -- you and Mr. Powell," answered Anderson Rover. "I am going back to the farm to rest, and after that I think I'll travel a little for my health."

"All right, Dad. But -- but --  -- " Dick stammered and grew red. "You -- er -- you won't go away until after my wedding, will you?"

"No, Dick, I'll stay home until after you and Dora are married," answered Mr. Rover, with a quiet smile.



Chapter XXX

Mrs. Dick Rover -- Conclusion


"The day of days, Dick!"

"Right you are, Sam! And what a perfect day it is!"

"Oh, I had this weather made to order," came from Tom Rover, with a grin.

"How do you feel, Tom?" questioned his big brother kindly, as he turned away from the window to look at the lad who had been hurt.

"Oh, I'm as chipper as a catbird with two tails!" sang out the fun-loving Rover. But his pale face was not in keeping with his words. Tom was not yet himself. But he wasn't going to show it -- especially on Dick's wedding day.

All of the Rovers had come up to Cedarville and they were now stopping at the home of Mr. Laning, the father of Grace and Nellie. As my old readers know, the Stanhopes lived but a short distance away, and nearby was Putnam Hall, where the boys had spent so many happy days.

Dora had left Hope as soon as it was settled that she and Dick should be married, and she and her mother, and the others, had been busy for some time getting ready for the wedding. Nellie and Grace were also home, and were as much excited as Dora herself, for they were both to be bridesmaids. The girls had spent several days in New York, shopping, and a dressmaker from the city had been called in to dress the young ladies as befitted the occasion.

Tom was to be Dick's best man, while Sam was to head the ushers at the church -- the other ushers being Songbird, Stanley, Fred Garrison, Larry Colby, and Bart Conners. A delegation of students from Brill -- including William Philander Tubbs -- had also come up, and were quartered at the Cedarville Hotel.

The wedding was to take place at the Cedarville Union Church, a quaint little stone edifice, covered with ivy, which the Stanhopes and the Lanings both attended and which the Rover boys had often visited while they were cadets at Putnam Hall. The interior of the church was a mass of palms, sent up on the boat from Ithaca.

Following the sending out of the invitations to the wedding, presents had come in thick and fast to the Stanhope home. From Dick's father came an elegant silver service, and from his brothers a beautifully-decorated dinner set; while Uncle Randolph and Aunt Martha contributed a fine set of the latest encyclopaedias, and a specially-bound volume of the uncle's book on scientific farming! Mr. Anderson Rover also contributed a bank book with an amount written therein that nearly took away Dora's breath.

"Oh, Dick, just look at the sum!" she cried.

"It sure is a tidy nest egg," smiled the husband-to-be. "I knew dad would come down handsomely. He's the best dad ever was!"

"Yes, Dick, and I know I am going to love him just as if I was his own daughter," answered Dora.

Mrs. Stanhope gave her daughter much of the family silver and jewelry, and also a full supply of table and other linen. From Captain Putnam came a handsome morris chair, and Songbird sent in a beautifully-bound volume of household poetry, with a poem of his own on the flyleaf. The students of Brill sent in a fine oil painting in a gold frame, and the girls at Hope contributed an inlaid workbox with a complete sewing outfit. From Dan Baxter, who had been invited, along with the young lady to whom he was engaged, came two gold napkin rings, each suitably engraved. Dan had written to Dick, saying he would come to the wedding if he had to take a week off to get there, he being then in Washington on a business trip.

The wedding was to take place at high noon, and long before that time the many guests began to assemble at the church. Among the first to arrive was Captain Putnam, in military uniform, and attended by about a dozen of the Hall cadets. George Strong, the head teacher, was also present, for he and Dick had always been good friends. Then came the students from Brill, all in full dress, and led by William Philander Tubbs, bedecked as only that dudish student would think of bedecking himself.

The Lanings and Mrs. Stanhope came together and the Rovers followed closely. Soon the little church was packed and many stood outside, unable to get in. The organ was playing softly.

Suddenly the bell in the tower struck twelve. As the last stroke died away the organ peeled forth in the grand notes of the wedding march. Then came the wedding party up the middle aisle, a little flower girl preceding them. Dora was on her uncle's arm, and wore white satin, daintily embroidered, and carried a bouquet of bridal roses. Around her neck was a string of pearls Dick had given her. The bridesmaids were in pink and also carried bouquets.

Dick was already at the altar to meet his bride, and then began the solemn ceremony that made the pair one for life. It was simple and short, and at the conclusion Dick kissed Dora tenderly.

The organ pealed out once more, and the happy couple marched from the church, everybody gazing after them in admiration.

"A fine couple," was Captain Putnam's comment. "A fine couple, truly!"

"Yes, indeed!" echoed George Strong. "I wish them every happiness."

"A perfectly splendid wedding, don't you know!" lisped William Philander Tubbs. "Why, I really couldn't run it off better myself!"

"It was all to the merry!" was Stanley's comment. "She's a dandy girl, too -- wish I had one half as good."

"Dick Rover deserves the best girl in the world," was Songbird's conclusion. "He is the finest fellow I know, barring none."

"I suppose you'll get up a poem about this, Songbird," suggested one of the other students.

"Perhaps," was the answer, and the would-be poet smiled in a dreamy fashion.

"It seems only yesterday that the Rover boys came to the Hall," remarked Captain Putnam, to one of his friends. "My, how the years have flown!"

"But they are still boys -- at least Tom and Sam are," was the ready reply. "And Tom is just as full of sport as he ever was -- I don't believe he'll ever settle down."

"Time will tell. But with all his fun he is a good lad at heart -- and that is what counts."

"Right you are, Captain Putnam. I wouldn't give a rap for a lad who didn't have some fun in his make-up."

"All of them had plenty of fun while they were at my school. They cut up a good deal sometimes. But I liked them all the better for it, somehow," concluded the captain, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Carriages and automobiles were in waiting, and Dick and his bride, along with their relatives and many friends, were quickly whirled away to the Stanhope home. Here followed numerous congratulations, interspersed with not a few kisses. Mrs. Stanhope's eyes were still full of tears, but she smiled at her newly-made son-in-law.

"It's all right, Dick!" she whispered. "I'm not a bit sorry. But -- but a woman can't help crying when she sees her only girl getting married."

"You are not going to lose Dora," he answered, tenderly. "You are going to get a son, that's all."

A long table had been spread, from the dining-room to the sitting-room, with another table in the library, and soon a grand wedding dinner was in progress. Dora sat at her husband's side, and never did a pair feel or look more happy. Close at hand was Tom, paying his attentions to Nellie, and at the smaller table Sam was doing his best to entertain Grace. Mr. Anderson Rover sat beside Mrs. Stanhope, and not far away were the others of the families.

"Well, they are married at last," said Mr. Rover to Mrs. Stanhope. "I, for one, am well satisfied. I think they will get along well together."

"Yes, Mr. Rover, I think they will get along finely," answered Mrs. Stanhope. "I liked Dick from the first time I met him -- and Dora -- well, there was nobody else after he came into view," and she smiled faintly. Then her eyes traveled over to where Tom and Nellie were talking earnestly, and his followed. "I think that is another pair," she whispered.

"I shouldn't wonder," was the reply. "But they can wait a while. Tom is rather young yet."

"He looks rather pale."

"Yes, that blow he received on the head was a severe one. I am worried about it," went on Mr. Rover, soberly.

It had been arranged that Dick and Dora should depart on a honeymoon trip to Washington late that afternoon. The dinner over, the rooms were cleared, and the young folks enjoyed themselves in dancing, an orchestra having been engaged for that purpose.

"How perfectly happy they all seem to be!" remarked Aunt Martha to Anderson Rover, as they sat watching the dancing.

"Yes," he answered. "I trust that nothing happens to make it otherwise after this."

"Oh, something is bound to happen to those boys!" murmured the aunt. "You simply can't hold them in!" And something did happen, and what is was will be related in the next volume of this series, to be entitled: "The Rover Boys in Alaska; Or, Lost in the Fields of Ice." In that book we shall learn how Tom suddenly lost his mind and wandered away from home, and what strenuous things happened to Dick and Sam when they went after their brother.

But for the time being all went well. The young folks danced to their hearts' content, and Tom kept them roaring over the many jokes he had saved up for the occasion. His head ached a good deal, but he refused to let anybody know about it.

Then came the time for Dick and Dora to depart. An auto was at the door, gaily decorated with white ribbons, and bearing on the back a sign painted by Tom which read, "We're Just Married." Another auto was in the backyard, to take some of the guests to the steamboat dock.

"Good-bye!" was the cry, as the pair came down the stairs, ready for the trip. "Good-bye and good luck!" And then came a generous shower of rice and several old shoes. Dora kissed her mother for the last time and she and Dick hurried to the auto. Away they went, and the other auto after them, Tom and Sam and some others tooting horns and the girls shrieking gaily.

"To the steamboat dock, I suppose," said the driver of the auto, to Dick.

"Not much!" cried the newly-married youth. "Here is where we fool them. Straight for Ithaca, and as fast as the law allows!"

"I get you," replied the chauffeur, grinning.

"We want to catch the seven-forty-five train for New York," went on Dick.

"We'll do it, sir," was the answer, and then the auto driver turned on the speed, made a whirl around a corner of the road, and in a minute more was on the way to Ithaca, with the second car far behind.

"Hello! he's given us the slip!" cried Sam, in dismay.

"Never mind, let them go!" whispered Grace.

"Yes, we've had fun enough," added Nellie. "Oh, what a grand wedding it has been!" she added, with a sigh. And then, when Tom squeezed her hand, she blushed.

In the other automobile, Dora and Dick sat close together on the back seat. Under the robe her hand, the one with the wedding ring upon it, was clasped tightly within his own.

"Glad?" he whispered.

"Perfectly," she answered.

<eob>

The Lone Ranche: A Tale Of The Staked Plain

By

Thomas Mayne Reid﻿



Chapter One.

A Tale Of The Staked Plain.

"Hats Off!"

Within the city of Chihuahua, metropolis of the northern provinces of Mexico -- for the most part built of mud -- standing in the midst of vast barren plains, o'ertopped by bold porphyritic mountains -- plains with a population sparse as their timber -- in the old city of Chihuahua lies the first scene of our story.

Less than twenty thousand people dwell within the walls of this North Mexican metropolis, and in the country surrounding it a like limited number.

Once they were thicker on the soil; but the tomahawk of the Comanche and the spear of the Apache have thinned off the descendants of the Conquistadores, until country houses stand at wide distances apart, with more than an equal number of ruins between.

Yet this same city of Chihuahua challenges weird and wonderful memories. At the mention of its name springs up a host of strange records, the souvenirs of a frontier life altogether different from that wreathed round the history of Anglo-American borderland. It recalls the cowled monk with his cross, and the soldier close following with his sword; the old mission-house, with its church and garrison beside it; the fierce savage lured from a roving life, and changed into a toiling peon, afterwards to revolt against a system of slavery that even religion failed to make endurable; the neophyte turning his hand against his priestly instructor, equally his oppressor; revolt followed by a deluge of blood, with ruinous devastation, until the walls of both mission and military cuartel are left tenantless, and the redskin has returned to his roving.

Such a history has had the city of Chihuahua and the settlements in its neighbourhood. Nor is the latter portion of it all a chronicle of the olden time. Much of it belongs to modern days; ay, similar scenes are transpiring even now. But a few years ago a stranger entering its gates would have seen nailed overhead, and whisked to and fro by the wind, some scores of objects similar to one another, and resembling tufts of hair, long, trailing, and black, as if taken from the manes or tails of horses. But it came not thence; it was human hair; and the patches of skin that served to keep the bunches together had been stripped from human skulls! They were scalps -- the scalps of Indians, showing that the Comanche and Apache savages had not had it all their own way.

Beside them could be seen other elevated objects of auricle shape, set in rows or circles like a festooning of child peppers strung up for preservation. No doubt their procurement had drawn tears from the eyes of those whose heads had furnished them, for they were human ears!

These ghastly souvenirs were the bounty warrants of a band whose deeds have been already chronicled by this same pen. They were the trophies of "Scalp Hunters" -- vouchers for the number of Indians they had killed.

They were there less than a quarter of a century ago, waving in the dry wind that sweeps over the plains of Chihuahua. For aught the writer knows, they may be there still; or, if not the same, others of like gory record replacing or supplementing them.

It is not with the "Scalp Hunters" we have now to do -- only with the city of Chihuahua. And not much with it either. A single scene occurring in its streets is all of Chihuahuaense life to be depicted in this tale.

It was the spectacle of a religious procession -- a thing far from uncommon in Chihuahua or any other Mexican town; on the contrary, so common that at least weekly the like may be witnessed. This was one of the grandest, representing the story of the Crucifixion. Citizens of all classes assisted at the ceremony, the soldiery also taking part in it. The clergy, of course, both secular and regular, were its chief supports and propagators. To them it brought bread, and if not butter --  since there is none in Chihuahua -- it added to their incomes and influence, by the sale of leaden crosses, images of the Virgin Mother, and the numerous sisterhood of saints. In the funcion figured the usual Scripture characters: -- The Redeemer conducted to the place of Passion; the crucifix, borne on the shoulders of a brawny, brown-skinned Simon; Pilate the oppressor; Judas the betrayer -- in short, every prominent personage spoken of as having been present on that occasion when the Son of Man suffered for our sins.

There is, or was then, an American hotel in Chihuahua, or at least one conducted in the American fashion, though only a mere posada. Among its guests was a gentleman, stranger to the town, as the country. His dress and general appearance bespoke him from the States, and by the same tokens it could be told that he belonged to their southern section. He was in truth a Kentuckian; but so far from representing the type, tall, rough, and stalwart, usually ascribed to the people "Kaintuck," he was a man of medium size, with a build comparable to that of the Belvidere Apollo. He had a figure tersely set, with limbs well knitted; a handsome face and features of amiable cast, at the same time expressing confidence and courage. A costly Guayaquil hat upon his head, and coat to correspond, bespoke him respectable; his tout ensemble proclaimed him a man of leisure; while his air and bearing were unmistakably such as could only belong to a born gentleman.

Why he was in Chihuahua, or whence he had come to it, no one seemed to know or care. Enough that he was there, and gazing at the spectacular procession as it filed past the posada.

He was regarding it with no eye of wonderment. In all likelihood he had seen such before. He could not have travelled far through Mexico without witnessing some ceremony of a similar kind.

Whether interested in this one or no he was soon notified that he was not regarding it in the manner proper or customary to the country. Standing half behind one of the pillars of the hotel porch, he had not thought it necessary to take off his hat. Perhaps placed in a more conspicuous position he would have done this. Frank Hamersley -- for such was his name -- was not the sort of man to seek notoriety by an exhibition of bravado, and, being a Protestant of a most liberal creed, he would have shrunk from offending the slightest sensibilities of those belonging to an opposite faith -- even the most bigoted Roman Catholic of that most bigoted land. That his "Guayaquil" still remained upon his head was due to simple forgetfulness of its being there; it had not occurred to him to uncover.

While silently standing with eyes turned towards the procession, he observed scowling looks, and heard low growlings from the crowd as it swayed slowly past. He knew enough to be conscious of what this meant; but he felt at the same time disinclined to humiliate himself by a too facile compliance. A proud American, in the midst of a people he had learned to despise -- their idolatrous observances along with them -- no wonder he should feel a little defiant and a good deal exasperated. Enough yielding, he thought, to withdraw farther back from behind the pillar, which he did.

It was too late. The keen eye of a fanatic had been upon him -- one who appeared to have authority for meting out chastisement. An officer, bearded and grandly bedizened, riding at the head of a troop of lancers, quickly wheeled his horse from out of the line of march, and spurred him towards the porch of the posada. In another instant his bared blade was waving over the hatted head of the Kentuckian.

"Gringo! alto su sombrero! Abajo! a sus rodillas!" ("Off with your hat, greenhorn! Down upon your knees!") were the words that came hissing from the moustached lips of the lancer.

As they failed to beget compliance, they were instantly followed by a blow from the blade of his sabre. It was given sideways, but with sufficient sleight and force to send the Guayaquil hat whirling over the pavement, and its wearer reeling against the wall.

It was but the stagger of a sudden and unexpected surprise. In another instant the "gringo" had drawn a revolving pistol, and in yet another its bullet would have been through the brain of the swaggering aggressor, but for a third personage, who, rushing from behind, laid hold of the Kentuckian's arm, and restrained the firing.

At first it seemed to Hamersley the act of another enemy; but in a moment he knew it to be the behaviour of a friend -- at least a pacificator bent upon seeing fair play.

"You are wrong, Captain Uraga," interposed he who had intermeddled, addressing himself to the officer. "This gentleman is a stranger in the country, and not acquainted with our customs."

"Then it is time the heretico should be taught them, and, at the same time, respect for the Holy Church. But what right, Colonel Miranda, have you to interfere?"

"The right, first of humanity, second of hospitality, and third that I am your superior officer."

"Bah! You mistake yourself. Remember, senor coronel, you are not in your own district. If it was in Albuquerque, I might take commands from you. This is the city of Chihuahua."

"Chihuahua or not, you shall be made answerable for this outrage. Don't imagine that your patron, Santa Anna, is now Dictator, with power to endorse such base conduct as yours. You seem to forget, Captain Uraga, that you carry your commission under a new regime -- one that holds itself responsible, not only to fixed laws, but to the code of decency --  responsible also for international courtesy to the great Republic of which, I believe, this gentleman is a citizen."

"Bah!" once more exclaimed the bedizened bully. "Preach your palabras to ears that have time to listen to them. I shan't stop the procession for either you or your Yankee protege. So you can both go to the devil."

With this benevolent permission the captain of lancers struck the spurs into his horse, and once more placed himself at the head of his troop. The crowd collected by the exciting episode soon scattered away -- the sooner that the strange gentleman, along with his generous defender, had disappeared from the portico, having gone inside the inn.

The procession was still passing, and its irresistible attractions swept the loiterers along in its current -- most of them soon forgetting a scene which, in that land, where "law secures not life," is of too frequent occurrence to be either much thought of or for long remembered.



Chapter Two.

A Friend In Need.

The young Kentuckian was half frenzied by the insult he had received. The proud blood of his republican citizenship was boiling within his veins. What was he to do?

In the agony of his dilemma he put the question to the gentleman who, beyond all doubt, had restrained him from committing manslaughter.

The latter was an entire stranger to him -- never seen him before. He was a man of less than thirty years of age, wearing a broad-brimmed hat upon his head, a cloth jacket, slashed calzoneras, and a red crape scarf around his waist -- in short, the ranchero costume of the country. Still, there was a military bearing about him that corresponded to the title by which the lancer captain had addressed him.

"Caballero," he said in reply, "if your own safety be of any consequence to you I should advise you to take no further notice of the incident that has arisen, however much it may have exasperated you, as no doubt it has done."

"Pardon me, senor; but not for all the world would I follow your advice -- not for my life. I am an American -- a Kentuckian. We do not take blows without giving something of the same in return. I must have redress."

"If you seek it by the law I may as well warn you, you won't have much chance of finding it."

"I know that. The law! I did not think of such a thing. I am a gentleman; I suppose this Captain Uraga supposes himself to be the same, and will not refuse to give me the usual satisfaction."

"He may refuse, and very likely will, on the plea of your being a stranger -- only a barbarian, a Tejano or gringo, as he has put it."

"I am alone here -- what am I to do?"

The Kentuckian spoke half in soliloquy, his countenance expressing extreme chagrin.

"Fuez, senor!" responded the Mexican colonel, "if you're determined on a desafio I think I might arrange it. I feel that I am myself a little compromised by my interference; and if you'll accept of me for your second, I think I can answer for it that Captain Uraga will not dare to deny us."

"Colonel Miranda -- your name, I believe -- need I attempt to express my thanks for so much generosity? I cannot -- I could not. You have removed the very difficulty that was in my way; for I am not only a stranger to you, but to every one around. I arrived at Chihuahua but yesterday, and do not know a soul in the place."

"Enough; you shall not be disappointed in your duel for the want of a second. As a preliminary, may I ask if you are skilled in the use of the sword?"

"Sufficiently to stake my life upon it."

"I put the question, because that is the weapon your adversary will be certain to choose. You being the challenger, of course he has the choice; and he will insist upon it, for a reason that may perhaps amuse you. It is that we Mexican gentlemen believe you Americans somewhat gauche in the handling of the rapier, though we know you to be adepts in the use of the pistol. I take Captain Gil Uraga to be as thorough a poltroon as ever wore epaulettes, but he will have to meet you on my account; and he would perhaps have done so anyhow -- trusting to the probability of your being a bad swordsman."

"In that he may find himself disappointed."

"I am glad to hear it; and now it only needs to receive your instructions. I am ready to act."

The instructions were given, and within two hours' time Captain Gil Uraga, of the Zacatecas Lancers, was in receipt of a challenge from the Kentuckian -- Colonel Miranda being its bearer.

With such a voucher the lancer officer could not do otherwise than accept, which he did with cooler confidence for the very reason Miranda had made known. A Tejano, was his reflection -- what should he know of the sword?

And swords were the weapons chosen.

Had the captain of Zacatecas Lancers been told that his intended adversary had spent a portion of his life among the Creoles of New Orleans, he would have been less reliant on the chances likely to turn up in his favour.

We need not describe the duel, which, if different from other encounters of the kind, was by being on both sides bitter, and of deadly intent. Suffice it to say, that the young Kentuckian displayed a skill in swordsmanship sufficient to disarrange several of Gil Uraga's front teeth, and make an ugly gash in his cheek. He had barely left to him sufficient command of his mouth to cry "Basta!" and so the affair ended.

"Senor Hamersley," said the man who had so effectively befriended him, after they had returned from the encounter, and were drinking a bottle of Paso wine in the posada, "may I ask where you intend going when you leave Chihuahua?"

"To Santa Fe, in New Mexico; thence to the United States, along with one of the return caravans."

"When do you propose starting?"

"As to that, I am not tied to time. The train with which I am to cross the plains will not be going for six months to come. I can get to Santa Fe by a month's travel, I suppose?"

"Less than that. It is not a question of how soon you may arrive there, but when you leave here. I advise you to start at once. I admit that two days is but a short time to see the sights of even so small a place as Chihuahua. But you have witnessed one of them -- enough, I should say. If you take my advice you will let it content you, and kick the Chihuahua-ense dust from your feet before another twenty-four hours have passed over your head."

"But why, Colonel Miranda?"

"Because so long as you remain here you will be in danger of losing your life. You don't know the character of the man with whom you have crossed swords. I do. Although wearing the uniform of an officer in our army, he is simply a salteador. A coward, as I told you, too. He would never have met you if he had thought I would have given him a chance to get out of it. Perhaps he might have been tempted by the hopes of an easy conquest from your supposed want of skill. It would have given him something to boast about among the dames of Chihuahua, for Captain Gil deems himself no little of a lady-killer. You have spoilt his physiognomy for life; and, depend upon it, as long as life lasts, he will neither forget nor forgive that. I shall also come in for a share of his spite, and it behoves both of us to beware of him."

"But what can he do to us?"

"Caballero, that question shows you have not been very long in this country, and are yet ignorant of its customs. In Mexico we have some callings not congenial to your people. Know that stilettoes can here be purchased cheaply, with the arms of assassins to use them. Do you understand me?"

"I do. But how do you counsel me to act?"

"As I intend acting myself -- take departure from Chihuahua this very day. Our roads are the same as far as Albuquerque, where you will be out of reach of this little danger. I am returning thither from the city of Mexico, where I've had business with the Government. I have an escort; and if you choose to avail yourself of it you'll be welcome to its protection."

"Colonel Miranda, again I know not how to thank you. I accept your friendly offer."

"Reserve your thanks till I have done you some service beyond the simple duty of a gentleman, who sees another gentleman in a dilemma he had no hand in creating. But enough, senor; we have no time to spend in talking. Even now there may be a couple of poignards preparing for us. Get your things ready at once, as I start two hours before sunset. In this sultry weather we are accustomed to travel in the cool of the evening."

"I shall be ready."

That same afternoon, two hours before the going down of the sun, a party of horsemen, wearing the uniform of Mexican dragoons of the line, issued from the garita of Chihuahua, and took the northern road leading to Santa Fe, by El Paso del Norte. Colonel Miranda, his ranchero dress changed for the fatigue uniform of a cavalry officer, was at its head, and by his side the stranger, whose cause he had so generously and gallantly espoused.



Chapter Three.

The Colonel Commandant.

Six weeks have elapsed since the day of the duel at Chihuahua. Two men are standing on the azotea of a large mansion-like house close to the town of Albuquerque, whose church spire is just visible through the foliage of trees that shade and surround the dwelling. They are Colonel Miranda and the young Kentuckian, who has been for some time his guest; for the hospitality of the generous Mexican had not terminated with the journey from Chihuahua. After three weeks of toilsome travel, including the traverse of the famed "Dead Man's Journey," he was continuing to extend it in his own house and his own district, of which last he was the military commandant, Albuquerque being at the time occupied by a body of troops, stationed there for defence against Indian incursions.

The house on whose roof the two men stood was that in which Colonel Miranda had been born -- the patrimonial mansion of a large estate that extended along the Rio del Norte, and back towards the Sierra Blanca, into territories almost unknown.

Besides being an officer in the Mexican army, the colonel was one of the ricos of the country. The house, as already said, was a large, massive structure, having, like all Mexican dwellings of its class, a terraced roof, or azotea. What is also common enough in that country, it was surmounted by a mirador, or "belvedere." Standing less than half a mile distant from the soldier's cuartel, the commandant found it convenient to make use of it as his headquarters. A small guard in the saguan, or covered entrance below, with a sentinel stationed outside the gate in front, indicated this.

There was no family inside, wife, woman, or child; for the colonel, still a young man, was a bachelor. Only peons in the field, grooms and other servants around the stables, with domestics in the dwelling --  all, male and female, being Indians of the race known as "Indios mansos" -- brown-skinned and obedient.

But though at this time there was no living lady to make her soft footsteps heard within the walls of the commandant's dwelling, the portrait of a lovely girl hung against the side of the main sola, and on this his American guest had more than once gazed in silent admiration. It showed signs of having been recently painted, which was not strange, since it was the likeness of Colonel Miranda's sister, a few years younger than himself -- at the time on a visit to some relatives in a distant part of the Republic. Frank Hamersley's eyes never rested on it without his wishing the original at home.

The two gentlemen upon the housetop were leisuring away the time in the indulgence of a cigar, watching the water-fowl that swam and plunged on the bosom of the broad shallow stream, listening to the hoarse croakings of pelicans and the shriller screams of the guaya cranes. It was the hour of evening, when these birds become especially stridulent.

"And so you must go to-morrow, Senor Francisco?" said his host, taking the cigaritto from between his teeth, and looking inquiringly into the face of the Kentuckian.

"There is no help for it, colonel. The caravan with which I came out will be leaving Santa Fe the day after to-morrow, and there's just time for me to get there. Unless I go along with it, there may be no other opportunity for months to come, and one cannot cross the plains alone."

"Well, I suppose I must lose you. I am sorry, and selfishly, too, for, as you see, I am somewhat lonely here. There's not one of my officers, with the exception of our old medico, exactly of the sort to be companionable. True, I have enough occupation, as you may have by this time discovered, in looking after our neighbours, the Indios bravos, who, knowing the skeleton of a regiment I've got, are growing saucier every day. I only wish I had a score or two of your stalwart trappers, who now and then pay a visit to Albuquerque. Well, my sister will soon be here, and she, brave girl, has plenty of life in her, though she be but young. What a joyous creature she is, wild as a mustang filly fresh caught. I wish, Don Francisco, you could have stayed to make her acquaintance. I am sure you would be delighted with her."

If the portrait on the wall was anything of a faithful likeness, Hamersley could not have been otherwise. This was his reflection, though, for certain reasons, he did not in speech declare it.

"It is to be hoped we shall meet again, Colonel Miranda," was his ingenious rejoinder. "If I did not have this hope, I should now be parting from you with greater regret. Indeed, I have more than a presentiment we shall meet again; since I've made up my mind on a certain thing."

"On what, Don Francisco?"

"On returning to New Mexico."

"To settle in the country?"

"Not exactly that; only for a time -- long enough to enable me to dispose of a cargo of merchandise in exchange for a bag of your big Mexican dollars."

"Ah! you intend to become one of the prairie merchants, then?"

"I do. That intention has been the cause of my visiting your country. I am old enough to think of some calling, and have always had a fancy for the adventurous life of the prairie trader. As I have sufficient means to stock a small caravan for myself, I think now of trying it. My present trip has been merely one of experiment and exploration. I am satisfied with the result, and, if no accident arise, you may see me back on the Del Norte before either of us be twelve months older."

"Then, indeed, is there a hope of our meeting again. I am rejoiced at it. But, Senor Don Francisco," continued his host, changing to a serious tone, "a word lest I might forget it -- a word of counsel, or warning, I may call it. I have observed that you are too unsuspicious, too regardless of danger. It does not all lie upon the prairies, or among red-skinned savages. There is as much of it here, amid the abodes of our so-called civilisation. When you are travelling through this country bear your late antagonist in mind, and should you at any time meet, beware of him. I have given you some hints about the character of Gil Uraga. I have not told you all. He is worse than you can even imagine. I know him well. Do you see that little house, out yonder on the other side of the river?"

Hamersley nodded assent.

"In that hovel he was born. His father was what we call a pelado -- a poor devil, with scarce a coat to his back. Himself the same, but something worse. He has left in his native place a record of crimes well known, with others more than suspected. In short, he is, as I have told you, a robber. No doubt you wonder that such a man should be an officer in our army. That is because you are ignorant of the state of our service -- our society as well. It is but the result of constantly recurring changes in our political system. Still you may feel surprise at his holding this commission, with the patriotic party -- the pure one --  in power, as it now is. That might be inexplicable even to myself, since I know that he will be traitor to our cause when convenient to him. But I also know the explanation. There is a power, even when the party exercising it is not in the ascendant -- an influence that works by sap and secrecy. It is that of our hierarchy. Gil Uraga is one of its tools, since it exactly suits his low instincts and treacherous training. Whenever the day is ripe for a fresh pronunciamento against our liberties -- if we are so unfortunate as to have one -- he will be amongst the foremost of the traitors. Carrai! I can think of him only with disgust and loathing. Would you believe it, senor, that this fellow, now that epaulettes have been set on his shoulders -- placed there for some vile service -- has the audacity to aspire to the hand of my sister? Adela Miranda standing in bridal robes by the side of Gil Uraga! I would rather see her in her shroud!"

Hamersley's bosom heaved up as he listened to the last words, and with emotion almost equalling that which excited his host. He had just been thinking about the portrait upon the wall, and how beautiful the original must be. Now hearing her name coupled with that of the ruffian whose blow he had felt, and whose blood he had spilled, he almost regretted not having ended that duel by killing his adversary outright.

"But surely, Colonel Miranda," he said at length, "there could be no danger of such an event as that you speak of?"

"Never, so long as I live. But, amigo, as you have learnt, this is a strange land -- a country of quick changes. I am here to-day, commanding in this district, with power, I may almost say, over the lives of all around me. To-morrow I may be a fugitive, or dead. If the latter, where is she, my poor sister, going to find the arm that could protect her?"

Again the breast of Hamersley heaved in a convulsive manner. Strange as it might appear, the words of his newly-made friend seemed like an appeal to him. And it is just possible some such thought was in the mind of the Mexican colonel. In the strong man by his side he saw the type of a race who can protect; just such an oak as he would wish to see his sister extend her arms tendril-like around, and cling on to for life.

Hamersley could not help having vague and varied misgivings; yet among them was one purpose he had already spoken of -- a determination to return to Albuquerque.

"I am sure to be back here," he said, as if the promise was meant to tranquillise the apprehensions of the colonel. Then, changing to a more careless tone, he added, -- 

"I cannot come by the spring caravans; there would not be time enough to make my arrangements. But there is a more southern route, lately discovered, that can be travelled at any season. Perhaps I may try that. In any case, I shall write you by the trains leaving the States in the spring, so that you may know when to expect me. And if, Colonel Miranda," he added, after a short reflective pause, in which his countenance assumed a new and graver form of expression, "if any political trouble, such as you speak of, should occur, and you may find it necessary to flee from your own land, I need not tell you that in mine you will find a friend and a home. After what has happened here, you may depend upon the first being true, and the second hospitable, however humble."

On that subject there was no further exchange of speech. The two individuals, so oddly as accidentally introduced, flung aside the stumps of their cigars; and, clasping hands, stood regarding one another with the gaze of a sincere, unspeakable friendship.

Next morning saw the Kentuckian riding away from Albuquerque towards the capital of New Mexico, an escort of dragoons accompanying him, sent by the Mexican colonel as a protection against marauding Indians.

But all along the road, and for months after, he was haunted with the memory of that sweet face seen upon the sola wall; and instead of laughing at himself for having fallen in love with a portrait, he but longed to return, and look upon its original -- chafing under an apprehension, with which the parting words of his New Mexican host had painfully inspired him.



Chapter Four.

A Pronunciamento.

A little less than a quarter of a century ago the Navajo Indians were the terror of the New Mexican settlements. It was no uncommon thing for them to charge into the streets of a town, shoot down or spear the citizens, plunder the shops, and seize upon such women as they wanted, carrying these captives to their far-off fastnesses in the land of Navajoa.

In the canon de Chelley these savages had their headquarters, with the temple and estufa, where the sacred fire of Moctezuma was never permitted to go out; and there, in times past, when Mexico was misruled by the tyrant Santa Anna, might have been seen scores of white women, captives to the Navajo nation, women well born and tenderly brought up, torn from their homes on the Rio del Norte, and forced to become the wives of their red-skinned captors -- oftener their concubines and slaves. White children, too, in like manner, growing up among the children of their despoilers; on reaching manhood to forget all the ties of kindred, with the liens of civilised life -- in short, to be as much savages as those who had adopted them.

At no period was this despoliation more rife than in the time of which we write. It had reached its climax of horrors, day after day recurring, when Colonel Miranda became military commandant of the district of Albuquerque; until not only this town, but Santa Fe, the capital of the province itself, was menaced with destruction by the red marauders. Not alone the Navajoes on the west, but the Apaches on the south, and the Comanches who peopled the plains to the east, made intermittent and frequent forays upon the towns and villages lying along the renowned Rio del Norte. There were no longer any outlying settlements or isolated plantations. The grand haciendas, as the humble ranchos, were alike lain in ruins. In the walled town alone was there safety for the white inhabitants of Nuevo Mexico, or for those Indians, termed mansos, converted to Christianity, and leagued with them in the pursuits of civilisation. And, indeed, not much safety either within towns -- even in Albuquerque itself.

Imbued with a spirit of patriotism, Colonel Miranda, in taking charge of the district -- his native place, as already known -- determined on doing his best to protect it from further spoliation; and for this purpose had appealed to the central government to give him an increase to the forces under his command.

It came in the shape of a squadron of lancers from Chihuahua, whose garrison only spared them on their being replaced by a troop of like strength, sent on from the capital of the country.

It was not very pleasant to the commandant of Albuquerque to see Captain Gil Uraga in command of the subsidy thus granted him. But the lancer officer met him in a friendly manner, professing cordiality, apparently forgetful of their duelling feud, and, at least outwardly, showing the submission due to the difference of their rank.

Engaged in frequent affairs with the Indians, and expeditions in pursuit of them, for a while things seemed to go smoothly enough.

But as Adela Miranda had now returned home, and was residing with her brother, in the interludes of tranquillity he could not help having some concern for her. He was well aware of Uraga's aspirations; and, though loathing the very sight of the man, he was, nevertheless, compelled to tolerate his companionship to a certain extent, and could not well deny him the entree of his house.

At first the subordinate bore himself with becoming meekness. Mock humility it was, and soon so proved itself. For, as the days passed, rumours reached the distant department of New Mexico that the old tyrant Santa Anna was again returning to power. And, in proportion as these gained strength, so increased Gil Uraga's confidence in himself, till at length he assumed an air of effrontery -- almost insolence -- towards his superior officer; and towards the sister, in the interviews he was permitted with her, a manner significantly corresponding.

These were few, and still less frequent, as his brusque behaviour began to manifest itself. Observing it, Colonel Miranda at length came to the determination that the lancer captain should no longer enter into his house -- at least, by invitation. Any future relations between them must be in the strict execution of their respective military duties.

"Yes, sister," he said, one afternoon, as Adela was buckling on his sword-belt, and helping to equip him for the evening parade, "Uraga must come here no more. I well understand the cause of his contumacious behaviour. The priest party is again getting the ascendency. If they succeed, heaven help poor Mexico. And, I may add, heaven help us!"

Drawing the girl to his bosom with a fond affectionate embrace, he gave her a brother's kiss. Then, striding forth, he sprang upon a saddled horse held in waiting, and rode off to parade his troops on the plaza of Albuquerque.

A ten minutes' trot brought him into their presence. They were not drawn up in line, or other formation, to receive him. On the contrary, as he approached the cuartel, he saw strange sights, and heard sounds corresponding. Everything was in confusion -- soldiers rushing to and fro, uttering seditious cries. Among these were "Viva Santa Anna!"

"Viva el General Armijo!"

"Viva el Coronel Uraga!"

Beyond doubt it was a pronunciamento. The old regime under which Colonel Miranda held authority was passing away, and a new one about to be initiated.

Drawing his sword and putting spur to his horse, he dashed in among the disaffected men.

A few of the faithful ran up, and ranged themselves by his side.

Then commenced a struggle, with shouting, shooting, sabring, and lance-thrusts. Several fell -- some dead, some only disabled; among the last, Colonel Miranda himself, gravely wounded.

In ten minutes it was all over; and the commandant of Albuquerque, no longer commanding, lay lodged in the garrison carcel; Captain Gil Uraga, now colonel, replacing him as the supreme military officer of the district.

While all around ran the rumour that Don Antonio Lopes de Santa Anna was once more master of Mexico; his satellite, Manuel Armijo, again Governor of Santa Fe.



Chapter Five.

"Why Comes He Not?"

"What delays Valerian? What can be keeping him?"

These questions came from Adela Miranda, on the evening of that same day, standing in the door of her brother's house, with eyes bent along the road leading to Albuquerque. Valerian was her brother's baptismal name, and it was about his absence she was anxious.

For this she had reasons -- more than one. Though still only a young girl, she quite understood the political situation of the Mexican Republic; at all times shifting, of late more critical than usual. In her brother's confidence, she had been kept posted up in all that transpired in the capital, as also the district over which he held military command, and knew the danger of which he was himself apprehensive -- every day drawing nigher and nigher.

Shortly after his leaving her she had heard shots, with a distant murmur of voices, in the direction of the town. From the azolea, to which she had ascended, she could note these noises more distinctly, but fancied them to be salutes, vivas, and cheers. Still, there was nothing much in that. It might be some jubilation of the soldiery at the ordinary evening parade; and, remembering that the day was a fiesta, she thought less of it.

But, as night drew down, and her brother had not returned, she began to feel some slight apprehension. He had promised to be back for a dinner that was long since due -- a repast she had herself prepared, more sumptuous than common on account of the saint's day. This was it that elicited the anxious self-asked interrogatories.

After giving utterance to them, she paced backward and forward; now standing in the portal and gazing along the road; now returning to the sola de comida, to look upon the table, with cloth spread, wines decantered, fruits and flowers on the epergne -- all but the dishes that waited serving till Valerian should show himself.

To look on something besides -- a portrait that hung upon the wall, underneath her own. It was a small thing -- a mere photographic carte-de-visite. But it was the likeness of one who had a large place in her brother's heart, if not in her own. In hers, how could it? It was the photograph of a man she had never seen -- Frank Hamersley. He had left it with Colonel Miranda, as a souvenir of their short but friendly intercourse.

Did Colonel Miranda's sister regard it in that light? She could not in any other. Still, as she gazed upon it, a thought was passing through her mind somewhat different from a sentiment of simple friendship. Her brother had told her all -- the circumstances that led to his acquaintance with Hamersley; of the duel, and in what a knightly manner the Kentuckian had carried himself; adding his own commentaries in a very flattering fashion. This, of itself, had been enough to pique curiosity in a young girl, just escaped from her convent school; but added to the outward semblance of the stranger, by the sun made lustrous -- so lustrous inwardly -- Adela Miranda was moved by something more than curiosity. As she stood regarding the likeness of Frank Hamersley she felt very much as he had done looking at hers -- in love with one only known by portrait and repute.

In such there is nothing strange nor new. Many a reader of this tale could speak of a similar experience.

While gazing on the carte-de-visite she was roused from the sweet reverie it had called up by hearing footsteps outside. Someone coming in through the saggan.

"Valerian at last!"

The steps sounded as if the man making them were in a hurry. So should her brother be, having so long delayed his return.

She glided out to meet him with an interrogatory on her lips.

"Valerian?" -- this suddenly changing to the exclamation, "Madre de Dios! 'Tis not my brother!"

It was not, but a man pale and breathless -- a peon of the establishment -- who, on seeing her, gasped out, -- 

"Senorita! I bring sad news. There's been a mutiny at the cuartel -- a pronunciamento. The rebels have had it all their own way, and I am sorry to tell you that the colonel, your brother -- "

"What of him? Speak! Is he -- "

"Not killed, nina; only wounded, and a prisoner."

Adela Miranda did not swoon nor faint. She was not of the nervous kind. Nurtured amid dangers, most of her life accustomed to alarms from Indian incursions, as well as revolutionary risings, she remained calm.

She dispatched messengers to the town, secretly, one after another; and, while awaiting their reports, knelt before an image of the Virgin, and prayed.

Up till midnight her couriers went, and came. Then one who was more than a messenger -- her brother himself!

As already reported to her, he was wounded, and came accompanied by the surgeon of the garrison, a friend. They arrived at the house in hot haste, as if pursued.

And they were so, as she soon after learnt.

There was just time for Colonel Miranda to select the most cherished of his penates; pack them on a recua of mules, then mount, and make away.

They had scarce cleared the premises when the myrmidons of the new commandant, led by the man himself, rode up and took possession of the place.

By this time, and by good luck, the ruffian was intoxicated -- so drunk he could scarce comprehend what was passing around him. It seemed like a dream to him to be told that Colonel Miranda had got clear away; a more horrid one to hear that she whom he designed for a victim had escaped from his clutches.

When morning dawned, and in soberer mood he listened to the reports of those sent in pursuit -- all telling the same tale of non-success -- he raved like one in a frenzy of madness. For the escape of the late Commandant of Albuquerque had robbed him of two things -- to him the sweetest in life -- one, revenge on the man he heartily hated; the other, possession of the woman he passionately loved.



Chapter Six.

Surrounded.

A plain of pure sand, glaring red-yellow under the first rays of the rising sun; towards the east and west apparently illimitable, but interrupted northward by a chain of table-topped hills, and along its southern edge by a continuous cliff, rising wall-like to the height of several hundred feet, and trending each way beyond the verge of vision.

About half-distance between this prolonged escarpment and the outlying hills six large "Conestoga" waggons, locked tongue and tail together, enclosing a lozenge-shaped or elliptical space -- a corral -- inside which are fifteen men and five horses.

Only ten of the men are living; the other five are dead, their bodies lying a-stretch between the wheels of the waggons. Three of the horses have succumbed to the same fate.

Outside are many dead mules; several still attached to the protruding poles, that have broken as their bodies fell crashing across them. Fragments of leather straps and cast gearing tell of others that have torn loose, and scoured off from the perilous spot.

Inside and all around are traces of a struggle -- the ground scored and furrowed by the hoofs of horses, and the booted feet of men, with here and there little rivulets and pools of blood. This, fast filtering into the sand, shows freshly spilled -- some of it still smoking.

All the signs tell of recent conflict. And so should they, since it is still going on, or only suspended to recommence a new scene of the strife, which promises to be yet more terrible and sanguinary than that already terminated.

A tragedy easy of explanation. There is no question about why the waggons have been stopped, or how the men, mules, and horses came to be killed. Distant about three hundred yards upon the sandy plain are other men and horses, to the number of near two hundred. Their half-naked bodies of bronze colour, fantastically marked with devices in chalk-white, charcoal-black, and vermillion red -- their buckskin breech-clouts and leggings, with plumes sticking tuft-like above their crowns -- all these insignia show them to be Indians.

It is a predatory band of the red pirates, who have attacked a travelling party of whites -- no new spectacle on the prairies.

They have made the first onslaught, which was intended to stampede the caravan, and at once capture it. This was done before daybreak. Foiled in the attempt, they are now laying siege to it, having surrounded it on all sides at a distance just beyond range of the rifles of those besieged. Their line forms the circumference of a circle of which the waggon clump is the centre. It is not very regularly preserved, but ever changing, ever in motion, like some vast constricting serpent that has thrown its body into a grand coil around its victim, to close when ready to give the fatal squeeze.

In this case the victim appears to have no hope of escape -- no alternative but to succumb.

That the men sheltered behind the waggons have not "gone under" at the first onslaught is significative of their character. Of a surety they are not common emigrants, crossing the prairies on their way to a new home. Had they been so, they could not have "corralled" their unwieldy vehicles with such promptitude; for they had started from their night camp, and the attack was made while the train was in motion -- advantage being taken of their slow drag through the soft, yielding sand. And had they been but ordinary emigrants they would not have stood so stoutly on the defence, and shown such an array of dead enemies around them. For among the savages outside can be seen at least a score of lifeless forms lying prostrate upon the plain.

For the time, there is a suspension of hostilities. The red men, disappointed by the failure of their first charge, have retreated back to a safe distance. The death-dealing bullets of the whites, of which they have had fatal proof, hold them there.

But the pause is not likely to be for long, as their gestures indicate. On one side of the circle a body of them clumped together hold counsel. Others gallop around it, bearing orders and instructions that evidently relate to a changed plan of attack. With so much blood before their eyes, and the bodies of their slain comrades, it is not likely they will retire from the ground. In their shouts there is a ring of resolved vengeance, which promises a speedy renewal of the attack.

"Who do you think they are?" asks Frank Hamersley, the proprietor of the assaulted caravan. "Are they Comanches, Walt?"

"Yis, Kimanch," answers the individual thus addressed; "an' the wust kind o' Kimanch. They're a band o' the cowardly Tenawas. I kin tell by thar bows. Don't ye see that thar's two bends in 'em?"

"I do."

"Wal, that's the sort o' bow the Tenawas carry -- same's the Apash."

"The Indians on this route were reported friendly. Why have they attacked us, I wonder?"

"Injuns ain't niver friendly -- not Tenawas. They've been riled considerably of late by the Texans on the Trinity. Besides, I reck'n I kin guess another reezun. It's owin' to some whites as crossed this way last year. Thar war a scrimmage atween them and the redskins, in the which some squaws got kilt -- I mout say murdered. Thar war some Mexikins along wi' the whites, an' it war them that did it. An' now we've got to pay for their cussed crooked conduk."

"What's best for us to do?"

"Thar's no best, I'm afeerd. I kin see no chance 'cept to fight it out to the bitter eend. Thar's no mercy in them yells -- ne'er a morsel o' it."

"What do they intend doing next, think you?"

"Jest yet 'taint easy to tell. Thar's somethin' on foot among 'em -- some darned Injun trick. Clar as I kin see, that big chief wi' the red cross on his ribs, air him they call the Horned Lizard; an' ef it be, thar ain't a cunniner coon on all this contynent. He's sharp enough to contrive some tight trap for us. The dose we've gin the skunks may keep 'em off for a while -- not long, I reck'n. Darnation! Thar's five o' our fellows wiped out already. It looks ugly, an' like enuf we've all got to go under."

"Don't you think our best way will be to make a dash for it, and try to cut through them. If we stay here they'll starve us out. We haven't water enough in the waggons to give us a drink apiece."

"I know all that, an' hev thort o' 't. But you forget about our hosses. Thar's only two left alive -- yours and myen. All the rest air shot or stampedoed. Thurfor, but two o' us would stand a chance o' gettin' clar, an' it slim enough."

"You are right, Walt; I did not think of that I won't forsake the men, even if assured of my own safety -- never!"

"Nobody as knows you, Frank Hamersley, need be tolt that."

"Boys!" cries out Hamersley, in a voice that can be heard all through the corral; "I needn't tell you that we're in a fix, and a bad one. There's no help for us but to fight it out. And if we must die, let us die together."

A response from eight voices coming from different sides -- for those watching the movements of the enemy are posted round the enclosure --  tells there is not a craven among them. Though only teamsters, they are truly courageous men -- most of them natives of Kentucky and Tennessee.

"In any case," continues the owner of the caravan, "we must hold our ground till night. In the darkness there may be some chance of our being able to steal past them."

These words have scarce passed the lips of the young prairie merchant, when their effect is counteracted by an exclamation. It comes from Walt Wilder, who has been acting as guide to the party.

"Dog-goned!" he cries; "not the shadder o' a chance. They ain't goin' to give us till night. I knewed the Horned Lizard 'ud be after some trick."

"What?" inquire several voices.

"Look whar that lot's stannin' out yonder. Can't ye guess what they're at, Frank Hamersley?"

"No. I only see that they have bows in their hands."

"An' arrers, too. Don't you obsarve them wroppin' somethin' round the heads o' the arrers -- looks like bits o' rags? Aye, rags it air, sopped in spittles and powder. They're agoin' to set the waggons afire! They air, by God!"



Chapter Seven.

Fiery Messengers.

The teamsters, each of whom is watching the post assigned to him, despite the danger, already extreme, see fresh cause of alarm in Wilder's words. Some slight hope had hitherto upheld them. Under the protection of the waggons they might sustain a siege, so long as their ammunition lasts; and before it gave out some chance, though they cannot think what, might turn up in their favour. It was a mere reflection founded on probabilities still unscrutinised -- the last tenacious struggle before hope gives way to utter and palpable despair. Hamersley's words had for an instant cheered them; for the thought of the Indians setting fire to the waggons had not occurred to any of the party. It was a thing unknown to their experience; and, at such a distance, might be supposed impossible.

But, as they now look around them, and note the canvas tilts, and light timbers, dry as chips from long exposure to the hot prairie sun; the piles of dry goods -- woollen blankets, cotton, and silk stuffs -- intended for the stores of Chihuahua, some of which they have hastily pulled from their places to form protecting barricades -- when they see all this, and then the preparations the Indians are engaged in making, no wonder that they feel dismay on Walt Wilder shouting out, "They're agoin' to set the waggons afire!"

The announcement, although carrying alarm, conveys no counsel. Even their guide, with a life-long experience on the prairies, is at a loss how they ought to act in this unexpected emergency. In the waggons water there is none -- at least not enough to drown out a conflagration such as that threatened; and from the way the assailants are gesturing the traders can predict that ere long, a shower of fiery shafts will be sent into their midst. None of them but have knowledge sufficient to admonish them of what is intended. Even if they had never set foot upon a prairie, their school stories and legends of early life would tell them. They have all read, or heard, of arrows with tinder tied around their barbs, on fire and spitting sparks, or brightly ablaze.

If any are ignorant of this sort of missile, or the mode of dispatching it on its mischievous errand, their ignorance is not destined longer to continue. Almost as soon as Wilder has given utterance to the warning words, half a score of the savages can be seen springing to the backs of their horses, each bearing a bow with a bunch of the prepared arrows. And before a single preventive step can be taken by the besieged traders, or any counsel exchanged between them, the pyrotechnic display has commenced.

The bowmen gallop in circles around the besieged enclosure, their bodies concealed behind those of their horses -- only a leg and an arm seen, or now and then a face for an instant, soon withdrawn. Not exactly in circles but in spiral rings -- at each turn drawing closer and nearer, till the true distance is attained for casting the inflammatory shafts.

"Stand to your guns, men!" is the hurried command of the guide, backed by a kind of encouragement from the proprietor of the caravan.

"Now, boys!" adds the guide, "ye've got to look out for squalls. Keep two an' two of ye thegither. While one brings down the hoss, t' other take care o' the rider as he gits unkivered. Make sure afore ye pull trigger, an' don't waste so much as the snappin' o' a cap. Thar goes the first o' the fire works!"

As Wilder speaks, a spark is seen to shoot out from one of the circling cavaliers, which rising rocket-like into the air, comes in parabolic curve towards the corral.

It falls short some twenty yards and lies smoking and sputtering in the sand.

"They han't got thar range yit," cries the guide; "but this child hez got his -- leastwise for that skunk on the clay-bank mustang. So hyar goes to rub him off o' the list o' fire shooters."

And simultaneous with the last word is heard the crack of Wilder's rifle.

The young prairie merchant by his side, supposing him to have aimed only at the Indian's horse, has raised his own gun, ready to take the rider as soon as uncovered.

"No need, Frank," shouts the guide, restraining him. "Walt Wilder don't waste two charges o' powder that way. Keep yur bullet for the karkidge o' the next as comes 'ithin range. Look yonder! I know'd I'd fetch him out o' his stirrups -- tight as he's tried to cling to 'em. Thar he goes to grass!"

Hamersley, as the others on the same side of the corral, were under the belief that the shot had been a miss; for the Indian at whom it was aimed still stuck to his horse, and was carried for some distance on in curving career. Nor did the animal show any sign of having been hit. But the rider did. While engaged in the effort of sending his arrow, the savage had exposed his face, one arm, and part of the other. Ere he could withdraw them, Walt's bullet had struck the arm that supported him, breaking the bone close to the elbow-joint. He has clung on with the tenacity of a shot squirrel, knowing that to let go will be certain death to him. But, despite all his efforts, the crippled arm fails to sustain him; and, with a despairing cry, he at length tumbles to the ground. Before he can rise to his feet, his body is bored by a leaden messenger from one of the men watching on that side, which lays him lifeless along the sand.

No cheer of triumph ascends from among the waggons; the situation of those who defend them is too serious for any idle exhibition. The man who has fired the last shot only hastens to re-load, while the others remain mute and motionless -- each on the look-out for a like opportunity.

The fall of their comrade has taught the freebooters a lesson, and for a time they make their approach with more caution. But the shouts of those standing spectators in the outer circle stimulate them to fresh efforts, as the slightest show of cowardice would surely cause them to be taunted. Those entrusted with the fiery arrows are all young warriors, chosen for this dangerous service, or volunteers to perform it. The eyes of their chief, and the braves of the tribe, are upon them. They are thirsting for glory, and hold their lives as of little account, in the face of an achievement that will gain them the distinction most coveted by an Indian youth -- that which will give him rank as a warrior, and perhaps some day raise him to a chieftaincy.

Stimulated by this thought, they soon forget the check caused by the fall of their comrade; and, laying aside caution, ride nearer and nearer, till their arrows, one after another, hurtle through the air, and dropping like a continuous shower of spent rocket-sticks upon the covers of the corralled waggons.

Several of them fall to shots from the barricade, but then places are supplied by fresh volunteers from the outer circle; and the sparkling shower is kept up, till a curl of smoke is seen soaring above the white tilts of the waggons, and soon after others at different places and on different sides of the enclosure.

As yet the besieged have not seen this. The powder-smoke puffing up from their own guns, discharged in quick repetition, obscures everything in a thick, sulphurous cloud; so that even the white covers of the waggons are scarce distinguishable, much less the spots where it has commenced smoking.

Not long, however, till something besides smoke makes itself visible, as also audible. Here and there flames flicker up, with a sharp crackling noise, which continues. The one is not flashes from the guns, nor the other a snapping of percussion-caps.

Wilder, with eyes turning to all points, is the first to perceive this.

"We're on fire, boys!" he vociferates; "on fire everywhar!"

"Great God! yes! What are we to do?" several ask, despairingly.

"What air we to do?" shouts the guide, in response. "What kin we do, but fight it out to the death, an' then die! So let us die, not like dogs, but as men -- as Americans!"



Chapter Eight.

Knife, Pistol, And Hatchet.

The brave words had scarce passed from Walt Wilder's lips when the waggons became enveloped in a cloud of smoke. From all sides it rolled into the corral till those inside could no longer see one another.

Still through the obscurity rang their cries of mutual encouragement, repeating the determination so tersely expressed.

They knew they had no water by which to extinguish the fast-threatening flames; yet in that moment of emergency they thought of an expedient. There were shovels in the waggons; and laying hold of these, they commenced flinging sand over the places that had caught fire, with the intent to smother the incipient blaze. Left alone, and with time, they might have succeeded. But they were not left alone, for the savages, seeing the advantage they had gained, were now fast closing for a final charge upon the corral, and the implements of industry had to be abandoned.

These were thrown despairingly aside; and the besieged, once more grasping their rifles, sprang back into the waggons -- each with eager eye searching for an assailant. Though themselves half blinded by the smoke, they could still see the enemy outside; for the Indians, grown confident by the coup they had made, were now riding recklessly near. Quick came the reports of rifles -- faster and more frequent than ever; fast as ten men, all practised marksmen, could load and fire. In less than sixty seconds nearly a score of savages dropped to the death-dealing bullets, till the plain appeared strewn with dead bodies.

But the crisis had come -- the time for a general charge of the whole band; and now the dusky outside ring was seen gradually contracting towards the corral -- the savages advancing from all sides, some on foot, others on horseback, all eager to secure the trophy of a scalp.

On they came, violently gesticulating, and uttering wild vengeful shouts.

With the besieged it was a moment for despair. The waggons were on fire all around them, and in several places flames were beginning to flicker up through the smoke. They no longer thought of making any attempt to extinguish them. They knew it would be idle.

Did they think of surrender? No -- not a man of them. That would have been equally idle. In the voices of the advancing foe there was not an accent of mercy.

Surrender! And be slain afterwards! Before which to be tortured, perhaps dragged at the horse's tail, or set up as a target for the Tenawa sharpshooters to practise at. No! They would have to die anyhow. Better now than then. They were not the men to offer both cheeks to the insulter. They could resign sweet life, but death would be all the sweeter with corpses of Indians lying thickly around them. They would first make a hecatomb of their hated foes, and then fall upon it. That is the sort of death preferred by the prairie man -- hunter, trapper, or trader -- glorious to him as the cannon-furrowed field to the soldier. That is the sort of death of which Walt Wilder spoke when he said, "Let us die, not like dogs, but as men -- as Americans!"

By this time the smoke had completely enveloped the waggons, the enclosed space between, and a fringe of some considerable width around them. But a still darker ring was all around -- the circle of savage horsemen, who from all sides were galloping up and dismounting to make surer work of the slaughter. The warriors jostled one another as they pressed forward afoot, each thirsting for a scalp.

The last throe of the conflict had come. It was no longer to be a duel at a distance -- no more a contest between rifle-bullets and barbed arrows; but the close, desperate, hand-to-hand contest of pistol, knife, spear, club, and hatchet.

The ten white men -- none of them yet hors de combat -- knew well what was before them. Not one of them blanched or talked of backing. They did not even think of surrender. It would have been too late to sue for mercy, had they been so inclined.

But they were not. Attacked without provocation, and treacherously, as they had been, their fury was stronger than their fear; and anger now nerved them to frenzied energy of action.

The savages had already closed around the waggons, clustering upon the wheels, some like snakes, wriggling through the spaces left undefended. Rifles ceased to ring; but pistols cracked -- repeating pistols, that dealt death at every shot, sending redskin after redskin to the happy hunting grounds. And by the pistol's flash blades were seen gleaming through the smoke -- now bright, anon dimmed, and dripping blood.

For every white man that fell, at least three red ones went down upon the sand.

The unequal contest could not long continue. Scarce ten minutes did it last, and but for the obscuring smoke five would have finished it. This was in favour of the assailed, enabling them to act with advantage against the assailants. Such a quick, wholesale slaughter did the white men make with their revolvers that the savages, surprised and staggered by it, for a moment recoiled, and appeared as if again going to retreat.

They did not -- they dared not. Their superior numbers -- the shame of being defeated by such a handful of foes -- the glory of conquest -- and, added to it, an angry vengeance now hot in their hearts -- all urged them on; and the attack was renewed with greater earnestness than ever.

Throughout every scene in the strife Frank Hamersley had comported himself with a courage that made his men feel less fear of death, and less regret to die by his side. Fighting like a lion, he had been here, and there, and everywhere. He had done his full share of slaving.

It was all in vain. Though standing in the midst of thick smoke, unseeing and unseen, he knew that most of his faithful men had fallen. He was admonished of this by their less frequent responses to his cries of encouragement, telling him the struggle was close upon its termination. No wonder his fury was fast giving place to despair. But it was no craven fear, nor any thought of escape. His determination not to be taken alive was strong as ever.

His hand still firmly clasped his bowie-knife, its blade dripping with the blood of more than one enemy; for into the body of more than one had he plunged it. He clutched it with the determination still farther to kill -- to take yet another life before parting with his own.

It was hopeless, useless slaughter; but it was sweet. Almost insane with anger, he thought it sweet.

Three dusky antagonists lay dead at his feet, and he was rushing across the corral in search of a fourth. A giant figure loomed up before him, looking more gigantic from the magnifying effect of the smoke. It was not that of a savage; it was Walt Wilder.

"Dead beat!" hoarsely and hurriedly muttered the guide. "We must go under, Frank. We're boun' to go under, if we don't -- "

"Don't what, Walt?"

"Git away from hyar."

"Impossible."

"No. Thar's still a chance, I think -- for us two anyways. There ain't many o' the others left, an' ef thar war, we can't do 'em any good now. Our stayin' 'ud be no use -- no use dyin' along wi' 'em; while ef we get clar, we mout live to revenge 'em. Don't ye see our two horses are still safe? Thar they air, cowerin' clost in agin one o' the waggons. 'Tain't much kit? I admit; still thar's a shadder. Come, Frank, and let's try it."

Hamersley hesitated. It was at thought of deserting even the last of his faithful followers, who had sacrificed, or were still sacrificing, their lives in his service. But, as the guide had truly said what good could he do them by staying and getting killed? And he might survive to avenge them!

The last reflection would have decided him! But Wilder had not waited for him to determine. While speaking the urgent words, he laid his huge hand upon Hamersley's shoulder and half led, half dragged him in the direction of the horses. "Keep hold o' yur rifle, though it air empty," hurriedly counselled the guide. "If we shed get away, it will be needed. We mout as well go under hyar as be upon the pararira without a gun. Now mount!"

Almost mechanically the young Kentuckian climbed upon the back of the horse nearest to him -- his own. The guide had not yet mounted his; but, as could be seen through the smoke, was leaning against the wheel of one of the waggons. In an instant after Hamersley perceived that the vehicle was in motion, and could hear a slight grating noise as the tire turned in the sand. The great Conestoga, with its load had yielded to the strength of the Colossus.

In another instant he had sprung upon his horse's back and riding close to Hamersley, muttered in his ear, "Now I've opened a crack atween two o' the wehicles. Let's cut out through it. We kin keep in the kiver o' the smoke as far as it'll screen us. You foller, an' see that ye don't lose sight o' me. If we must go under in the eend, let it be out on the open plain, an' not shut up hyar like badgers in a barr'l. Follow me clost, Frank. Now or niver!"

Almost mechanically the young Kentuckian yielded obedience; and in ten seconds after the two horsemen had cleared the waggon clump, with the shouting crowd that encircled it and were going at full gallop across the sand-strewn plain.



Chapter Nine.

Quarrelling Over Scalps.

Nearly simultaneous with the departure of the two horsemen came the closing scene of the conflict. Indeed it ended on the instant of their riding off. For of their comrades left behind there was not one upon his feet -- not one able to fire another shot, or strike another blow. All lay dead, or wounded, among the waggons; some of the dead, as the wounded, clasping the handle of a knife whose blade reeked with blood, or a pistol from whose muzzle the smoke was still oozing.

But soon among the whites there were no wounded, for the hovering host, having closed in from all sides, leaped from their horses, swarmed over the barrier between, tomahawking the last that showed signs of life, or thrusting them with their long lances, and pinning them to the sand. Through the body of every white man at least a half-dozen spear-blades were passed, while a like number of savages stood exultingly over, or danced triumphantly around it.

And now ensued a scene that might be symbolised only among wild beasts or fiends in the infernal regions. It was a contest for possession of the scalps of those who had fallen -- each of the victors claiming one. Some stood with bared blades ready to peel them off, while others held out hands and weapons to prevent it. From the lips of the competitors came shouts and expostulations, while their eyes flashed fire, and their arms rose and fell in furious gesticulations.

Amidst their demoniac jargon could be heard a voice louder than all, thundering forth a command. It was to desist from their threatening strife and extinguish the flames that still flared up over the waggons. He who spoke was the one with the red cross upon his breast, its bars of bright vermilion gleaming like fire against the sombre background of his skin. He was the chief of the Tenawa Comanches -- the Horned Lizard -- as Wilder had justly conjectured.

And as their chief he was instantly obeyed. The wranglers, one and all, promptly suspended their disputes; and flinging their weapons aside, at once set to carrying out his orders.

Seizing upon the shovels, late dropped from the hands of their now lifeless antagonists, and plying them to better purpose, they soon smothered the flame, and the smoke too, till only a thin drift stole up through the sand thrown thickly over it.

Meanwhile a man, in appearance somewhat differing from the rest, was seen moving among them.

Indian in garb and guise, savage in his accoutrements, as the colour of his skin, he nevertheless, showed features more resembling races that are civilised. His countenance was of a cast apparently Caucasian, its lineaments unlike those of the American aboriginal; above all, unlike in his having a heavy beard, growing well forward upon his cheeks, and bushing down below the chin.

True, that among the Comanche Indians bearded men are occasionally met with -- mestizos, the descendants of renegade whites. But none paraded as he, who now appeared stalking around the ruined caravan. And there was another individual by his side, who had also hair upon his cheeks, though thinner and more straggling; while the speech passing between the two was not the guttural tongue of the Tenawa Comanches, but pure Mexican Spanish.

Both were on foot, having dismounted; he with the heavy beard leading, the other keeping after as if in attendance.

The former flitted from one to another of those who lay slain; in turn stooping over each corpse, and scrutinising it -- to some giving but a cursory glance, to others more careful examination -- then leaving each with an air of disappointment, and a corresponding exclamation.

At length, after going the complete round of the dead, he faced towards his satellite, saying, -- 

"Por dios! he don't appear to be among them! What can it mean? There could be no doubt of his intention to accompany the caravan. Here it is, and here we are; but where is he? Carajo! If he has escaped me, I shall feel as if I'd had all this trouble for nothing."

"Think of the precious plunder," rejoined the other. "These grand carretas are loaded with rich goods. Surely they don't count for nothing."

"A fig for the goods! I'd give more for his scalp than all the silks and satins that were ever carried to Santa Fe. Not that I'd care to keep such a trifle. The Horned Lizard will be welcome to it, soon as I see it stripped from his skull. That's what I want to see. But where is it? Where is he? Certainly not among these. There isn't one of them the least like him. Surely it must be his party, spoken of in his letter? No other has been heard of coming by this route. There they lie, all stark and staring -- men, mules, and horses -- all but him."

The smoke has thinned off, only a thin film still wafting about the waggons, whose canvas tilts, now consumed, expose their contents -- some of them badly burnt, some but slightly scorched. The freebooters have commenced to drag out boxes and bales, their chief by a stern command having restrained them from returning to take the scalps of the slain. All has been the work of only a few moments -- less than ten minutes of time -- for it is scarce so much since Wilder and Hamersley, stealing out between the wheels, rode off under cover of the cloud.

By this he with the beard, speaking Spanish, has ceased to scrutinise the corpses, and stands facing his inferior, his countenance showing an air of puzzled disappointment, as proclaimed by his repeated speeches.

Once again he gives speech to his perplexity, exclaiming:

"Demonios! I don't understand it. Is it possible that any of them can have got away?"

As he puts the question there comes a shout from outside, seeming to answer it. For it is a cry half in lamentation -- a sort of wail, altogether unlike the charging war-whoop of the Comanches. Acquainted with their signals, he knows that the one he has heard tells of an enemy trying to escape.

Hurrying outside the corral, he sees two mounted men, nearly a mile off, making in the direction of the cliffs. And nearer, a score of other men, in the act of mounting, these being Indians, who have just caught sight of the fugitives, and are starting to pursue.

More eager than any, he rushes direct to his horse, and, having reached, bestrides him at a spring. Then, plunging deep the spur, he dashed off across the plain towards the point where the two men are seen making away. Who both may be he knows not, nor of one need he care; but of one he does, feeling sure it is the same for whom he has been searching among the slain.

"Not dead yet, but soon shall be!"

So mutters he, as with clenched teeth, bridle tight-drawn, and fingers firmly clasping the butt of a double-barrelled pistol, he spurs on after the two horsemen, who, heading straight for the cliff, seem as if they had no chance to escape; for their pursuers are closing after them in a cloud, dark as the dreaded "norther" that sweeps over the Texan desert, with shout symbolising the clangour that accompanies it.



Chapter Ten.

A Brave Steed Abandoned.

In making his bold dash, Walt Wilder was not acting without a preconceived plan. He had one. The smoke, with its covering cloud, might be the means of concealment, and ultimate salvation; at all events, it would cover their retreat long enough to give them a start of the pursuers, and then the speed of their horses might possibly be depended upon for the rest.

They at first followed this plan, but unfortunately soon found that it would not long avail them. The smoke was not drifting in the right direction. The breeze carried it almost straight towards the line of the cliffs, while their only chance was to strike for the open plain. At the cliffs their flight would be stopped.

So far the smoke had favoured them. Thick and stifling in the immediate vicinity of the waggons, it enabled them to slip unobserved through the ruck of savages. Many of these, still mounted, had seen them pass outward, but through the blue film had mistaken them for two of their own men. They perhaps knew nothing of there having been horses inside the corral, and did not expect to see any of their caged enemies attempting to escape in that way. Besides, they were now busy endeavouring to extinguish the fires, all resistance being at an end.

As yet there was no sign of pursuit, and the fugitives rode up with the projecting nimbus around them. In the soft sand their horses' hoofs made no noise, and they galloped towards the cliff silent as spectres.

On reaching its base, it became necessary for them either to change the direction of their flight, or bring it to a termination. The bluff towered vertically above them, like a wall of rude masonwork. A cat could not have scaled it, much less horse, or man. They did not think of making the attempt.

And now, what were they to do? Ride out from the smoke-cloud, or remain under its favouring shelter? In either case they were sure of being discovered and pursued. It would soon clear off, and they would be seen from the waggons. Already it was fast thinning around them; the Indians having nearly extinguished the fires in order to save the treasure, which had no doubt been their chief object for attacking the caravan. Soon there would be no smoke -- and then?

The pursued men stayed not to reflect further. Delay would only add to their danger; and with this thought urging them on, they wheeled their horses to the left, and headed along the line of the bluff. Six seconds after they were riding in a pure atmosphere, under clear dazzling sunlight.

But it gave them no delight. A yell from the savages told them they were seen, and simultaneously with the shout, they perceived a score of horsemen spurring from the crowd, and riding at full speed towards them.

They were both splendidly mounted, and might still have had a fair chance of escape; but now another sight met their eyes that once more almost drove them to despair.

A promontory of the cliff, stretching far out over the sandy plain, lay directly in their track. Its point was nearer to the pursuers than to them. Before they could reach, and turn it, their retreat would be intercepted.

Was there still a chance to escape in the opposite direction?

Again suddenly turning, they galloped back as they had come; again entered the belt of smoke; and, riding on through it, reached the clear sunlight beyond.

Again a torturing disappointment. Another promontory -- twin to the first -- jutted out to obstruct them.

There was no mystery in the matter. They saw the mistake they had made. In escaping under cover of the cloud they had gone too far, ridden direct into a deep embayment of the cliff!

Their pursuers, who had turned promptly as they, once more had the advantage. The outlying point of rocks was nearer to them, and they would be almost certain to arrive at it first.

To the fugitives there appeared no alternative but to ride on, and take the chance of hewing their way through the savages surrounding -- for certainly they would be surrounded.

"Git your knife riddy, Frank!" shouted Wilder, as he dug his heels into his horse's side and put the animal to full speed. "Let's keep close thegither -- livin' or dead, let's keep thegither!"

Their steeds needed no urging. To an American horse accustomed to the prairies there is no spur like the yell of an Indian; for he knows that along with it usually comes the shock of a bullet, or the sting of a barbed shaft.

Both bounded off together, and went over the soft sand, silent, but swift as the wind.

In vain. Before they could reach the projecting point, the savages had got up, and were clustering around it. At least a score, with spears couched, bows bent, and clubs brandishing, stood ready to receive them.

It was a gauntlet the pursued men might well despair of being able to run. Truly now seemed their retreat cut off, and surely did death appear to stare them in the face.

"We must die, Walt," said the young prairie merchant, as he faced despairingly toward his companion.

"Maybe not yet," answered Wilder, as with a searching glance, he directed his eye along the facade of the cliff.

The red sandstone rose rugged and frowning, full five hundred feet overhead. To the superficial glance it seemed to forbid all chance either of being scaled, or affording concealment. There was not even a boulder below, behind which they might find a momentary shelter from the shafts of the pursuers. For all that, Wilder continued to scan it, as if recalling some old recollection.

"This must be the place," he muttered. "It is, by God!" he added more emphatically, at the same time wrenching his horse around, riding sharp off, and calling to his companion to follow him.

Hamersley obeyed, and rode after, without knowing what next. But, in another instant, he divined the intent of this sudden change in the tactics of his fellow fugitive. For before riding far his eyes fell upon a dark list, which indicated an opening in the escarpment.

It was a mere crack, or chine, scarce so wide as a doorway, and barely large enough to admit a man on horseback; though vertically it traversed the cliff to its top, splitting it from base to summit.

"Off o' yur hoss!" cried Wilder, as he pulled up in front of it, at the same time flinging himself from his own. "Drop the bridle, and leave him behint. One o' 'em'll be enough for what I want, an' let that be myen. Poor critter, it air a pity! But it can't be helped. We must hev some kiver to screen us. Quick, Frank, or the skunks will be on to us!"

Painful as it was to abandon his brave steed, Hamersley did as directed without knowing why. The last speeches of the guide were somewhat enigmatical, though he presumed they meant an important signification.

Slipping down from his saddle, he stood by his horse's side, a noble steed, the best blood of his own State, Kentucky, famed for its fine stock. The animal appeared to know that its master was about to part from it. It turned its head towards him; and, with bent neck, and steaming nostrils, gave utterance to a low neigh that, while proclaiming affection, seemed to say, "Why do you forsake me?"

Under other circumstances the Kentuckian would have shed tears. For months he and his horse had been as man and man together in many a long prairie journey -- a companionship which unites the traveller to his steed in liens strong as human friendship, almost as lasting, and almost as painful to break. So Frank Hamersley felt, as he flung the bridle back on the animal's withers -- still retaining hold of the rein, loth to relinquish it.

But there was no alternative. Behind were the shouting pursuers quickly coming on. He could see their brandished spears glancing in the sun glare. They would soon be within reach, thrusting through his body; their barbed blades piercing him between the ribs.

No time for sentiment nor dallying now, without the certainty of being slain.

He gave one last look at his steed, and then letting go the rein, turned away, as one who, by stern necessity, abandons a friend, fearing reproach for what he does, but without the power to explain it.

For a time the abandoned steed kept its place, with glances inquiringly sent after the master who had forsaken it. Then, as the yelling crew came closer behind, it threw up its head, snorted, and tore off with trailing bridle.

Hamersley had turned to the guide, now also afoot, but still retaining hold of his horse, which he was conducting towards the crack in the cliff, with all his energies forcing it to follow him; for the animal moved reluctantly, as though suspecting danger inside the darksome cleft.

Still urging it on, he shouted back to the Kentuckian, "You go first, Frank! Up into the kanyon, without losin' a second's time. Hyar, take my gun, an' load both, whiles I see to the closin' o' the gap."

Seizing both guns in his grasp, Hamersley sprang into the chine, stopping when he got well within its grim jaws.

Wilder went after, leading his steed, that still strained back upon the bridle.

There was a large stone across the aperture, over which the horse had to straddle. This being above two feet in height, when the animal had got its forelegs over Wilder checked it to a stand. Hitherto following him with forced obedience, it now trembled, and showed a strong determination to go back. There was an expression, in its owner's eye it had never seen before -- something that terribly frayed it. But it could not now do this, though ever so inclined. With its ribs close pressing the rocks on each side, it was unable to turn; while the bridle drawn firmly in front hindered it from retiring.

Hamersley, busily engaged in loading the rifles, nevertheless found time to glance at Wilder's doings, wondering what he was about.

"It air a pity!" soliloquised the latter, repeating his former words in similar tones of commiseration. "F'r all that, the thing must be done. If thar war a rock big enough, or a log, or anythin'. No! thar ain't ne'er another chance to make kiver. So hyar goes for a bit o' butcherin'."

As the guide thus delivered himself, Hamersley saw him jerk the bowie knife from his belt, its blade red and still reeking with human gore. In another instant its edge was drawn across the throat of the horse, from which the blood gushed forth in a thick, strong stream, like water from the spout of a pump. The creature made a last desperate effort to get off, but with its forelegs over the rocks and head held down between them, it could not stir from the spot. After a convulsive throe or two, it sank down till its ribs rested upon the straddled stone; and in this attitude it ended its life, the head after a time drooping down, the eyes apparently turned with a last reproachful look upon the master who had murdered it!

"It hed to be did; thar war no help for it," said Wilder, as he hurriedly turned towards his companion, adding: "Have you got the guns charged?"

Hamersley made answer by handing him back his own rifle. It was loaded and ready. "Darn the stinkin' cowarts!" cried the guide, grasping the gun, and facing towards the plain. "I don't know how it may all eend, but this'll keep 'em off a while, anyhow."

As he spoke he threw himself behind the body of the slaughtered steed, which, sustained in an upright position between the counterpart walls, formed a safe barricade against the bullets and arrows of the Indians. These, now riding straight towards the spot, made the rocks resound with exclamations of surprise -- shouts that spoke of a delayed, perhaps defeated, vengeance.

They took care, however, not to come within range of that long steel-grey tube, that, turning like a telescope on its pivot, commanded a semicircle of at least a hundred yards' radius round the opening in the cliff.

Despite all the earnestness of their vengeful anger, the pursuers were now fairly at bay, and for a time could be kept so.

Hamersley looked upon it as being but a respite -- a mere temporary deliverance from danger, yet to terminate in death. True, they had got into a position where, to all appearance, they could defend themselves as long as their ammunition lasted, or as they could withstand the agony of thirst or the cravings of hunger. How were they to get out again? As well might they have been besieged in a cave, with no chance of sortie or escape.

These thoughts he communicated to his companion, as soon as they found time to talk.

"Hunger an' thirst ain't nothin' to do wi' it," was Wilder response. "We ain't a goin' to stay hyar not twenty minutes, if this child kin manage it as he intends ter do. You don't s'pose I rushed into this hyar hole like a chased rabbit? No, Frank; I've heern o' this place afore, from some fellers thet, like ourselves, made cache in it from a band o' pursuin' Kimanch. Thar's a way leads out at the back; an' just as soon as we kin throw dust in the eyes o' these yellin' varmints in front, we'll put straight for it. I don't know what sort o' a passage thar is -- up the rocks by some kind o' raven, I b'lieve. We must do our best to find it."

"But how do you intend to keep them from following us? You speak of throwing dust in their eyes -- how, Walt?"

"You wait, watch an' see. You won't hev yur patience terrifically tried: for thar ain't much time to spare about it. Thar's another passage up the cliffs, not far off; not a doubt but these Injuns know it; an' ef we don't make haste, they'll git up thar, and come in upon us by the back door, which trick won't do, nohowsomdever. You keep yurself in readiness, and watch what I'm agoin' to do. When you see me scoot up back'ards, follor 'ithout sayin' a word."

Hamersley promised compliance, and the guide, still kneeling behind the barricade he had so cruelly constructed, commenced a series of manoeuvres that held his companion in speechless conjecture.

He first placed his gun in such a position that the barrel, resting across the hips of the dead horse, projected beyond the tail. In this position he made it fast, by tying the butt with a piece of string to a projecting part of the saddle. He next took the cap from his head -- a coonskin it was -- and set it so that its upper edge could be seen alongside the pommel, and rising about three inches above the croup. The ruse was an old one, with some new additions and embellishments.

"It's all done now," said the guide, turning away from the carcase and crouching to where his comrade awaited him. "Come on, Frank. If they don't diskiver the trick till we've got time to speed up the clift, then thar's still a chance for us. Come on, an' keep close arter me!"

Hamersley went, without saying a word. He knew that Wilder, well known and long trusted, had a reason for everything he did. It was not the time to question him, or discuss the prudence of the step he was taking. There might be danger before, but there was death -- sure death -- behind them.



Chapter Eleven.

A Descent Into Darkness.

In less than a dozen paces from its entrance the chine opened into a wider space, again closing like a pair of callipers. It was a hollow of elliptical shape -- resembling an old-fashioned butterboat scooped out of the solid rock, on all sides precipitous, except at its upper end. Here a ravine, sloping down from the summit-level above, would to the geologist at once proclaim the secret of its formation. Not so easily explained might seem the narrow outlet to the open plain. But one skilled in the testimony of the rocks would detect certain ferruginous veins in the sandstone that, refusing to yield to the erosion of the running stream, had stood for countless ages.

Neither Walt Wilder nor the young Kentuckian gave thought to such scientific speculations as they retreated through the narrow gap and back into the wider gorge. All they knew or cared for was that a gully at the opposite end was seen to slope upward, promising a path to the plain above.

In sixty seconds they were in it, toiling onward and upward amidst a chaos of rocks where no horse could follow -- loose boulders that looked as if hurled down from the heavens above or belched upward from the bowels of the earth.

The retreat of the fugitives up the ravine, like their dash out of the enclosed corral, was still but a doubtful effort. Neither of them had full confidence of being able eventually to escape. It was like the wounded squirrel clutching at the last tiny twig of a tree, however unable to support it. They were not quite certain that the sloping gorge would give them a path to the upper plain; for Wilder had only a doubtful recollection of what some trapper had told him. But even if it did, the Indians, expert climbers as they were, would soon be after them, close upon their heels. The ruse could not remain long undetected.

They had plunged into the chasm as drowning men grasp at the nearest thing afloat -- a slender branch or bunch of grass, a straw.

As they now ascended the rock-strewn gorge both had their reflections, which, though unspoken, were very similar. And from these came a gleam of hope. If they could but reach the summit-level of the cliff! Their pursuers could, of course, do the same; but not on horseback. It would then be a contest of pedestrian speed. The white men felt confidence in their swiftness of foot; in this respect believing themselves superior to their savage pursuers. They knew that the Comanches were horse Indians -- a significant fact. These centaurs of the central plateaux, scarce ever setting foot upon the earth, when afoot are almost as helpless as birds with their wings plucked or pinioned.

If they could reach the crest of the cliff, then all might yet be well; and, cheered by this reflection, they rushed up the rock-strewn ravine, now gliding along ledges, now squeezing their bodies between great boulders, or springing from one to the other -- in the audacity of their bounds rivalling a brace of bighorns.

They had got more than half-way up, when cries came pealing up the glen behind them. Still were they hidden from the eyes of the pursuers. Jutting points of rock and huge masses that lay loose in the bed of the ravine had hitherto concealed them. But for these, bullets and arrows would have already whistled about their ears, and perhaps put an end to their flight. The savages were near enough to send either gun-shot or shaft, and their voices, borne upward on the air, sounded as clear as if they were close at hand.

The fugitives, as already said, had reached more than halfway up the slope, and were beginning to congratulate themselves on the prospect of escape. They even thought of the course they should take on arriving at the summit-level, for they knew that there was an open plain above. All at once they were brought to a stop, though not by anything that obstructed their path. On the contrary, it only seemed easier; for there were now two ways open to them instead of one, the ravine at this point forking into two distinct branches. There was a choice of which to take, and it was this that caused them to make a stop, at the same time creating embarrassment.

The pause, however, was but for a brief space of time -- only long enough to make a hasty reconnoissance. In the promise of an easy ascent there seemed but little difference between the two paths, and the guide soon came to a determination.

"It's a toss up atween 'em," he said; "but let's take the one to the right. It looks a little the likest."

Of course his fellow-fugitive did not dissent, and they struck into the right-hand ravine; but not until Walt Wilder had plucked the red kerchief from his head, and flung it as far as he could up the left one, where it was left lying in a conspicuous position among the rocks.

He did not say why he had thus strangely abandoned the remnant of his head-gear; but his companion, sufficiently experienced in the ways and wiles of prairie life, stood in no need of an explanation.

The track they had now taken was of comparatively easy ascent; and it was this, perhaps, that had tempted Wilder to take it. But like most things within the moral and physical world, its easiness proved a delusion. They had not gone twenty paces further up when the sloping chasm terminated. It debouched on a little platform, covered with large loose stones, and there rested after having fallen from the cliff above. But at a single glance they saw that this cliff could not be scaled.

They had entered into a trap, out of which there was no chance of escape or retreat without throwing themselves back upon the breasts of their pursuers.

The Indians were already ascending the main ravine. By their voices it could be told that they had reached the point where it divided; for there was a momentary suspension of their cries, as with the baying of hounds thrown suddenly off the scent.

It would not be for long. They would likely first follow up the chasm where the kerchief had been cast, but, should that also prove a cul-de-sac, they would return and try the other.

The fugitives saw that it was too late to retrace their steps. They sprang together upon the platform, and commenced searching among the loose rocks, with a faint hope of finding some place of concealment.

It was but a despairing sort of search, again like two drowning men who clutch at a straw.

All at once an exclamation from the guide called his companion to his side. It was accompanied by a gesture, and followed by words low muttered.

"Look hyar, Frank! Look at this hole! Let's git into it!"

As Hamersley came close he perceived a dark cavity among the stones, to which Wilder was pointing. It opened vertically downward, and was of an irregular, roundish shape, somewhat resembling the mouth of a well, half-coped with slabs.

Dare they enter it? Could they? What depth was it?

Wilder took up a pebble and flung it down. They could hear it descending, not at a single drop, but striking and ricochetting from side to side.

It was long before it reached the bottom and lay silent. No matter for that. The noise made in its descent told them of projecting points or ledges that might give them a foothold.

They lost not a moment of time, but commenced letting themselves down into the funnel-shaped shaft, the guide going first.

Slowly and silently they went down -- like ghosts through the stage of a theatre -- soon disappearing in the gloom below, and leaving upon the rock-strewn platform no trace to show that human foot had ever trodden it.



Chapter Twelve.

A Storm Of Stones.

Fortunately for the fugitives, the cavity into which they had crept was a shaft of but slight diameter, otherwise they could not have gone down without dropping far enough to cause death, for the echoes from the pebbles betokened a vast vertical depth.

As it was, the void turned out to be somewhat like that of a stone-built chimney with here and there a point left projecting. It was so narrow, moreover, that they were able to use both hands and knees in the descent, and by this means they accomplished it.

They went but slowly, and took care to proceed with caution. They knew that a false step, the slipping of a foot or finger, or the breaking of a fragment that gave hold to their hands, would precipitate them to an unknown depth.

They did not go farther than was necessary for quick concealment. There was noise made in their descent, and they knew that the Indians would soon be above, and might hear them. Their only hope lay in their pursuers believing them to have gone by the left hand path to the plain above. In time the Indians would surely explore both branches of the ravine, and if the cunning savages should suspect their presence in the shaft there would be no hope for them. These thoughts decided them to come to a stop as soon as they could find foothold.

About thirty feet from the top they found this, on a point of rock or ledge that jutted horizontally. It was broad enough to give both standing room, and as they were now in the midst of amorphous darkness, they took stand upon it.

The Indians might at any moment arrive on the platform above. They felt confident they could not be seen, but they might be heard. The slightest sound borne upwards to the ears of the savages might betray them, and, knowing this, they stood still, scarce exchanging a whisper, and almost afraid to breathe.

It was not long before they saw that which justified their caution -- the plumed head of a savage, with his neck craned over the edge of the aperture, outlined conspicuously against the blue sky above. And soon half a dozen similar silhouettes beside it, while they could hear distinctly the talk that was passing overhead.

Wilder had some knowledge of the Comanche tongue, and could make out most of what was being said. Amidst exclamations that spoke of vengeance there were words in a calmer tone -- discussion, inquiry, and conjecture.

From these it could be understood that the pursuers had separated into two parties, one following on the false track, by the path which the guide had baited for them, the other coming direct up the right and true one.

There were bitter exclamations of disappointment and threats of an implacable vengeance; and the fugitives, as they listened, might have reflected how fortunate they had been in discovering that unfathomed hole. But for it they would have already been in the clutches of a cruel enemy.

However, they had little time for reflection. The talk overhead at first expressed doubts as to their having descended the shaft, but doubts readily to be set at rest.

The eyes of the Indians having failed to inform them, their heads were withdrawn; and soon after a stone came tumbling down the cavity.

Something of this kind, Wilder had predicted; for he flattened himself against the wall behind, and stood as "small" as his colossal frame would permit, having cautioned his companion to do the same.

The stone passed without striking them, and went crashing on till it struck on the bottom below.

Another followed, and another; the third creasing Hamersley on the breast, and tearing a couple of buttons from his coat.

This was shaving close -- too close to be comfortable. Perhaps the next boulder might rebound from the wall above and strike one or both of them dead.

In fear of this result, they commenced groping to ascertain if the ledge offered any better screen from the dangerous shower, which promised to fall for some time longer.

Good! Hamersley felt his hand entering a hole that opened horizontally. It proved big enough to admit his body, as also the larger frame of his companion. Both were soon inside it. It was a sort of grotto they had discovered; and, crouching within it, they could laugh to scorn the storm that still came pouring from above; the stones, as they passed close to their faces, hissing and hurtling like aerolites.

The rocky rain at length ended. The Indians had evidently come to the conclusion that it was either barren in result, or must have effectually performed the purpose intended by it, and for a short time there was silence above and below.

They who were hidden in the shaft might have supposed that their persecutors, satisfied at what they had accomplished, were returning to the plain, and had retired from the spot.

Hamersley did think so; but Walt, an old prairie man, more skilled in the Indian character, could not console himself with such a fancy.

"Ne'er a bit o' it," he whisperingly said to his companion. "They ain't agoin' to leave us that easy -- not if Horned Lizard be amongst 'em. They'll either stay thar till we climb out agin, or try to smoke us. Ye may take my word for it, Frank, thar's some'ut to come yet. Look up! Didn't I tell ye so?"

Wilder drew back out of the narrow aperture, through which he had been craning his neck and shoulders in order to get a view of what was passing above.

The hole leading into the grotto that held them was barely large enough to admit the body of a man. Hamersley took his place, and, turning his eyes upward, at once saw what his comrade referred to. It was the smoke of a fire, that appeared in the act of being kindled near the edge of the aperture above. The smoke was ascending towards the sky, diagonally drifting across the blue disc outlined by the rim of rock.

He had barely time to make the observation when a swishing sound admonished him to draw back his head; then there passed before his face a ruck of falling stalks and faggots. Some of them settled upon the ledge, the rest sweeping on to the bottom of the abyss.

In a moment after the shaft was filled with smoke, but not that of an ordinary wood fire. Even this would have been sufficient to stifle them where they were; but the fumes now entering their nostrils were of a kind to cause suffocation almost instantaneously.

The faggots set on fire were the stalks of the creosote plant -- the ideodondo of the Mexican table lands, well known for its power to cause asphyxia. Walt Wilder recognised it at the first whiff.

"It's the stink-weed!" he exclaimed. "That darned stink-weed o' New Mexico! It'll kill us if we can't keep it out. Off wi' your coat, Frank; it are bigger than my hunting skirt. Let's spread it across the hole, an' see if that'll do."

His companion obeyed with alacrity, stripping off his coat as quickly as the circumscribed space would permit. Fortunately, it was a garment of the sack specialty, without any split in the tail, and when extended offered a good breadth of surface.

It proved sufficient for the purpose, and, before the little grotto had become so filled with smoke as to be absolutely untenable, its entrance was closed by a curtain of broadcloth, held so hermetically over the aperture that even the fumes of Assafoetida could not possibly have found their way inside.



Chapter Thirteen.

Buried Alive.

For nearly half an hour they kept the coat spread, holding it close around the edges of the aperture with their heads, hands, knees, and elbows. Withal some of the bitter smoke found ingress, torturing their eyes, and half stifling them.

They bore it with philosophic fortitude and in profound silence, using their utmost efforts to refrain from sneezing or coughing.

They knew that the least noise heard by the Indians above -- anything to indicate their presence in the shaft -- would ensure their destruction. The fumigation would be continued till the savages were certain of its having had a fatal effect. If they could hold out long enough, even Indian astuteness might be baffled.

From what Wilder had heard, their persecutors were in doubt about their having descended into the shaft; and this uncertainty promised to be their salvation. Unless sure that they were taking all this trouble to some purpose, the red men would not dally long over their work. Besides, there was the rich booty to be drawn from the captured waggons, which would attract the Indians back to them, each having an interest in being present at the distribution.

Thus reasoned Walt Wilder as they listened to detect a change in the performance, making use of all their ears.

Of course they could see nothing, no more than if they had been immured in the darkest cell of an Inquisitorial dungeon. Only by their ears might they make any guess at what was going on. These admonished them that more of the burning brush was being heaved into the hole. Every now and then they could hear it as it went swishing past the door of their curtained chamber, the stalks and sticks rasping against the rocks in their descent.

After a time these sounds ceased to be heard; the Indians no doubt thinking that sufficient of the inflammatory matter had been cast in to cause their complete destruction. If inside the cavern, they must by this time be stifled -- asphyxiated -- dead.

So must have reasoned the red-skinned fumigators; for after a while they desisted from their hellish task. But, as if to make assurance doubly sure, before taking departure from the spot, they performed another act indicative of an equally merciless intention.

During the short period of silence their victims could not tell what they were about. They only knew, by occasional sounds reaching them from above, that there was some change in the performance; but what it was they could not even shape a conjecture.

The interregnum at length ended with a loud rumbling noise, that was itself suddenly terminated by a grand crash, as if a portion of the impending cliff had become detached, and fallen down upon the platform.

Then succeeded a silence, unbroken by the slightest sound. No longer was heard either noise or voice -- not the murmur of one.

It was a silence that resembled death; as if the vindictive savages had one and all met a deserved doom by being crushed under the falling cliff.

For some time after hearing this mysterious noise, which had caused the rock to tremble around them, the two men remained motionless within their place of concealment.

At length Wilder cautiously and deliberately pushed aside the curtain. At first only a small portion of it -- a corner, so as to make sure about the smoke.

It still oozed in, but not so voluminously as at first. It had evidently become attenuated, and was growing thinner. It appeared also to be ascending with rapidity, as up the funnel of a chimney having a good draught. For this reason it was carried past the mouth of the grotto without much of it drifting in, and they saw that they could soon safely withdraw the curtain. It was a welcome relaxation from the irksome task that had been so long imposed upon them, and the coat was at length permitted to drop down upon the ledge.

Although there were no longer any sounds heard, or other signs to indicate the presence of the Indians, the fugitives did not feel sure of their having gone; and it was some time before they made any attempt to reascend the shaft. Some of the pursuers might still be lurking near, or straying within sight. They had so far escaped death, as if by a miracle, and they were cautious of again tempting fate. They determined that for some time yet they would not venture out upon the ledge, but keep inside the grotto that had given them such well-timed shelter. Some sulky savage, disappointed at not getting their scalps, might take it into his head to return and hurl down into the hole another shower of stones. Such a whim was probable to a prairie Indian.

Cautious against all like contingencies, the guide counselled his younger companion to patience, and for a considerable time they remained without stirring out of their obscure chamber.

At length, however, perceiving that the tranquillity continued, they no longer deemed it rash to make a reconnoissance; and for this purpose Walt Wilder crawled out upon the ledge and looked upward. A feeling of surprise, mingled with apprehension, at once seized upon him.

"Kin it be night?" he asked, whispering the words back into the grotto.

"Not yet, I should think?" answered Hamersley. "The fight was begun before daybreak. The day can't all have passed yet. But why do you ask, Walt?"

"Because thar's no light comin' from above. Whar's the bit o' blue sky we seed? Thar ain't the breadth o' a hand visible. It can't a be the smoke as hides it. That seems most cleared off. Darned if I can see a steim o' the sky. 'Bove as below, everything's as black as the ten o' spades. What kin it mean?"

Without waiting a reply, or staying for his companion to come out upon the ledge, Wilder rose to his feet, and, grasping the projecting points above his head, commenced swarming up the shaft, in a similar manner as that by which he had made the descent.

Hamersley, who by this time had crept out of the grotto, stood upon the ledge listening.

He could hear his comrade as he scrambled up; the rasping of his feet against the rocks, and his stentorian breathing.

At length Walt appeared to have reached the top, when Hamersley heard words that sent a thrill of horror throughout his whole frame.

"Oh!" cried the guide, in his surprise, forgetting to subdue the tone of his voice, "they've built us up! Thar's a stone over the mouth o' the hole -- shettin' it like a pot lid. A stone -- a rock that no mortal ked move. Frank Hamersley, it's all over wi' us; we're buried alive!"



Chapter Fourteen.

A Savage Saturnal.

Only for a short while had Wilder's trick held the pursuers in check. Habituated to such wiles, the Indians, at first suspecting it to be one, soon became certain. For, as they scattered to each side of the cleft, the steel tube no longer kept turning towards them, while the coonskin cap remained equally without motion.

At length, becoming convinced, and urged on by the Red Cross chief and the bearded savage by his side, they dashed boldly up, and, dismounting, entered the chine over the body of the butchered horse.

Only staying to take possession of the relinquished rifle, they continued on up the ravine fast as their feet could carry them. A moment's pause where the red kerchief lay on the rock, suspecting this also a ruse to mislead them as to the track taken by the fugitives. To make certain, they separated into two parties -- one going up the gulch, that led left, the other proceeding by that which conducted to the place where the two men had concealed themselves.

Arriving upon the little platform, the pursuers at once discovered the cavity, at the same time conjecturing that the pursued had gone into it. Becoming sure of this, they who took the left-hand path rejoined them, these bringing the report that they had ascended to the summit of the cliff, and seen nothing of the two men who were chased.

Then the stones were cast in; after them the burning stalks of the ideodondo; when, finally, to make destruction sure, the rock was rolled over, closing up the shaft as securely as if the cliff itself had fallen face downward upon the spot.

The savages stayed no longer there. All were too eager to return to the waggons to make sure of their share in the captured spoils.

One alone remained -- he with the bushed beard. After the others were gone he stepped up to the boulder, and, stooping down, placed his ear close to it. He appeared as if trying to catch some sound that might come from the cavity underneath.

None came -- no noise, even the slightest. Within the shut shaft all was still as death. For death itself must be down there, if there ever was life.

For some time he crouched beside the rock, listening. Then rising to his feet, with a smile of satisfaction upon his grim, sinister features, he said, in soliloquy, -- 

"They're down there, no doubt of it; and dead long before this. One of the two must have been he. Who the other matters not Carrai! I'd like to have had a look at him too, and let him see who has given him his quietus. Bah! what does it signify? It's all over now, and I've had my revenge. Vamos! I must get back to the waggons, or my friend the Horned Lizard may be taking his pick of the plunder. Luckily these redskins don't know the different values of the goods; so I shall bestow the cotton prints with a liberal hand, keeping the better sorts to myself. And now to assist in the partition of spoils."

So saying, he strode away from the rock, and, gliding back down the gulch, climbed over the carcass of the dead horse. Then, finding his own outside, he mounted and rode off to rejoin his red-skinned comrades engaged in sacking the caravan.

On reaching it a spectacle was presented to his eyes -- frightful, though not to him. For he was a man who had seen similar sights before -- one with soul steeped in kindred crime.

The waggons had been drawn partially apart, disclosing the space between. The smoke had all ascended or drifted off, and clear sunlight once more shone upon the sand -- over the ground lately barricaded by the bodies of those who had so bravely defended it. There were thirteen of them -- the party of traders and hunters being in all but fifteen. Of those slain upon the spot there was not one now wearing his hair. Their heads were bare and bloody, the crown of each showing a circular disc of dark crimson colour. The scalping-knife had already completed its work, and the ghastly trophies were seen impaled upon the points of spears --  some of them stuck upright in the sand, others borne triumphantly about by the exulting victors. Their triumph had cost them dear. On the plain outside at least thirty of their own lay extended, stone dead; while here and there a group bending over some recumbent form told of a warrior wounded.

By the orders of their chief, some had set about collecting the corpses of their slain comrades, with the intent of interring them. Others, acting without orders, still continued to wreak their savage spite upon the bodies of their white victims, submitting them to further mutilation. They chopped off their heads; then, poising these on the points of spears, tossed them to and fro, all the while shouting in savage glee, laughing with a cacchination that resembled the mirth of a madhouse.

Withal, there was stern vengeance in its tones. A resistance, they little expected, causing them such serious loss, had roused their passions to a pitch of the utmost exasperation; and they tried to allay their spiteful anger by expending it on the dead bodies of those who, while living, had so effectually chastised them. These were slashed and hacked with tomahawks, pierced with spears, and arrows, beaten with war clubs, then cut into pieces, to be tied to the tails of their horses, and dragged in gallop to and fro over the ground. For some time this tragical spectacle held play. Then ensued a scene savouring of the ludicrous and grotesque.

The waggons were emptied of their contents, while the rich freight, transported to a distance, was spread out upon the plain, and its partition entered upon -- all crowding around to receive their share.

The distribution was superintended by the Horned Lizard, though he with the beard appeared to act with equal, or even greater, authority. Backed by the second personage, who wore hair on his cheeks, he dictated the apportionment.

And as he had said in soliloquy, the cotton prints of gaudy patterns satisfied the cupidity of his red-skinned companions, leaving to himself and his confidential friend the costlier fabrics of silken sheen. Among the traders' stock were knives of common sort -- the cheapest cutlery of Sheffield; guns and pistols of the Brummagem brand, with beads, looking glasses, and such-like notions from the New England Boston. All these, delectable in the eyes of the Horned Lizard and his Tenawas, were left to them; while the bearded man, himself selecting, appropriated the silks and satins, the laces and real jewellery that had been designed to deck the rich doncellas of Santa Fe, El Paso, Chihuahua, and Durango.

The distribution over, the scene assumed a new aspect. It was now that the ludicrous came prominently into play. Though not much water had been found in the waggons, there was enough fluid of stronger spirit. A barrel of Monongahela whisky was part of the caravan stores left undestroyed. Knowing the white man's firewater but too well, the Indians tapped the cask, and quaffed of its contents.

In a short time two-thirds of the band became intoxicated. Some rolled over dead drunk, and lay a-stretch along the sand. Others tottered about, uttering maudlin speeches. Still others of stronger stomach and steader brain kept their feet, as also their senses; only that these became excited, increasing their cupidity. They wanted more than they had got, and would gamble to get it. One had a piece of cotton print, and so had another. Each wished to have both or none. How was it to be decided? By cards? By dice? No. There was a way more congenial to their tastes -- more a propos to their habits. It should be done by their horses. They knew the sort of game, for it is not the first time they have played it. The piece of print is unrolled, and at each end tied to a horse's tail. The owners spring to the backs of the animals, then urge them in the opposite directions till the strain comes; at the pluck the web gives way, and he who holds the longer part becomes possessor of the whole.

Others, not gamblers, out of sheer devilry and diversion, similarly attach their stuffs, and gallop over the ground with the prints trailing fifty yards behind them. In the frenzied frolic that had seized hold of them they forgot their slain comrades, still unburied. They whoop, shout, and laugh till the cliffs, in wild, unwonted echo, send back the sound of their demoniac mirth. A riot rare as original -- a true saturnal of savages.



Chapter Fifteen.

A Living Tomb.

Literally buried alive, as Walt Wilder had said, were he and his companion.

They now understood what had caused the strange noise that mystified them -- the rumbling followed by a crash. No accidental debacle or falling of a portion of the cliff, as they had been half supposing; but a deed of atrocious design -- a huge rock rolled by the united strength of the savages, until it rested over the orifice of the shaft, completely coping and closing it.

It may have been done without any certain knowledge of their being inside -- only to make things sure. It mattered not to the two men thus cruelly enclosed, for they knew that in any case there was no hope of their being rescued from what they believed to be a living tomb.

That it was such neither could doubt. The guide, gifted with herculean strength, had tried to move the stone on discovering how it lay. With his feet firmly planted in the projections below, and his shoulder to the rock above, he had given a heave that would have lifted a loaded waggon from its wheels.

The stone did not budge with all this exertion. There was not so much as motion. He might as successfully have made trial to move a mountain from its base. He did not try again. He remembered the rock itself. He had noticed it while they were searching for a place to conceal themselves, and had been struck with its immense size. No one man could have stirred it from its place. It must have taken at least twenty Indians. No matter how many, they had succeeded in their design, and their victims were now helplessly enclosed in the dark catacomb -- slowly, despairingly to perish.

"All up wi' us, I reck'n," said the guide, as he once more let himself down upon the ledge to communicate the particulars to his companion.

Hamersley ascended to see for himself. They could only go one at a time. He examined the edge of the orifice where the rock rested upon it. He could only do so by the touch. Not a ray of light came in on any side, and groping round and round he could detect neither crevice nor void. There were weeds and grass, still warm and smouldering, the debris of what had been set on fire for their fumigation. The rock rested on a bedding of these; hence the exact fit, closing every crack and crevice.

On completing his exploration Hamersley returned to his companion below.

"Hopeless!" murmured Wilder, despondingly.

"No, Walt; I don't think so yet."

The Kentuckian, though young, was a man of remarkable intelligence as well as courage. It needed these qualities to be a prairie merchant --  one who commanded a caravan. Wilder knew him to be possessed of them --  in the last of them equalling himself, in the first far exceeding him.

"You think thar's a chance for us to get out o' hyar?" he said, interrogatively.

"I think there is, and a likely one."

"Good! What leads ye to think so, Frank?"

"Reach me my bowie. It's behind you there in the cave."

Wilder did as requested.

"It will depend a good deal upon what sort of rock this is around us. It isn't flint, anyhow. I take it to be either lime or sandstone. If so, we needn't stay here much longer than it would be safe to go out again among those bloodthirsty savages."

"How do you mean, Frank? Darn me if I yet understan ye."

"It's very simple, Walt. If this cliff rock be only sandstone, or some other substance equally soft, we may cut our way out -- under the big stone."

"Ah! I didn't think o' thet. Thar's good sense in what ye say."

"It has a softish feel," said the Kentuckian, as he drew his hand across one of the projecting points. "I wish I only had two inches of a candle. However, I think I can make my exploration in the dark."

There was a short moment of silence, after which was heard a clinking sound, as of a knife blade being repeatedly struck against a stone. It was Hamersley, with his bowie, chipping off a piece from the rock that projected from the side of the shaft.

The sound was pleasant to the Kentuckian's ear, for it was not the hard metallic ring given out by quartz or granite. On the contrary, the steel struck against it with a dull, dead echo, and he could feel that the point of the knife easily impinged upon it.

"Sandstone," he said; "or something that'll serve our purpose equally as well. Yes, Walt, there's a good chance for us to get out of this ugly prison; so keep up your heart, comrade. It may cost us a couple of days' quarrying. Perhaps all the better for that; the Indians are pretty sure to keep about the waggons for a day or so. They'll find enough there to amuse them. Our work will depend a good deal on what sort of a stone they've rolled over the hole. You remember what size the boulder was?"

"'Twas a largish pebble; looked to me at least ten feet every way. It sort o' serprised me how the skunks ked a budged it. I reck'n 'twar on a coggle, an' rolled eezy. It must ha' tuk the hul clanjamfry o' them."

"If we only knew the right edge to begin at. For that we must go by guess-work. Well, we mustn't lose time, but set about our stone-cutting at once. Every hour will be taking the strength out of us. I only came down for the bowie to make a beginning. I'll make trial at it first, and then we can take turn and turn about."

Provided with his knife, the Kentuckian again climbed up; and soon after the guide heard a crinkling sound, succeeded by the rattling of pieces of rock, as they got detached and came showering down.

To save his crown, now uncovered by the loss of both kerchief and cap, he crept back into the alcove that had originally protected them from the stones cast in by the Indians. Along with the splinters something else came past Walt's face, making a soft, rustling sound; it had a smell also that told what it was -- the "cussed stink-weed."

From the falling fragments, their size and number, he could tell that his comrade was making good way.

Walt longed to relieve him at his work, and called up a request to this end; but Hamersley returned a refusal, speaking in a cautious tone, lest his voice might be borne out to the ear of some savage still lingering near.

For over an hour Wilder waited below, now and then casting impatient glances upward. They were only mechanical; for, of course, he could see nothing. But they were anxious withal; for the success of his comrade's scheme was yet problematical.

With sufficient food and drink to sustain them, they might in time accomplish what they had set about; but wanting these, their strength would soon give way, and then -- ah! then -- 

The guide was still standing on the ledge, pursuing this or a similar train of reflection, when all at once a sight came, not under but above his eyes, which caused him to utter an exclamation of joy.

It was the sight of his comrade's face -- only that!

But this had in it a world of significance. He could hot have seen that face without light. Light had been let into their rock-bound abode, so late buried in the profoundest darkness.

It was but a feeble glimmer, that appeared to have found admission through a tiny crevice under the huge copestone; and Hamersley's face, close to it, was seen only in faint shadow -- fainter from the film of smoke yet struggling up the shaft.

Still was it light -- beautiful, cheering light -- like some shore-beacon seen by the storm-tossed mariner amid the dangers of a night-shrouded sea.

Hamersley had not yet spoken a word to explain what had occurred to cause it. He had suddenly left off chipping the rock, and was at rest, apparently in contemplation of the soft silvery ray that was playing so benignly upon his features.

Was it the pleasure of once more beholding what he lately thought he might never see again -- the light of day? Was it this alone that was keeping him still and speechless?

No, something else; as he told his comrade when he rejoined him soon after on the ledge.

"Walt," he said, "I've let daylight in, as you see; but I find it'll take a long time to cut a passage out. It's only the weeds I've been able to get clear of. The big rock runs over at least five feet, and the stone turns out harder than I thought of."

These were not cheering words to Walt Wilder.

"But," continued Hamersley, his speech changing to a more hopeful tone, "I've noticed something that may serve better still; perhaps save us all the quarrying. I don't know whether I'm right; but we shall soon see."

"What hev ye noticed?" was the question put by Wilder.

"You see there's still some smoke around us."

"Yes, Frank, my eyes tell me that plain enuf. I've nigh nibbed 'em out o' thar sockets."

"Well, as soon as I had scooped out the crack that let in the daylight. I noticed that the smoke rushed out as if blasted through a pair of bellows. That shows there's a draught coming up. It can only come from some aperture below, acting as a furnace or the funnel of a chimney. We must try to get down to the bottom, and see if there's such a thing. If there be, who knows but it may be big enough to let us out of our prison, without having to carve our way through the walls, which I feel certain would take us several days. We must try to get down to the bottom."

To accede to this request the guide needed no urging, and both -- one after the other -- at once commenced descending.

They found no great difficulty in getting down, any more than they had already experienced, for the shaft continued all the way down nearly the same width, and very similar to what it was above the ledge. Near the bottom, however, it became abruptly wider by the retrocession of the walls. They were now in a dilemma, for they had reached a point where they could go no further without dropping off. It might be ten feet, it might be a hundred -- in any case enough to make the peril appalling.

Wilder had gone first, and soon bethought himself of a test. He unslung his powder-horn and permitted it to drop from his hand, listening attentively. It made scarce any noise; still he could hear it striking against something soft. It was the brush thrown in by the Indians. This did not seem far below; and the half-burnt stalks would be something to break their fall.

"I'll chance it," said Walt, and almost simultaneous with his words was heard the bump of his heavy body alighting on the litter below.

"You may jump without fear, Frank. 'Taint over six feet in the clar."

Hamersley obeyed, and soon both stood at the bottom of the chimney -- on the hearthstone where the stalks of the creosote still smouldered.



Chapter Sixteen.

Off At Last!

On touching terra firma, and finding plenty of space around, they scrambled from off the pile of loose stones and stalks cast down by the Indians, and commenced groping their way about. Again touching the firm surrounding of rock, they groped searchingly along it.

They were not long engaged in their game of blind-man's buff, when the necessity of trusting to the touch came abruptly to an end -- as if the handkerchief had been suddenly jerked from their eyes. The change was caused by a light streaming in through a side gallery into which they had strayed. It was at first dim and distant, but soon shone upon them with the brilliance of a flambeau.

Following the passage through which it guided them, they reached an aperture of irregular roundish shape, about the size, of the cloister window of a convent. They saw at once that it was big enough to allow the passage of their bodies. They saw, too, that it was admitting the sunbeams -- admonishing them that it was still far from night.

They had brought all their traps down along with them -- their knives and pistols, with Hamersley's gun still carefully kept. But they hesitated about going out. There could be no difficulty in their doing so, for there was a ledge less than three feet under the aperture, upon which they could find footing. It was not that which caused them to hesitate, but the fact of again falling into the hands of their implacable enemies.

That these were still upon the plain they had evidence. They could hear their yells and whooping, mingled with peals of wild demon-like laughter. It was at the time when the firewater was in the ascendant, and the savages were playing their merry game with the pieces of despoiled cotton goods.

There was danger in going out, but there might be more in staying in. The savages might return upon their search, and discover this other entrance to the vault. In that case they would take still greater pains to close it and besiege the two fugitives to the point of starvation.

Both were eager to escape from a place they had lately looked upon as a living tomb.

Still, they dared not venture out of it. They could not retreat by the plain so long as the Indians were upon it. At night, perhaps, in the darkness, they might. Hamersley suggested this.

"No," said Walt, "nor at night eyther. It's moontime, you know; an' them sharp-eyed Injuns niver all goes to sleep thegither. On that sand they'd see us in the moonlight 'most as plain as in the day. Ef we wait at all, we'll hev to stay till they go clar off."

Wilder, while speaking, stood close to the aperture, looking cautiously out. At that moment, craning his neck to a greater stretch, so as to command a better view of what lay below, his eye caught sight of an object that elicited an exclamation of surprise.

"Darn it," he said, "thar's my old clout lyin' down thar on the rocks."

It was the red kerchief he had plucked from his head to put the pursuers on the wrong track.

"It's jest where I flinged it," he continued; "I kin recognise the place. That gully, then, must be the one we didn't go up."

Walt spoke the truth. The decoy was still in the place where he had set it. The square of soiled and faded cotton had failed to tempt the cupidity of the savages, who knew that in the waggons they had captured were hundreds of such, clean and new, with far richer spoil besides.

"S'pose we still try that path, Frank. It may lead us to the top arter all. If they've bin up it they've long ago gone down agin; I kin tell by thar yelpin' around the waggons. They've got holt of our corn afore this; and won't be so sharp in lookin' arter us."

"Agreed," said Hamersley.

Without further delay the two scrambled out through the aperture, and, creeping along the ledge, once more stood in the hollow of the ravine, at the point of its separation into the forks that had perplexed them in their ascent. Perhaps, after all, they had chosen the right one. At the time of their first flight, had they succeeded in reaching the plain above, they would surely have been seen and pursued; though with superior swiftness of foot they might still have escaped.

Once more they faced upward, by the slope of the ravine yet untried.

On passing it, Walt laid hold of his "clout," as he called it, and replaced it, turban fashion, on his head.

"I can only weesh," he said, "I ked as convenient rekiver my rifle; an', darn me, but I would try, ef it war only thar still. It ain't, I know. Thet air piece is too precious for a Injun to pass by. It's gone back to the waggons."

They could now more distinctly hear the shouts of their despoilers; and, as they continued the ascent, the narrow chine in the cliff opened between them and the plain, giving them a glimpse of what was there going on.

They could see the savages -- some on foot, others on horseback -- the latter careering round as if engaged in a tournament.

They saw they were roystering, wild with triumph, and maddened with drink -- the fire-water they had found in the waggons.

"Though they be drunk, we mustn't stay hyar so nigh 'em," muttered Walt. "I allers like to put space atween me and seech as them. They mout get some whimsey into their heads, an' come this ways. They'll take any amount o' trouble to raise ha'r; an' maybe grievin' that they hain't got ourn yit, an' mout think they'd hev another try for it. As the night's bound to be a mooner, we can't git too far from 'em. So let's out o' this quick's we kin."

"On, then!" said Hamersley, assenting; and the next moment the two were rapidly ascending the gorge, Wilder leading the way.

This time they were more fortunate. The ravine sloped on up to the summit of the cliff, debouching upon a level plain. They reached this without passing any point that could bring them under the eyes of the Indians.

They could still hear the shouts of triumph and wild revelry; but as they receded from the crest of the cliff these grew fainter and fainter, until they found themselves fleeing over an open table-land, bounded above by the sky, all round them silent as death -- silent as the heart of a desert.



Chapter Seventeen.

Into The Desert.

The cliff, up which the young prairie merchant and his guide, after their series of hairbreadth escapes, have succeeded in climbing, is the scarped edge of a spur of the famous Llano Estacado, or "Staked Plain," and it is into this sterile tract they are now fleeing.

Neither have any definite knowledge of the country before them, or the direction they ought to take. Their only thought is to put space between themselves and the scene of their disaster -- enough to secure them against being seen by the eye of any Indian coming after.

A glance is sufficient to satisfy them that only by distance can they obtain concealment. Far as the eye can reach the surface appears a perfect level, without shrub or tree. There is not cover enough to give hiding-place to a hare. Although now in full run, and with no appearance of being pursued, they are far from being confident of escaping. They are under an apprehension that some of the savages have ascended to the upper plain, and are still on it, searching for them. If so, these may be encountered at any moment, returning disappointed from the pursuit.

The fugitives draw some consolation from the knowledge that the pursuers could not have got their horses up the cliff; and, if there is to be another chapter to the chase, it will be on foot -- a contest of pedestrian speed. In a trial of this kind Walt Wilder, at least, has nothing to fear. The Colossus, with his long strides, would be almost a match for the giant with the seven-leagued boots.

Their only uneasiness is that the savages may have gone out upon the track they are themselves taking, and, appearing in their front, may head them off, and so intercept their retreat. As there is yet no savage in sight -- no sign either of man or animal -- their confidence increases; and, after making a mile or so across the plain, they no longer look ahead, but backward.

At short intervals the great brown beard of the guide sweeps his left shoulder, as he casts anxious glances behind him. They are all the more anxious on observing -- which he now does -- that his fellow-fugitive flags in his pace, and shows signs of giving out.

With a quick comprehension, and without any questions asked, Wilder understands the reason. In the smoke-cloud that covered their retreat from the corralled waggons -- afterwards in the sombre shadow of the chine, and the obscurity of the cave, he had not observed what now, in the bright glare of the sunlight, is too plainly apparent -- that the nether garments of his comrade are saturated with blood.

Hamersley has scarce noticed it himself, and his attention is now called to it, less from perceiving any acute pain than that he begins to feel faint and feeble. Blood is oozing through the breast of his shirt, running down the legs of his trousers, and on into his boots. And the fountain from which it proceeds is fast disclosing itself by an aching pain in his side, which increases as he strides on.

A moment's pause to examine it. When the vest and shirt are opened it is seen that a bullet has passed through his left side, causing only a flesh wound, but cutting an artery in its course. Scratched and torn in several other places, for the time equally painful, he had not yet perceived this more serious injury.

It is not mortal, nor likely to prove so. The guide and hunter, like most of his calling, is a rough practical surgeon; and after giving the wound a hurried examination, pronounces it "only a scratch," then urges his companion onward.

Again starting, they proceed at the same quick pace; but before they have made another mile the wounded man feels his weakness sensibly overcoming him. Then the rapid run is succeeded by a slow dog-trot, soon decreasing to a walk, at length ending in a dead stop.

"I can go no farther, Walt; not if all the devils of hell were at my heels. I've done my best. If they come after you keep on, and leave me."

"Niver, Frank Hamersley, niver! Walt Wilder ain't the man to sep'rate from a kumrade, and leave him in a fix that way. If ye must pull up, so do this child. An' I see ye must; thar's no behelp for it."

"I cannot go a step farther."

"Enuf! But don't let's stan' to be seen miles off. Squat's the word. Down on yer belly, like a toad under a harrer. Thar's jest a resemblance o' kiver, hyar 'mong these tussocks o' buffler-grass; an' this child ain't the most inconspicerousest objeck on the plain. Let's squat on our breast-ribs, an' lay close as pancakes."

Whilst speaking he throws himself to the earth, flat on his face.

Hamersley, already tottering, drops down by his side; as he does so, leaving the plain, as far as the eye can reach, without salient object to intercept the vision -- any more than might be seen on the surface of a sleeping ocean.

It is in favour of the fugitives that the day has now well declined. But they do not remain long in their recumbent position before the sun, sinking behind the western horizon, gives them an opportunity of once more getting upon their feet.

They do so, glad to escape from a posture whose restraint is exceedingly irksome. They have suffered from the hot atmosphere rising like caloric from the parched plain. But now that the sun had gone down, a cool breeze begins to play over its surface, fanning them to fresh energy. Besides, the night closing over them -- the moon not yet up -- has removed the necessity for keeping any longer in concealment, and they proceed onward without fear. Hamersley feels as if fresh blood had been infused into his veins; and he is ready to spring to his feet at the same time as his comrade.

"Frank! d'ye think ye kin go a little furrer now?" is the interrogatory put by the hunter.

"Yes, Walt; miles further," is the response. "I feel as if I could walk across the grandest spread of prairie."

"Good!" ejaculates the guide. "I'm glad to hear you talk that way. If we kin but git a wheen o' miles atween us an' them yelpin' savages, we may hev a chance o' salvation yit. The wust o' the thing air, that we don't know which way to go. It's a toss up 'tween 'em. If we turn back torst the Canadyen, we may meet 'em agin, an' right in the teeth. Westart lies the settlement o' the Del Nort; but we mout come on the same Injuns by goin' that direckshun. I'm not sartin they're Tenawas. Southart this Staked Plain hain't no endin' till ye git down to the Grand River below its big bend, an' that ain't to be thort o'. By strikin' east, a little southart, we mout reach the head sources o' the Loozyany Red; an' oncest on a stream o' runnin' water, this child kin generally navigate down it, provided he hev a rifle, powder, an' a bullet or two in his pouch. Thank the Almighty Lord, we've stuck to your gun through the thick an' the thin o't. Ef we hedn't we mout jest as well lie down agin' an' make a die at oncest."

"Go which way you please, Walt; you know best. I am ready to follow you; and I think I shall be able."

"Wal, at anyhow, we'd best be movin' off from hyar. If ye can't go a great ways under kiver o' the night, I reck'n we kin put enough o' parairia atween us an' these Injuns to make sure agin thar spyin' us in the mornin'. So let's start south-eastart, an' try for the sources o' the Red. Thur's that ole beauty o' the North Star that's been my friend an' guide many's the good time. Thar it is, makin' the handle o' the Plough, or the Great Bar, as I've heern that colleckshin o' stars freekwently called. We've only to keep it on our left, a leetle torst the back o' the shoulder, an' then we're boun' to bring out on some o' the head-forks o' the Red -- if we kin only last long enough to reach 'em. Darn it! thar's no danger; an' anyhow, thar's no help for't but try. Come along!"

So speaking, the guide started forward -- not in full stride, but timing his pace to suit the feeble steps of his disabled comrade.



Chapter Eighteen.

A Lilliputian Forest.

Guiding their course by the stars the fugitives continue on -- no longer going in a run, nor even in a very rapid walk. Despite the resolution with which he endeavours to nerve himself, the wounded man is still too weak to make much progress, and he advances but laggingly. His companion does not urge him to quicken his pace. The experienced prairie man knows it will be better to go slowly than get broken down by straining forward too eagerly. There is no sign or sound of Indian, either behind or before them. The stillness of the desert is around them -- its silence only interrupted by the "whip-whip" of the night-hawk's wings, and at intervals its soft note answering to the shriller cry of the kid-deer plover that rises screaming before their feet. These, with the constant skirr of the ground-crickets and the prolonged whine of the coyote, are the only sounds that salute them as they glide on -- none of which are of a kind to cause alarm.

There appears no great reason for making haste now. They have all the night before them, and, ere daylight can discover them, they will be sure to find some place of concealment.

The ground is favourable to pedestrianism in the darkness. The surface, hard-baked by the sun, is level as a set flagstone, and in most places so smooth that a carriage could run upon it as on the drive of a park. Well for them it is so. Had the path been a rugged one the wounded man would not go far before giving out. Even as it is, the toil soon begins to tell on his wasted strength. His veins are almost emptied of blood.

Nor do they proceed a very great distance before again coming to a halt; though far enough to feel sure that, standing erect, they cannot be descried by any one who may have ascended the cliff at the place where they took departure from it.

But they have also reached that which offers them a chance of concealment -- in short, a forest. It is a forest not discernible at more than a mile's distance, for the trees that compose it are "shin oaks," the tallest rising to the height of only eighteen inches above the surface of the ground. Eighteen inches is enough to conceal the body of a man lying in a prostrate attitude; and as the Lilliputian trees grow thick as jimson weeds, the cover will be a secure one. Unless the pursuers should stray so close as to tread upon them, there will be no danger of their being seen. Further reflection has by this time satisfied them that the Indians are not upon the upper plain. It is not likely, after the pains they had taken to smoke them in the cave and afterwards shut them up. Besides, the distribution of the spoils would be an attraction sure to draw them back to the waggons, and speedily.

Becoming satisfied that there is no longer a likelihood of their being pursued across the plain, Wilder proposes that they again make stop; this time to obtain sleep, which in their anxiety during their previous spell of rest they did not attempt. He makes the proposal out of consideration for his comrade, who for some time, as he can see, has evidently been hard pressed to keep up with him.

"We kin lie by till sun-up," says Walt; "an' then, if we see any sign o' pursoot, kin stay hyar till the sun goes down agin. These shin oaks will gie us kiver enuf. Squatted, there'll be no chance o' thar diskiverin' us, unless they stumble right atop o' us." His companion is not in the mood to make objection, and the two lay themselves along the earth. The miniature forest not only gives them the protection of a screen but a soft bed, as the tiny trunks and leaf-laden branches become pressed down beneath their bodies.

They remain awake only long enough to give Hamersley's wound such dressing as the circumstances permit, and then both sink into slumber.

With the young prairie merchant it is neither deep nor profound. Horrid visions float before his rapt senses -- scenes of red carnage -- causing him ever and anon to awake with a start, once or twice with a cry that wakes his companion.

Otherwise Walt Wilder would have slept as soundly as if reposing on the couch of a log cabin a thousand miles removed from any scene of danger. It is no new thing for him to go to sleep with the yell of savages sounding in his ears. For a period of over twenty years he has daily, as nightly, stretched his huge form along mountain slope or level prairie, and often with far more danger of having his "hair raised" before rising erect again. For ten years he belonged to the "Texas Rangers" -- that strange organisation that has existed ever since Stephen Austin first planted his colony in the land of the "Lone Star." If on this night the ex-Ranger is more than usually restless, it is from anxiety about his comrade, coupled with the state of his nervous system, stirred to feverish excitement by the terrible conflict through which they have just passed. Notwithstanding all, he slumbers in long spells, at times snoring like an alligator.

At no time does the ex-Ranger stand in need of much sleep, even after the most protracted toil. Six hours is his usual daily or nocturnal dose; and as the grey dawn begins to glimmer over the tops of the shin oaks, he springs to his feet, shakes the dew from his shoulders like a startled stag, and then stoops down to examine the condition of his wounded comrade.

"Don't ye git up yit, Frank," he says. "We mustn't start till we hev a clar view all roun', an' be sure there's neery redskin in sight. Then we kin take the sun a leetle on our left side, an' make tracks to the south-eastart. How is't wi' ye?"

"I feel weak as water. Still I fancy I can travel a little farther."

"Wall, we'll go slow. Ef there's none o' the skunks arter us, we kin take our time. Durn me! I'm still a wonderin' what Injuns they war; I'm a'most sartint thar the Tenawa Kimanch -- a band o' the Buffler-eaters an' the wust lot on all the parairia. Many's the fight we rangers used to hev wi' 'em, and many's the one o' 'em this child hev rubbed out. Ef I only hed my rifle hyar -- durn the luck hevin' to desart that gun -- I ked show you nine nicks on her timmer as stan' for nine Tenawa Kimanch. Ef't be them, we've got to keep well to the southart. Thar range lays most in the Canadyen, or round the head o' Big Wichitu, an' they mout cross a corner o' the Staked Plain on thar way home. Tharfer we must go southart a good bit, and try for the north fork o' the Brazos. Ef we meet Indian thar, they'd be Southern Kimanch -- not nigh sech feeroshus varmints as them. Do you know, Frank, I've been hevin' a dream 'bout them Injuns as attacked us?"

"A dream! So have I. It is not strange for either of us to dream of them. What was yours, Walt?"

"Kewrus enuf mine war, though it warn't all a dreem. I reck'n I war more 'n half awake when I tuk to thinkin' about 'em, an' 'twar somethin' I seed durin' the skrimmage. Didn't you observe nothin' queery?"

"Rather say, nothing that was not that way. It was all queer enough, and terrible, too."

"That this child will admit wi' full freedom. But I've f't redskin afore in all sorts an' shapes, yet niver seed redskin sech as them."

"In what did they differ from other savages? I saw nothing different."

"But I did; leastways, I suspeck I did. Didn't you spy 'mong the lot two or three that had ha'r on thar faces?"

"Yes; I noticed that. I thought nothing of it. It's common among the Comanches and other tribes of the Mexican territory, many of whom are of mixed breed -- from the captive Mexican women they have among them."

"The ha'r I seed didn't look like it grew on the face o' a mixed blood."

"But there are pure white men among them -- outlaws who have run away from civilisation and turned renegades -- as also captives they have taken, who become Indianised, as the Mexicans call it. Doubtless it may have been some of these we saw."

"Wall, you may be right, Frank. Sartint thar war one I seed wi' a beard 'most as big as my own -- only it war black. His hide war black, too, or nigh to it; but ef that skunk wan't white un'erneath a coatin' o' charcoal an' vermilion then Walt Wilder don't know a Kristyun from a heethun. I ain't no use spek'latin' on't now. White, black, yella-belly, or red, they've put us afoot on the parairia, an' kim darned nigh wipin' us out althegither. We've got a fair chance o' goin' un'er yet, eyther from thirst or the famishment o' empty stomaks. I'm hungry enuf already to eat a coyat. Thar's a heavy row afore us, Frank, an' we must strengthen our hearts to hoein' o' it. Wall, the sun's up; an' as thar don't appear to be any obstrukshun, I reck'n we'd best be makin' tracks."

Hamersley slowly and somewhat reluctantly rises to his feet. He still feels in poor condition for travelling. But to stay there is to die; and bracing himself to the effort, he steps out side by side with his colossal companion.



Chapter Nineteen.

The Departure Of The Plunderers.

On the day after the capture of the caravan the Indians, having consumed all the whisky found in the waggons, and become comparatively sober, prepared to move off.

The captured goods, made up into convenient parcels, were placed upon mules and spare horses. Of both they had plenty, having come prepared for such a sequel to their onslaught upon the traders.

The warriors, having given interment to their dead comrades, leaving the scalped and mutilated corpses of the white men to the vultures and wolves, mounted and marched off.

Before leaving the scene of their sanguinary exploit, they had drawn the waggons into a close clump and set fire to them, partly from a wanton instinct of destruction, partly from the pleasure of beholding a great bonfire, but also with some thoughts that it might be as well thus to blot out all the traces of a tragedy for which the Americans -- of whom even these freebooters felt dread -- might some day call them to account.

They did not all go together, but separated into two parties on the spot where they had passed the night. They were parties, however, of very unequal size, one of them numbering only four individuals.

The other, which constituted the main body of the plunderers, was the band of the Tenawa Comanchey, under their chief, Horned Lizard. These last turned eastward, struck off towards the head waters of the Big Witches, upon which and its tributaries lie their customary roving grounds.

The lesser party went off in almost the opposite direction, south-westerly, leaving the Llano Estacado on their left, and journeying on, crossed the Rio Pecos at a point below and outside the farthest frontier settlement of New Mexico towards the prairies. Then, shaping their course nearly due south, they skirted the spurs of the Sierra Blanca, that in this latitude extend eastward almost to the Pecos.

On arriving near the place known as Gran Quivira -- where once stood a prosperous Spanish town, devoted to gathering gold, now only a ruin, scarcely traceable, and altogether without record -- they again changed their course, almost zigzagging back in a north-westerly direction. They were making towards a depression seen in the Sierra Blanca, as if with the intention to cross the mountains toward the valley of the Del Norte. They might have reached the valley without this circumstance, by a trail well known and often travelled. But it appeared as if this was just what they wanted to avoid.

One of the men composing this party was he already remarked upon as having a large beard and whiskers. A second was one of those spoken of as more slightly furnished with these appendages, while the other two were beardless.

All four were of deep bronze complexion, and to all appearance pure-blooded aboriginals. That the two with hirsute sign spoke to one another in Spanish was no sure evidence of their not being Indians. It was within the limits of New Mexican territory, where there are many Indians who converse in Castilian as an ordinary language.

He with the whiskered cheeks -- the chief of the quartet, as well as the tallest of them -- had not left behind the share of plunder that had been allotted to him. It was still in his train, borne on the backs of seven strong mules, heavily loaded. These formed an atajo or pack-train, guided and driven by the two beardless men of the party, who seemed to understand mule driving as thoroughly as if they had been trained to the calling of the arriero; and perhaps so had they been.

The other two took no trouble with the pack-animals, but rode on in front, conversing sans souci, and in a somewhat jocular vein.

The heavily-bearded man was astride a splendid black horse; not a Mexican mustang, like that of his companions, but a large sinewy animal, that showed the breed of Kentucky. And so should he -- since he was the same steed Frank Hamersley had been compelled to leave behind in that rapid rush into the crevice of the cliff.

"This time, Roblez, we've made a pretty fair haul of it," remarked he who bestrode the black. "What with the silks and laces -- to say nothing of this splendid mount between my legs -- I think I may say that our time has not been thrown away."

"Yours hasn't, anyhow. My share won't be much."

"Come, come, teniente! don't talk in that way. You should be satisfied with a share proportioned to your rank. Besides, you must remember the man who puts down the stake has the right to draw the winnings. But for me there would have been no spoils to share. Isn't it so?"

This truth seeming to produce an impression on Roblez's mind, he made response in the affirmative.

"Well, I'm glad you acknowledge it," pursued the rider of the black. "Let there be no disputes between us; for you know, Roblez, we can't afford to quarrel. You shall have a liberal percentage on this lucky venture; I promise it. By the bye, how much do you think the plunder ought to realise?"

"Well," responded Roblez, restored to a cheerful humour, "if properly disposed of in El Paso or Chihuahua, the lot ought to fetch from fifteen to twenty thousand dollars. I see some silk-velvet among the stuff that would sell high, if you could get it shown to the rich damsels of Durango or Zacatecas. One thing sure, you've got a good third of the caravan stock."

"Ha! ha! More than half of it in value. The Horned lizard went in for bulk. I let him have it to his heart's content. He thinks more of those cheap cotton prints, with their red and green and yellow flowers, than all the silk ever spun since the days of Mother Eve. Ha! ha! ha!"

The laugh, in which Roblez heartily joined, was still echoing on the air as the two horsemen entered a pass leading through the mountains. It was the depression in the sierra, seen shortly after parting with the Horned Lizard and his band. It was a pass rugged with rock, and almost trackless, here and there winding about, and sometimes continued through canons or clefts barely wide enough to give way to the mules with the loads upon their backs.

For all this the animals of the travellers seemed to journey along it without difficulty, only the American horse showing signs of awkwardness. All the others went as if they had trodden it before.

For several hours they kept on through this series of canons and gorges -- here and there crossing a transverse ridge that, cutting off a bend, shortened the distance.

Just before sunset the party came to a halt; not in the defile itself, but in one of still more rugged aspect, that led laterally into the side of the mountain. In this there was no trace or sign of travel -- no appearance of its having been entered by man or animal.

Yet the horse ridden by Roblez, and the pack-mules coming after, entered with as free a step as if going into a well-known enclosure. True, the chief of the party, mounted on the Kentucky steed, had gone in before them; though this scarce accounted for their confidence.

Up this unknown gorge they rode until they had reached its end. There was no outlet, for it was a cul-de-sac -- a natural court -- such as are often found among the amygdaloidal mountains of Mexico.

At its extremity, where it narrowed to a width of about fifty feet, lay a huge boulder of granite that appeared to block up the path; though there was a clear space between it and the cliff rising vertically behind it.

The obstruction was only apparent, and did not cause the leading savage of the party to make even a temporary stop. At one side there was an opening large enough to admit the passage of a horse; and into this he rode, Roblez following, and also the mules in a string, one after the other.

Behind the boulder was an open space of a few square yards, of extent sufficient to allow room for turning a horse. The savage chief wheeled his steed, and headed him direct for the cliff; not with the design of dashing his brains against the rock, but to force him into a cavern, whose entrance showed its disc in the facade of the precipice, dark and dismal as the door of an Inquisitorial prison.

The horse snorted, and shied back; but the ponderous Mexican spur, with its long sharp rowel-points, soon drove him in; whither he was followed by the mustang of Roblez and the mules -- the latter going in as unconcernedly as if entering a stable whose stalls were familiar to them.



Chapter Twenty.

A Transformation.

It was well on in the afternoon of the following day before the four spoil-laden savages who had sought shelter in the cave again showed themselves outside. Then came they filing forth, one after the other, in the same order as they had entered; but so changed in appearance that no one seeing them come out of the cavern could by any possibility have recognised them as the same men who had the night before gone into it. Even their animals had undergone some transformation. The horses were differently caparisoned; the flat American saddle having been removed from the back of the grand Kentucky steed, and replaced by the deep-tree Mexican silla, with its corona of stamped leather and wooden estribos. The mules, too, were rigged in a different manner, each having the regular alpareja, or pack-saddle, with the broad apishamores breeched upon its hips; while the spoils, no longer in loose, carelessly tied-up bundles, were made up into neat packs, as goods in regular transportation by an atajo.

The two men who conducted them had altogether a changed appearance. Their skins were still of the same colour -- the pure bronze-black of the Indian -- but, instead of the eagle's feathers late sticking up above their crowns, both had their heads now covered with simple straw hats; while sleeveless coats of coarse woollen stuff, with stripes running transversely -- tilmas -- shrouded their shoulders, their limbs having free play in white cotton drawers of ample width. A leathern belt, and apron of reddish-coloured sheepskin, tanned, completed the costume of an arriero of the humbler class -- the mozo, or assistant.

But the change in the two other men -- the chief and him addressed as Roblez -- was of a far more striking kind. They had entered the cave as Indians, warriors of the first rank, plumed, painted, and adorned with all the devices and insignia of savage heraldry. They came out of it as white men, wearing the costume of well-to-do rancheros -- or rather that of town traders -- broad glazed hats upon their heads, cloth jackets and trousers -- the latter having the seats and insides of the legs fended with a lining of stamped leather; boots with heavy spurs upon their feet, crape sashes around the waist, machetes strapped along the flaps of their saddles, and seraphs resting folded over the croup, gave the finishing touch to their travelling equipment. These, with the well appointed atajo of mules, made the party one of peaceful merchants transporting their merchandise from town to town.

On coming out of the cave, the leader, looking fresh and bright from his change of toilet and late purification of his skin, glanced up towards the sky, as if to consult the sun as to the hour. At the same time he drew a gold watch from his vest pocket, and looked also at that.

"We'll be just in the right time, Roblez," he said. "Six hours yet before sunset. That will get us out into the valley, and in the river road. We're not likely to meet any one after nightfall in these days of Indian alarms. Four more will bring us to Albuquerque, long after the sleepy townsfolk have gone to bed. We've let it go late enough, anyhow, and mustn't delay here any longer. Look well to your mules, mozos! Vamonos!"

At the word all started together down the gorge, the speaker, as before, leading the way, Roblez next, and the mozos with their laden mules stringing out in the rear.

Soon after, they re-entered the mountain defile, and, once more heading north-westward, silently continued on for the valley of the Rio del Norte. Their road, as before, led tortuously through canons and rugged ravines -- no road at all, but a mere bridle path, faintly indicated by the previous passage of an occasional wayfarer or the tracks of straying cattle.

The sun was just sinking over the far western Cordilleras when the precipitous wall of the Sierra Blanca, opening wider on each side of the defile, disclosed to the spoil-laden party a view of the broad level plain known as the valley of the Del Norte.

Soon after, they had descended to it; and in the midst of night, with a starry sky overhead, were traversing the level road upon which the broad wheel-tracks of rude country carts -- carretas -- told of the proximity of settlements. It was a country road, leading out from the foot-hills of the sierra to a crossing of the river, near the village of Tome, where it intersected with the main route of travel running from El Paso in the south through all the riverine towns of New Mexico.

Turning northward from Tome, the white robbers, late disguised as Indians, pursued their course towards the town of Albuquerque. Any one meeting them on the road would have mistaken them for a party of traders en route from the Rio Abajo to the capital of Santa Fe.

But they went not so far. Albuquerque was the goal of their journey, though on arriving there -- which they did a little after midnight -- they made no stop in the town, nor any noise to disturb its inhabitants, at that hour asleep.

Passing silently through the unpaved streets, they kept on a little farther. A large house or hacienda, tree shaded, and standing outside the suburbs, was the stopping place they were aiming at; and towards this they directed their course. There was a mirador or belvidere upon the roof -- the same beside which Colonel Miranda and his American guest, just twelve months before, had stood smoking cigars.

As then, there was a guard of soldiers within the covered entrance, with a sentry outside the gate. He was leaning against the postern, his form in the darkness just distinguishable against the grey-white of the wall.

"Quien-viva?" he hailed as the two horsemen rode up, the hoof-strokes startling him out of a half-drunken doze.

"El Coronel-Commandante!" responded the tall man in a tone that told of authority.

It proved to be countersign sufficient, the speaker's voice being instantly recognised.

The sentry, bringing his piece to the salute, permitted the horsemen to pass without further parley, as also the atajo in their train, all entering and disappearing within the dark doorway, just as they had made entrance into the mouth of the mountain cavern.

While listening to the hoof-strokes of the animals ringing on the pavement of the patio inside, the sentinel had his reflections and conjectures. He wondered where the colonel-commandant could have been to keep him so long absent from his command, and he had perhaps other conjectures of an equally perplexing nature. They did not much trouble him, however. What mattered it to him how the commandant employed his time, or where it was spent, so long as he got his sueldo and rations? He had them with due regularity, and with this consoling reflection he wrapped his yellow cloak around him, leaned against the wall, and soon after succumbed to the state of semi-watchfulness from which the unexpected event had aroused him.

"Carrambo!" exclaimed the Colonel to his subordinate, when, after looking to the stowage of the plunder, the two men sat together in a well-furnished apartment of the hacienda, with a table, decanters, and glasses between them. "It's been a long, tedious tramp, hasn't it? Well, we've not wasted our time, nor had our toil for nothing. Come, teniente, fill your glass again, and let us drink to our commercial adventure. Here's that in the disposal of our goods we may be as successful as in their purchase!"

Right merrily the lieutenant refilled his glass, and responded to the toast of his superior officer.

"I suspect, Roblez," continued the Colonel, "that you have been all the while wondering how I came to know about this caravan whose spoil is to enrich us -- its route -- the exact time of its arrival, the strength of its defenders -- everything? You think our friend the Horned Lizard gave me all this information."

"No, I don't; since that could not well be. How was Horned Lizard to know himself -- that is, in time to have sent word to you? In truth, mio Coronel, I am, as you say, in a quandary about all that. I cannot even guess at the explanation."

"This would give it to you, if you could read; but I know you cannot, mio teniente; your education has been sadly neglected. Never mind, I shall read it for you."

As the colonel was speaking he had taken from the drawer of a cabinet that stood close by a sheet of paper folded in the form of a letter. It was one, though it bore no postmark. For all that, it looked as if it had travelled far -- perchance carried by hand. It had in truth come all the way across the prairies. Its superscription was: -- 

"El Coronel Miranda, Commandante del Distrito Militario de Albuquerque, Nuevo Mexico."

Its contents, also in Spanish, translated read thus: -- 

"My dear Colonel Miranda, -- I am about to carry out the promise made to you at our parting. I have my mercantile enterprise in a forward state of readiness for a start over the plains. My caravan will not be a large one, about six or seven waggons with less than a score of men; but the goods I take are valuable in an inverse ratio to their bulk --  designed for the 'ricos' of your country. I intend taking departure from the frontier town of Van Buren, in the State of Arkansas, and shall go by a new route lately discovered by one of our prairie traders, that leads part way along the Canadian river, by you called 'Rio de la Canada,' and skirting the great plain of the Llano Estacado at its upper end. This southern route makes us more independent of the season, so that I shall be able to travel in the fall. If nothing occur to delay me in the route, I shall reach New Mexico about the middle of November, when I anticipate renewing those relations of a pleasant friendship in which you have been all the giver and I all the receiver.

"I send this by one of the spring caravans starting from Independence for Santa Fe, in the hope that it will safely reach you.

"I subscribe myself, dear Colonel Miranda, -- 

"Your grateful friend, -- 

"Francis Hamersley."

"Well, teniente," said his Colonel, as he refolded the far-fetched epistle, and returned it to the drawer, "do you comprehend matters any clearer now?"

"Clear as the sun that shines over the Llano Estacado," was the reply of the lieutenant, whose admiration for the executive qualities of his superior officer, along with the bumpers he had imbibed, had now exalted his fancy to a poetical elevation. "Carrai-i! Esta un golpe magnifico! (It's a splendid stroke!) Worthy of Manuel Armilo himself. Or even the great Santa Anna!"

"A still greater stroke than you think it, for it is double -- two birds killed with the same stone. Let us again drink to it!"

The glasses were once more filled, and once more did the associated bandits toast the nefarious enterprise they had so successfully accomplished.

Then Roblez rose to go to the cuartel or barracks, where he had his place of sleeping and abode, bidding buena noche to his colonel.

The latter also bethought him of bed, and, taking a lamp from the table, commenced moving towards his cuarto de camara.

On coming opposite a picture suspended against the sala wall -- the portrait of a beautiful girl -- he stopped in front, for a moment gazed upon it, and then into a mirror that stood close by.

As if there was something in the glass that reflected its shadow into his very soul, the expression of exultant triumph, so lately depicted upon his face, was all at once swept from it, giving place to a look of blank bitterness.

"One is gone," he said, in a half-muttered soliloquy; "one part of the stain wiped out -- thanks to the Holy Virgin for that. But the other; and she -- where, where?"

And with these words he staggered on towards his chamber.



Chapter Twenty One.

Struggling Among The Sages.

It is the fourth day after forsaking the couch among the shin oaks, and the two fugitives are still travelling upon the Llano Estacado. They have made little more than sixty miles to the south-eastward, and have not yet struck any of the streams leading out to the lower level of the Texan plain.

Their progress has been slow; for the wounded man, instead of recovering strength, has grown feebler. His steps are now unequal and tottering. In addition to the loss of blood, something else has aided to disable him -- the fierce cravings of hunger and the yet more insufferable agony of thirst.

His companion is similarly afflicted; if not in so great a degree, enough to make him also stagger in his steps. Neither has had any water since the last drop drank amid the waggons, before commencing the fight; and since then a fervent sun shining down upon them, with no food save crickets caught in the plain, an occasional horned frog, and some fruit of the opuntia cactus -- the last obtained sparingly.

Hunger has made havoc with both, sad and quick. Already at the end of the fourth day their forms are wasted. They are more like spectres than men.

And the scene around them is in keeping. The plain, far as the eye can reach, is covered with artemisia, whose hoary foliage, in close contact at the tops, displays a continuation of surface like a vast winding-sheet spread over the world.

Across this fall the shadows of the two men, proportioned to their respective heights. That of the ex-Ranger extends nearly a mile before him; for the sun is low down, and they have its beams upon their backs.

They are facing eastward, in the hope of being able to reach the brow of the Llano where it abuts on the Texan prairies; though in the heart of one of them this hope is nearly dead. Frank Hamersley has but slight hopes that he will ever again see the homes of civilisation, or set foot upon its frontier. Even the ci-devant Ranger inclines to a similar way of thinking.

Not far off are other animated beings that seem to rejoice. The shadows of the two men are not the only ones that move over the sunlit face of the artemisia. There, too, are outlined the wings of birds -- large birds with sable plumage and red naked necks, whose species both know well. They are zopilotes -- the vultures of Mexico.

A score of such shadows are flitting over the sage -- a score of the birds are wheeling in the air above.

It is a sight to pain the traveller, even when seen at a distance. Over his own head it may well inspire him with fear. He cannot fail to read in it a forecast of his own fate.

The birds are following the two men, as they would a wounded buffalo or stricken deer. They soar and circle above them, at times swooping portentously near. They do not believe them to be spectres. Wasted as their flesh may be, there will still be a banquet upon their bones.

Now and then Walt Wilder casts a glance up towards them. He is anxious, though he takes care to hide his anxiety from his comrade. He curses the foul creatures, not in speech -- only in heart, and silently.

For a time the wearied wayfarers keep on without exchanging a word. Hitherto consolation has come from the side of the ex-Ranger; but he seems to have spent his last effort, and is himself now despairing.

In Hamersley's heart hope has been gradually dying out, as his strength gets further exhausted. At length the latter gives way, the former at the same time.

"No farther, Walt!" he exclaims, coming to a stop. "I can't go a step further. There is a fire in my throat that chokes me; something grips me within. It is dragging me to the ground."

The hunter stops too. He makes no attempt to urge his comrade on. He perceives it would be idle.

"Go on yourself," Hamersley adds, gasping out the words. "You have yet strength left, and may reach water. I cannot, but I can die, I'm not afraid to die. Leave me, Walt; leave me!"

"Niver!" is the response, in a hoarse, husky voice, but firm, as if it came from a speaking-trumpet.

"You will; you must. Why should two lives be sacrificed for one? Yours may still be saved. Take the gun along with you. You may find something. Go, comrade -- friend -- go!"

Again the same response, in a similar tone.

"I sayed, when we were in the fight," adds the hunter, "an' aterwards, when gallupin' through the smoke, that livin' or dyin' we'd got to stick thegither. Didn't I say that, Frank Hamersley? I repeat it now. Ef you go unner hyar in the middle o' this sage-brush, Walt Wilder air goin' to wrap his karkiss in a corner o' the same windin' sheet. There ain't much strength remainin' in my arms now, but enuf, I reck'n, to keep them buzzarts off for a good spell yit. They don't pick our bones till I've thinned thar count anyhow. Ef we air to be rubbed out, it'll be by the chokin' o' thirst, and not the gripin' o' hunger. What durned fools we've been, not to a-thinked o' 't afore! but who'd iver think o' eatin' turkey buzzart? Wall, it's die dog or swaller the hatchet; so onpalatable as thar flesh may be, hyar goes to make a meal o' it!"

While speaking, he has carried the gun to his shoulder.

Simultaneous with his last words comes the crack, quickly followed by the descent of a zopilote among the sages.

"Now, Frank," he says, stooping to pick up the dead bird, while the scared flock flies farther away, "let's light a bit o' a fire, an' cook it. Thar's plenty o' sage for the stuffin', an' its own flavour'll do for seasonin' 'stead o' inyuns. I reck'n we kin git some o' it down, by holdin' our noses; an' at all events, it'll keep us alive a leetle longer. Wagh, ef we only hed water!"

As if a fresh hope has come suddenly across his mind, he once more raises himself erect to the full stretch of his gigantic stature, and standing thus, gazes eastwardly across the plain.

"Thar's a ridge o' hills out that way," he says. "I'd jest spied it when you spoke o' giein out. Whar thar's hills, thar's a likelihood o' streams. Sposin', Frank, you stay hyar, whiles I make tracks torst them. They look like they wa'n't mor'n ten miles off anyhow. I ked easy get back by the mornin'. D'ye think ye kin hold out thet long by swallerin' a bit o' the buzzart?"

"I think I could hold out that long as well without it. It's more the thirst that's killing me. I feel as if liquid fire was coursing through my veins. If you believe there be any chance of finding water, go, Walt."

"I'll do so; but don't you sturve in the meanwhile. Cook the critter afore lettin' it kim to thet. Ye've got punk, an' may make a fire o' the sage-brush. I don't intend to run the risk o' sturvin' myself; an' as I mayn't find any thin' on the way, I'll jest take one o' these sweet-smellin' chickens along wi' me."

He has already re-loaded the rifle; and, once more pointing its muzzle towards the sky, he brings down a second of the zopilotes.

"Now," he says, taking up the foul carcase, and slinging it to his belt, "keep up your heart till this chile return to ye. I'm sure o' gettin' back by the mornin'; an' to make sartint 'bout the place, jest you squat unner the shadder o' yon big palmetto -- the which I can see far enuff off to find yur wharabouts 'thout any defeequelty."

The palmetto spoken of is, in truth, not a "palmetto," though a plant of kindred genus. It is a yucca of a species peculiar to the high table plains of Northern and Central Mexico, with long sword-shaped leaves springing aloe-like from a core in the centre, and radiating in all directions, so as to form a spherical chevaux-de-frize. Its top stands nearly six feet above the surface of the ground, and high over the artemisias; while its dark, rigid spikes, contrasted with the frosted foliage of the sage, render it a conspicuous landmark that can be seen far off over the level plain.

Staggering on till he has reached it, Hamersley drops down on its eastern side, where its friendly shadow gives him protection from the sun, fervid, though setting; while that of Walt Wilder is still projected to its full length upon the plain. Saying not another word, with the rifle across his shoulder and the turkey buzzard dangling down his thigh, he takes departure from the spot, striking eastward towards the high land dimly discernible on the horizon.



Chapter Twenty Two.

A Huntress.

"Vamos, Lolita! hold up, my pretty pet! Two leagues more, and you shall bury that velvet snout of yours in the soft gramma grass, and cool your heated hoof in a crystal stream. Ay, and you shall have a half peck of pinon nuts for your supper, I promise you. You have done well to-day, but don't let us get belated. At night, as you know, we might be lost on the Llano, and the wicked wolves eat us both up. That would be a sad thing, mia yegua. We must not let them have a chance to dispose of us in that manner. Adelante!"

Lolita is a mustang pony of clear chestnut colour, with white mane and tail; while the person thus apostrophising her is a young girl seated astride upon its back.

A beautiful girl, apparently under twenty of age, but with a certain commanding mien that gives her the appearance of being older. Her complexion, though white, has a tinge of that golden brown, or olive, oft observed in the Andalusian race; while scimitar shaped eyebrows, with hair of silken texture, black as the shadows of night, and a dark down on the upper lip, plainly proclaim the Moorish admixture.

It is a face of lovely cast and almost Grecian contour, with features of classic regularity; while the absence of obliquity in the orbs of the eye -- despite the dusky hue of her akin -- forbids the belief in Indian blood.

Although in a part of the world where such might be expected, there is, in truth, not a taint of it in her veins. The olivine tint is Hispano Moriscan -- a complexion, if not more beautiful, certainly more picturesque than that of the Saxon blonde.

With the damask-red dancing out upon her cheeks, her eyes aglow from the equestrian exercise she has been taking, the young girl looks the picture of physical health; while the tranquil expression upon her features tells of mental contentment.

Somewhat singular is her costume, as the equipment. As already said, she bestrides her mustang man-fashion, the mode of Mexico; while a light fowling-piece, suspended en bandouliere, hangs down behind her back.

A woollen seraph of finest wool lies scarf-like across her left shoulder, half concealing a velveteen vest or spencer, close-buttoned over the rounded hemispheres of her bosom. Below, an embroidered skirt -- the enagua -- is continued by a pair of white calzoncillas, with fringe falling over her small feet, they are booted and spurred.

On her head is a hat of soft vicuna wool, with a band of bullion, a bordering of gold lace around the rim, and a plume of heron's feather curving above the crown.

This, with her attitude on horseback, might seem outre in the eyes of a stranger to the customs of her country. The gun and its concomitant accoutrements give her something of a masculine appearance, and at the first glance might cause her to be mistaken for a man -- a beardless youth.

But the long silken tresses scattered loosely over her shoulders, the finely-cut features, the delicate texture of the skin, the petticoat skirt, the small hand, with slender tapering fingers stretched forward to caress the neck of the mustang mare, are signs of femininity not to be misunderstood.

A woman -- a huntress; the character clearly proclaimed by a brace of hounds -- large dogs of the mastiff bloodhound breed -- following at the heels of the horse. And a huntress who has been successful in the chase -- as proved by two prong-horn antelopes, with shanks tied together, lying like saddle-bags across the croup.

The mustang mare needs no spur beyond the sound of that sweet well-known voice. At the word adelante (forward) she pricks up her ears, gives a wave of her snow-white tail, and breaks into a gentle canter, the hounds loping after in long-stretching trot.

For about ten minutes is this pace continued; when a bird flying athwart the course, so close that its wings almost brush Lolita's muzzle, causes her rider to lean back in the saddle and check her suddenly up.

The bird is a black vulture -- a zopilote. It is not slowly soaring in the usual way, but shooting in a direct line, and swiftly as an arrow sent from the bow.

This it is that brings the huntress to a halt; and for a time she remained motionless, her eye following the vulture in its flight.

It is seen to join a flock of its fellows, so far off as to look like specks. The young girl can perceive that they are not flying in any particular direction, but swooping in circles, as if over some quarry that lies below. Whatever it is, they do not appear to have yet touched it. All keep aloft, none of them alighting on the ground, though at times stooping down, and skimming close to the tops of the sage-bushes with which the plain is thickly beset.

These last prevent the huntress from seeing what lies upon the ground; though she knows there must be something to have attracted the concourse of zopilotes. Evidently she has enough knowledge of the desert to understand its signs, and this is one of a significant character. It not only challenges curiosity, but calls for investigation.

"Something gone down yonder, and not yet dead?" she mutters, in interrogative soliloquy. "I wonder what it can be! I never look on those filthy birds without fear. Santissima! how they made me shudder that time when they flapped their black wings in my own face! I pity any poor creature threatened by them -- even where it but a coyote. It may be that, or an antelope. Nothing else likely to become their prey on this bare plain. Come, Lolita! let us go on and see what they're after. It will take us a little out of our way, and give you some extra work. You won't mind that, my pet? I know you won't."

The mare wheels round at a slight pressure upon the rein; and then commenced her canter in the direction of the soaring flock.

A mile is passed over, and the birds are brought near; but still the object attracting them cannot be seen. It may be down among the artemisias, or perhaps behind a large yucca, whose dark whorl rises several feet above the sage, and over which the vultures are wheeling.

As the rider of Lolita arrives within gun-shot distance of the yucca-tree she checks the mustang to a slower pace -- to a walk in short. In the spectacle of death, in the throes and struggles of an expiring creature, even though it be but a dumb brute, there is something that never fails to excite commiseration, mingled with a feeling of awe. This last has come over the young girl, as she draws near the spot where the birds are seen circling.

It has not occurred to her that the cause of their presence may be a human being, though it is a remembrance of this kind that now prompts her to ride forward reflectively. For once in her life, with others around her who were near and dear, she has been herself an object of like eager solicitude to a flock of zopilotes.

But she has not the slightest suspicion of its being a human creature that causes their gathering now. There, upon the Llano Estacado, so rarely trodden by human feet, and even shunned by almost every species of animal, she could not.

As she draws still nearer, a black disc, dimly outlined against the dark green leaves of the yucca, upon scrutiny, betrays the form of a bird, itself a vulture. It is dead, impaled upon the sharp spikes of the plant, as it came there by falling from above.

A smile curls upon her lips as she sits regarding it.

"So, yegua!" she says, bringing the mare to a stand, and half-turning her. "I've been losing my time and you your labour. The abominable birds -- it's only one of themselves that has dropped dead, and they're holding a velorio over it."

She continues, again facing towards the dead vulture.

"Now, I wonder if they are only waking it, or if the wakers are cannibals, and intend making a repast on one of their own kind. That would be a curious fact for our natural historian, Don Prospero. Suppose we stay awhile and see?"

For a moment she seems undecided as to staying or going. Only for a moment, when an incident occurs that changes the current of her thoughts from scientific curiosity to something of fear.

The bloodhounds that have lagged behind in the scurry across the plain, now close up; and, instead of stopping by the side of Lolita, rush on towards the yucca. It is not the odour of the dead buzzard -- strong as that may be -- that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial to their sanguinary instincts.

On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has suddenly brought them to bay.

"A wounded bear or wolf!" is the muttered reflection of their mistress.

It has scarce passed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake. Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of a human voice; and at the same instant, a man's head and arm appear above the spikes of the plant -- a hand clutching the hilt of a long-bladed knife!



Chapter Twenty Three.

"Down, Dogs!"

Notwithstanding her apparent sang-froid, and the presence of mind she surely possesses, the rider of Lolita is affrighted -- far more than the vultures, that have soared higher at her approach.

And no wonder that she is affrighted at such a strange apparition -- the head of a man, with a dark moustache on his lip, holding in his hand a blade that shows blood upon it! This, too, in such a solitary place!

Her first thought is to turn Lolita's head and hurry off from the spot. Then a reflection stays her. The man is evidently alone, and the expression on his countenance is neither that of villainy nor anger. The colour of his skin, with the moustache, bespeak him a white man, and not an Indian. Besides, there is pallor upon his cheeks -- a wan, wasted look, that tells of suffering, not sin.

All this the quick eye of the huntress takes in at a glance, resolving her how to act. Instead of galloping away she urges the mustang on towards the yucca.

When close up to it she flings herself out of the saddle, and, whip in hand, rushes up to the hounds, that are still giving tongue and threatening to spring upon the stranger.

"Abajo, perros! abajo, feos!" (Down, dogs! down, you ugly brutes!)

"A tierra!" she continues to scold, giving each a sharp cut that at once reduces them to quiescence, causing them to cower at her feet. "Do you not see the mistake you have made?" she goes on addressing the dogs; "don't you see the caballero is not an Indio? It is well, sir!" she adds, turning to the caballero, "well that your skin is white. Had it been copper-coloured, I'm not certain I could have saved you from getting it torn. My pets are not partial to the American aboriginal."

During these somewhat bizarre speeches and the actions that accompany them, Frank Hamersley -- for it is he -- stands staring in silent wonder. What sees he before him? Two huge, fierce-looking dogs, a horse oddly caparisoned, a young girl, scarce a woman, strangely and picturesquely garbed. What has he heard? First, the loud baying of two bloodhounds, threatening to tear him to pieces; then a voice, sweet and musical as the warbling of a bird!

Is it all a dream?

Dreaming he had been, when aroused by the growling of the dogs. But that was a horrid vision. What he now sees is the very reverse. Demons had been assaulting him in his sleep. Now there is an angel before his eyes.

The young girl has ceased speaking; and as the vertigo, caused by his sudden uprising, has cleared away from his brain, he begins to believe in the reality of the objects around him.

The shock of surprise has imparted a momentary strength that soon passes; and his feebleness once more returning, he would fall back to the earth did he not clutch hold of the yucca, whose stiff blades sustain him.

"Valga me Dios!" exclaims the girl, now more clearly perceiving his condition. "Ay de mi!" she repeats in a compassionate tone, "you are suffering, sir? Is it hunger? Is it thirst? You have been lost upon the Llano Estacado?"

"Hunger, thirst -- both, senorita," he answers, speaking for the first time. "For days I have not tasted either food or drink."

"Virgen santissima! is that so?"

As she says this she returns to her horse; and, jerking a little wallet from the saddle, along, with a suspended gourd, again advances towards him.

"Here, senor!" she says, plunging her hand into the bag and bringing forth some cold tortillas, "this is all I have; I've been the whole day from home, and the rest I've eaten. Take the water first; no doubt you need that most. I remember how I suffered myself. Mix some of this with it. Trust me, it will restore your strength."

While speaking she hands him the gourd, which, by its weight, contains over a pint; and then from another and smaller one she pours some liquid first into the water and then over the tortillas. It is vinegar, in which there is an infusion of chile Colorado.

"Am I not robbing you?" inquires Hamersley, as he casts a significant glance over the wide, sterile plain.

"No, no! I am not in need, besides I have no great way to go to where I can get a fresh supply. Drink, senor, drink it all."

In ten seconds after the calabash is empty.

"Now eat the tortillas. 'Tis but poor fare, but the chili vinagre will be sure to strengthen you. We who dwell in the desert know that."

Her words proved true, for after swallowing a few morsels of the bread she has besprinkled, the famished man feels as if some restorative medicine had been administered to him.

"Do you think you are able to ride?" she asks.

"I can walk -- though, perhaps, not very far."

"If you can ride there is no need for your walking. You can mount my mare; I shall go afoot. It is not very far -- only six miles."

"But," protests he, "I must not leave this spot."

"Indeed!" she exclaims, turning upon her protege a look of surprise. "For what reason, senor? To stay here would be to perish. You have no companions to care for you?"

"I have companions -- at least, one. That is why I must remain. Whether he may return to assist me I know not. He has gone off in search of water. In any case, he will be certain to seek for me."

"But why should you stay for him?"

"Need you ask, senorita? He is my comrade, true and faithful. He has been the sharer of my dangers -- of late no common ones. If he were to come back and find me gone -- "

"What need that signify, caballero? He will know where to come after you."

"How should he know?"

"Oh, that will be easy enough. Leave it to me. Are you sure he will find his way back to this place?"

"Quite sure. This tree will guide him. He arranged it so before leaving."

"In that case, there's not any reason for your remaining. On the contrary. I can see that you need a better bed than sleeping among these sage-plants. I know one who will give it. Come with me, caballero? By the time your comrade can get back there'll be one here to meet him. Lest he should arrive before the messenger I shall send, this will save him from going astray."

While speaking she draws forth a small slip of paper from a pouch carried a la chatelaine; along with it a pencil. She is about to write, when a thought restrains her.

"Does your comrade understand Spanish?" she asks.

"Only a word or two. He speaks English, or, as we call it, American."

"Can he read?"

"Indifferently. Enough, I suppose, for -- "

"Senor," she says, interrupting him, "I need not ask if you can write. Take this, and put it in your own language. Say you are gone south, due south, to a distance of about six miles. Tell your friend to stay here till some one comes to meet and conduct him to where you'll be found."

Hamersley perceives the rationality of these instructions. There is no reason why he should not do as desired, and go at once with her who gives them. By staying some mischance might still happen, and he may never see his fair rescuer again. Who can tell what may arise in the midst of that mysterious desert? By going he will the sooner be able to send succour to his comrade.

He hesitates no longer, but writes upon the piece of paper -- in large, carefully-inscribed letters, so that the ci-devant Ranger need have no difficulty in deciphering them: -- 

"Saved by an Angel. -- Strike due south. Six miles from this you will find me. There is a horse, and you can take up his tracks. If you stay here for a time, one will come and guide you."

The huntress takes the paper from his hand, and glances at the writing, as if out of curiosity to read the script of a language unknown to her. But something like a smile playing around her lips might lead one to believe she has divined the meaning of at least the initial sentence.

She makes no remark, but stepping towards the yucca and reaching up, impales the piece of paper on one of its topmost spikes.

"Now, caballero," she says, "you mount my mare. See, she stands ready for you."

Hamersley again protests, saying he can walk well enough.

But his tottering steps contradict him, and he urges his objections in vain.

The young girl appealingly persists, until at length the gallantry of the Kentuckian gives way, and he climbs reluctantly into the saddle.

"Now, Lolita!" cries her mistress, "see that your step is sure, or you shan't have the pinons I promised you. Adelante! Nos vamos, senor!"

So saying, she strikes off through the sage, the mustang stepping by her side, and the two great hounds, like a rear guard, bringing up behind.



Chapter Twenty Four.

Foes Or Friends?

Mounted on the mustang mare, Frank Hamersley pursues his way, wondering at his strange guide. So lovely a being encountered in such an out-of-the-way corner of the world -- in the midst of a treeless, waterless desert, over a hundred miles from the nearest civilised settlement!

Who is she? Where has she come from? Whither is she conducting him?

To the last question he will soon have an answer; for as they advance she now and then speaks words of encouragement, telling him they are soon to reach a place of rest.

"Yonder!" she at length exclaims, pointing to two mound-shaped elevations that rise twin-like above the level of the plain. "Between those runs our road. Once there, we shall not have much farther to go; the rancho will be in sight."

The young prairie merchant makes no reply. He only thinks how strange it all is -- the beautiful being by his side -- her dash -- her wonderful knowledge exhibited with such an air of naivete -- her generous behaviour -- the picturesqueness of her dress -- her hunter equipment -- the great dogs trotting at her heels -- the dead game on the croup behind -- the animal he bestrides -- all are before his mind and mingling in his thoughts like the unreal phantasmagoria of a dream.

And not any more like reality is the scene disclosed to his view when, after passing around the nearest of the twin mound-shaped hills, and entering a gate-like gorge that opens between them, he sees before him and below -- hundreds of feet below -- a valley of elliptical form like a vast basin scooped out of the plain. But for its oval shape he might deem it the crater of some extinct volcano. But then, where is the lava that should have been projected from it? With the exception of the two hillocks on each hand, all the country around, far as the eye can reach, is level as the bosom of a placid lake. And otherwise unlike a volcanic crater is the concavity itself. No gloom down there, no black scoriae, no returning streams of lava, nor debris of pumice-stone; but, on the contrary, a smiling vegetation -- trees with foliage of different shades, among which can be distinguished the dark-green frondage of the live-oak and pecan, the more brilliant verdure of cottonwoods, and the flower-loaded branches of the wild China-tree. In their midst a glassy disc that speaks of standing water, with here and there a fleck of white, which tells of a stream with foaming cascades and cataracts. Near the lakelet, in the centre, a tiny column of blue smoke ascends over the tree-tops. This indicates the presence of a dwelling; and as they advance a little further into the gorge, the house itself can be descried.

In contrast with the dreary plain over which he has been so long toiling, to Hamersley the valley appears a paradise -- worthy home of the Peri who is conducting him down to it. It resembles a landscape painted upon the concave sides of an immense oval-shaped dish, with the cloudless sky, like a vast cover of blue glass, arching over it.

The scene seems scarcely real, and once more the young prairie merchant begins to doubt the evidence of his senses. After all, is it only a vision of his brain, distempered by the long strain upon his intellect, and the agony he has been enduring? Or is it but the mirage of the desert, that has so oft already deceived him?

His doubts are dissipated by the sweet voice sounding once more in his ears.

"Mira, caballero! you see where you are going now? It is not far; you will need to keep a firm seat in the saddle for the next hundred yards or so. There is a steep descent and a narrow pathway. Take good hold with your knees, and trust yourself to the mare. She knows the way well, and will bear you in safety. Won't you, Lolita? You will, my pet!"

At this the mustang gives a soft whimper, as if answering the interrogatory.

"I shall myself go before," the girl continues. "So let loose the rein, and leave Lolita to take her own way."

After giving this injunction, she turns abruptly to the right, where a path almost perpendicular leads down a ledge, traversing the facade of the cliff. Close followed by the mustang, she advances fearlessly along it.

Certainly a most dangerous descent, even for one afoot; and if left to his own will, Hamersley might decline attempting it on horseback. But he has no choice now, for before he can make either expostulation or protest, Lolita has struck along the path, and continues with hind-quarters high in air and neck extended in the opposite direction, as though standing upon her head! To her rider there is no alternative but do as he has been directed -- stick close to the saddle. This he manages by throwing his feet forward and laying his back flat along the croup, till his shoulders come between the crossed shanks of the prong-horns.

In this position he remains, without saying a word, or even daring to look below, till he at length finds himself moving forward with face upturned to the sky, thus discovering that the animal he bestrides is once more going along level ground.

Again he hears the voice of Lolita's mistress, saying, "Now, senor, you can sit upright; the danger is past. You have behaved well, yegua --  yeguita!" she adds, patting the mare upon the neck; "you shall have the promised pinons -- a whole cuartilla of them."

Once more stepping to the front, she strikes off among the trees, along a path which still inclines downward, though now in gentler slope.

Hamersley's brain is in a whirl. The strange scenes, things, thoughts, and fancies are weaving weird spells around him; and once more he begins to think that his senses have either forsaken or are forsaking him.

This time it is really so, for the long-protracted suffering -- the waste of blood and loss of strength -- only spasmodically resuscitated by the excitement of the strange encounter -- is now being succeeded by a fever of the brain, that is gradually depriving him of his reason.

He has a consciousness of riding on for some distance farther -- under trees, whose leafy boughs form an arcade over his head, shutting out the sun. Soon after, all becomes suddenly luminous, as the mustang bears him out into a clearing, with what appears a log-cabin in the centre. He sees or fancies the forms of several men standing by its door; and as the mare comes to a stop in their midst his fair conductor is heard excitedly exclaiming, -- 

"Hermano! take hold of him! Alerte! Alerte!"

At this one of the men springs towards him; whether to be kind, or to kill, he cannot tell. For before a hand is laid on him the strange tableau fades from his sight; and death, with all its dark obliviousness, seems to take possession of his soul.



Chapter Twenty Five.

"Saved By An Angel!"

The shadow of Walt Wilder is again projected over the Staked Plain, as before, to a gigantic length. But this time westwardly, from a sun that is rising instead of setting.

It is the morning after he parted with his disabled companion; and he is now making back towards the spot where he had left the latter, the sun's disc just appearing above the horizon, and shining straight upon his back. Its rays illumine an object not seen before, which lends to Walt's shadow a shape weird and fantastic. It is that of a giant, with something sticking out on each side of his head that resembles a pair of horns, or as if his neck was embraced by an ox-yoke, the tines tending diagonally outwards.

On looking at Walt himself the singularity is at once understood. The carcase of a deer lies transversely across his back, the legs of the animal being fastened together so as to form a sling, through which he has thrust his head, leaving the long slender shanks, like the ends of the letter X, projecting at each side and high above his shoulders.

Despite the load thus borne by him, the step of the ex-Ranger is no longer that of a man either despairing or fatigued. On the contrary, it is light and elastic; while his countenance shows bright and joyous as the beams of the ascending sun. His very shadow seems to flit over the frosted foliage of the artemisias as lightly as the figure of a gossamer-robed belle gliding across the waxed floor of a ball-room.

Walt Wilder no longer hungers or thirsts. Though the carcase on his back is still unskinned, a huge collop cut out of one of its hind-quarters tells how he has satisfied the first craving; while the gurgle of water, heard inside the canteen slung under his arm, proclaims that the second has also been appeased.

He is now hastening on to the relief of his comrade, happy in the thought of being able soon to relieve him also from his sufferings.

Striding lightly among the sage-bushes, and looking ahead for the landmark that should guide him, he at length catches sight of it. The palmilla, standing like a huge porcupine upon the plain, cannot be mistaken; and he descries it at more than a mile's distance, the shadow of his own head already flickering among its bayonet-like blades.

Just then something else comes under his eyes, which at once changes the expression upon his countenance. From gay it grows grave, serious, apprehensive. A flock of buzzards, seemingly scared by his shadow, have suddenly flapped up from among the sage-plants, and are now soaring around, close to the spikes of the palmilla. They have evidently been down upon the earth. And what have they been doing there?

It is this question, mentally put by Walt Wilder, that has caused the quick change in his countenance -- the result of a painful conjecture.

"Marciful heavens!" he exclaims, suddenly making halt, the gun almost dropping from his grasp. "Kin it be possyble? Frank Hamersley gone under! Them buzzards! They've been upon the groun' to a sartinty. Darnashin! what ked they a been doin' down thar? Right by the bunch o' palmetto, jest whar I left him. An' no sign o' himself to be seen? Marciful heavens! kin it be possyble they've been -- ?"

Interrupting himself, he remains motionless, apparently paralysed by apprehension, mechanically scanning the palmilla, as though from it he expected an answer to his interrogatory.

"It air possyble," he continues after a time, "too possyble -- too likesome. He war well-nigh done up, poor young fellur; an' no wonder. Whar is he now? He must be down by the side o' the bush -- down an' dead. Ef he war alive, he'd be lookin' out for me. He's gone under; an' this deer-meat, this water, purcured to no purpiss. I mout as well fling both away; they'll reach him too late."

Once more resuming his forward stride, he advanced towards the dark mass above which the vultures are soaring. His shadow, still by a long distance preceding him, has frightened the birds higher up into the air, but they show no signs of going altogether away. On the contrary, they keep circling around, as if they had already commenced a repast, and, driven off, intend returning to it.

On what have they been banqueting? On the body of his comrade? What else can be there?

Thus questioning himself, the ex-Ranger advances, his heart still aching with apprehension. Suddenly his eye alights on the piece of paper impaled upon the topmost spike of the palmilla. The sight gives him relief, but only for an instant; his conjectures again leading him astray.

"Poor young fellur!" is his half-spoken reflection; "he's wrote somethin' to tell how he died -- mayhap somethin' for me to carry back to the dear 'uns he's left behind in ole Kaintuck. Wall, that thing shall sartinly be done ef ever this chile gets to the States agin. Darnashin! only to think how near I war to savin' him; a whole doe deer, an' water enough to a drownded him! It'll be useless venison now, I shan't care no more to put tooth into it myself. Frank Hamersley gone dead -- the man o' all others I'd 'a died to keep alive. I'd jest as soon lie down an' stop breathin' by the side o' him."

While speaking he moves on towards the palmilla. A few strides bring him so near the tree that he can see the ground surface about its base. There is something black among the stems of the sage-bushes. It is not the dead body of a man, but a buzzard, which he knows to be that he had shot before starting off. The sight of it causes him again to make stop. It looks draggled and torn, as if partially dismembered.

"Kin he hev been eatin' it? Or war it themselves, the cussed kannybals? Poor Frank, I reck'n I'll find him on t'other side, his body mangled in the same way. Darn it, 't air kewrous, too. 'Twar on this side he laid down to git shade from the sun. I seed him squat whiles I war walkin' away. The sun ain't hot enuf yit to a druv him to westward o' the bush, though thar for sartin he must be. What's the use o' my stannin' shilly-shally hyar? I may as well face the sight at oncest, ugly as I know it'll prove. Hyar goes."

Steeling himself for the terrible spectacle, which he believes to be certainly awaiting him, he once more advances towards the tree.

A dozen strides bring him up, and less than half a dozen more carry him around it.

No body, living or dead -- no remains of man, mutilated or otherwise!

For some time Wilder stands in speechless surprise, his glances going all around. But no human figure is seen, either by the palmilla or among the sage-bushes beside it. Can the wounded man have crawled away? But no; why should he? Still, to make sure, the ex-Ranger shouts out, calling Hamersley by name.

He gets no response. Alone he hears the echo of his own voice, mingling with the hoarse croaking of the vultures, scared by his shouts.

His hunter habits now counsel him to a different course of action. His comrade cannot be dead, else the corpse would be there. The vultures could not have eaten up both body and bones. There is no skeleton, no remains. His fellow fugitive has gone off or been taken. Whither? While asking the question Wilder sets about the right way to answer it. As a skilled tracker he begins by examining the signs that should put him on the trace of his missing companion. At a glance he perceives the prints of a horse's hoof, and sees they are those of one unshod. This bodes ill, for the naked-hoofed horse betokens a savage rider -- an Indian. Still, it may not be; and he proceeds to a more careful scrutiny of the tracks. In a short time he is able to tell that but one horse has been there, and presumably but one rider, which promises better. And while shaping conjectures as to who it could have been his eye ascends to the piece of paper impaled upon the spike, which he has for a time forgotten. This promises still better. It may clear up everything.

Hoping it will, he strides towards and takes hold of it. Lifting it carefully from the leaf, he spreads it out. He sees some writing in pencil, which he prepares to read.

At first sight he supposed it might be a dying record. Now he believes it may be something else.

His hands tremble, and his huge frame is convulsed as he holds the paper to his eyes.

With a thrill of joy he recognises the handwriting of Hamersley, which he knows. He is not much of a scholar; still, he can read, and at a glance makes out the first four words, full of pleasant meaning:

"Saved by an Angel!"

He reads no farther, till after giving utterance to a "hurrah!" that might have been heard many miles over the Staked Plain. Then, more tranquillised, he continues deciphering the chirography of his companion to the end; when a second shout terminates the effort.

"Saved by a angel!" he says, muttering to himself. "A angel on the Staked Plain! Whar can the critter hev come from? No matter whar. Thar's been one hyar, for sartin. Darn me ef I don't smell the sweet o' her pettikotes now! This piece o' paper -- 't ain't Frank's. I knows he hedn't a scrap about him. No. Thar's the scent o' a woman on it, sure; an' whar thar's a woman Frank Hamersley ain't likely to be let die o' sturvashun. He air too good-lookin' for that. Wall I reck'n it's all right an' thar ain't no more need for me to hurry. T'war rayther a scant breakfast I've hed, an' hain't gin this chile's in'ards saterfacshun. I'll jest chaw another griskin o' the deer-meat to strengthen me for this six-mile tramp southard."

In less than five minutes after, the smoke from a sage-stalk fire was seen ascending from beside the palmilla, and in its blaze, quickly kindled, a huge piece of venison, cut from the fat flanks of the doe, weighing at least four pounds, spitted upon one of the stiff blades of the plant, was rapidly turning from blood red to burnt brown.

As circumstances had ofttimes compelled the ex-Ranger to eat his deer-meat underdone, the habit had become his gout; and it was, therefore, not long before the griskin was removed from the spit. Nor much longer till it ceased to be a griskin -- having altogether disappeared from his fingers, followed by a gurgling sound, as half the contents of the canteen went washing it down his throat.

"Now!" he said, springing to his feet, after he had completed his Homeric repast, "this chile feels strong enuf to face the devil hisself, an' tharfor he needn't be backward 'bout the encounterin' o' a angel. So hyar goes to find out Frank Hamersley, an' how he's farin'. Anyhow, I'll take the deer along in case thar mout be a scarcity o' eetables, though I reck'n thar's no fear o' that. Whar a angel makes dwelling-place thar oughter be a full crib, though it may be ambrosyer or mannar, or some o' them fixin's as a purairy man's stummick ain't used to. Anyways, a bit o' doe-deer meat won't do no harum. So, Walt Wilder, ole coon, let's you an' me set our faces southart, an' see what's to turn up at the tarminashun o' six miles' trampin'."

Once more shouldering the carcase, he strides off towards the south, guiding himself by the sun, but more by the hoof-marks of the mustang. These, though scarce distinguishable, under the over-shadowing sage-plants, are descried with little difficulty by the experienced eye of the Ranger.

On goes he, now and then muttering to himself conjectures as to what sort of a personage has appropriated and carried off his comrade. But, with all his jocular soliloquising, he feels certain the angel will turn out to be a woman.



Chapter Twenty Six.

Fallen Among Friends.

If, before losing consciousness, Hamersley had a thought that he had fallen into the hands of enemies, never in all his life could he have been more mistaken, for those now around him, by their words and gestures, prove the very reverse. Six personages compose the group --  four men and a girl; the sixth, she, the huntress, who has conducted him to the house. The girl is a brown-skinned Indian, evidently a domestic; and so also two of the four men. The other two are white, and of pronouncedly Spanish features. One is an oldish man, greyheaded, thin-faced, and wearing spectacles. In a great city he would be taken for a savant, though difficult to tell what he may be, seen in the Llano Estacado surrounded by a desert. In the same place, the other and younger man is equally an enigma, for his bearing proclaims him both gentleman and soldier, while the coat on his back shows the undress uniform of an officer of more than medium rank.

It is he who answers to the apostrophe, "Hermano!" springing forward at the word, and obeying the command of his sister -- for such is she whom Hamersley has accompanied to the spot.

Throwing out his arms, and receiving the wounded man as he falls insensible from the saddle, the obedient brother for a moment stands aghast, for in the face of him unconscious he recognises an old friend --  one he might no more expect to see there than to behold him falling from the sky.

He can have no explanation from the man held in his arms. The latter has fainted -- is dying -- perhaps already dead. He does not seek it, only turns to him who wears the spectacles, saying, -- 

"Doctor, is he, indeed, dead? See if it be so. Let everything be done to save him."

He thus addressed takes hold of Hamersley's pulse, and, after a moment or two, pronounces upon it. It beats; it indicates extreme weakness, but not absolute danger of death.

Then the wounded man is carried inside -- tenderly borne, as if he, too, were a brother -- laid upon a couch, and looked after with all the skill the grey-haired medico can command, with all the assiduity of her who has brought him to the house, and him she calls "Hermano."

As soon as the stranger has been disposed of, between these two there is a dialogue -- the brother seeking explanations from the sister, though first imparting information to her. He knows the man she has saved; telling her how and where their acquaintance was made. Few words suffice, for already is the story known to her. In return, she too gives relation of what has happened -- how, after her chase upon the plain, coming back successful, she saw the zopilotes, and was by them attracted out of her way; narrating all the rest already told.

And now nothing more can be known. The man still lives -- thank Heaven for that! -- but lies on the couch unconscious of all around him. Not quiet, for he is turning about, with quick-beating pulse, and brain in a condition of delirium.

For a night and a part of a day they keep by his bedside -- all three, sister, brother, and doctor, grouped there, or going and coming. They know who the wounded man is, though ignorant of how he came by his wounds, or what strange chance left him stranded on the Staked Plain.

They have no hope of knowing until he may regain consciousness and recover. And of this the doctor has some doubt; when asked, shaking his head ominously, till the spectacles get loosened upon his nose.

But, though the prognosis remain uncertain, the diagnosis is learnt in a manner unexpected. Before noon of the next day the hounds are heard baying outside; and the watchers by the sick-bed, summoned forth, see one approaching -- a personage whose appearance causes them surprise. Any one seen there would do the same, since for months no stranger had come near them. Strange, indeed, if one had, for they are more than a hundred miles from any civilised settlement, in the very heart and centre of a desert.

What they see now is a man of colossal form and gigantic stature, with bearded face and formidable aspect, rendered somewhat grotesque by a deer's carcase carried over his shoulders, the shanks of the animal rising crossways over his crown.

They are not dismayed by the uncouth apparition. She who has brought Hamersley to the house guesses it to be the comrade of whom he spoke --  describing him as "true and faithful."

And, without reflecting further, she glides out, grasps the great hunter by the hand, and conducts him to the bedside of his unconscious companion.

Looking at her as she leads him, Walt Wilder mutters to himself, -- 

"Saved by a angel! I knowed it would turn out a woman, and this is one for sartin."



Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Lone Ranche.

A singular habitation was that into which Frank Hamersley, and after him Walt Wilder, had found their way. Architecturally of the rudest description -- a kind among Mexicans especially styled jacal, or more generally rancho, the latter designation Anglicised or Americanised into ranche. The rancho, when of limited dimensions, is termed ranchito, and may be seen with walls of different materials, according to the district or country. In the hot low lands (tierras calientes) it is usually built of bamboos, with a thatching of palm-leaf; higher up, on the table lands (tierras templadas) it is a structure of mud bricks unburnt (adobe's); while still higher, upon the slopes of the forest-clad sierras, it assumes the orthodox shape of a log cabin, though in many respects differing from that of the States.

The one which gave shelter to the fugitives differed from all these, having walls of split slabs, set stockade fashion, and thatched with a sedge of tule, taken from a little lake that lay near. It had three rooms and a kitchen, with some sheds at the back -- one a stable appropriated to the mustang mare, another to some mules, and a third occupied by two men of the class of "peons" -- the male domestics of the establishment.

All, with the house itself, structures of the rudest kind, unlike as possible to the dwelling-place of a lady, to say nought of an angel.

This thought occurs to Wilder as he enters under its roof. But he has no time to dwell upon it. His wounded comrade is inside, to whom he is conducted. He finds the latter still alive -- thank God for that! -- but unconscious of all that is passing around. To the kindly words spoken in apostrophe he makes no reply, or only in speeches incoherent. His skin is hot, his lips parched, his pulse throbbing at ninety to the minute. He is in the throes of a raging fever, which affects his brain as his blood.

The stalwart hunter sits down by his side, and stays there, tenderly nursing him. It glads him to observe there are others solicitous as himself -- to find that he and Hamersley have fallen among friends. Though also surprising him, as does the sort of people he sees around. First, there is a lady, easily recognised as the angel; then a man of military aspect, who addresses her as "Hermanita," unquestionably a gentleman with a second and older man wearing spectacles, by both spoken of as "el medico." Strange inhabitants for a hovel, as that this should be in such an odd situation -- hundreds of miles beyond the borders of civilisation, as Walt well knows.

No wonder at his wondering, above all when he discovers that his comrade is already known to them -- to the younger of the two men, who is their host. This, however, is soon explained. Walt was already aware that the young prairie trader had made a former trip to New Mexico, when and where, as he is now told, the acquaintance commenced, along with some other particulars, to satisfy him for the time.

In return for this confidence he gives a detailed account of the caravan and its mischances -- of the great final misfortune, which explains to them why its owner and himself had been forced to take to the Staked Plain, and were there wandering about, helpless fugitives.

To his narrative all three eagerly listen. But when he enlarges on the bravery of his young comrade, lying unconscious beside them, one bends upon the latter eyes that express an interest amounting to admiration. It is the "angel."

In the days that succeed she becomes Walt's fellow-watcher by the bedside of the sufferer; and often again does he observe similar glances given to their common patient. Rough backwoodsman though he be, he can tell them to be looks of love.

He thinks less about them because he has himself found something of like kind stealing over his thoughts. All his cares are not given to his invalided comrade; for in the hut is a fourth individual, whose habitual place is the cocina, coming and going, as occasion calls.

A little brown-skinned beauty, half Spanish, half Pueblo Indian, whose black eyes have burnt a hole through his buckskin hunting-shirt, and set fire to his heart. Though but little more than half his height, in less than a week after making her acquaintance she has become his master, as much as if their stature were reversed.

Walt does not want her for his mistress. No; the hunter is too noble, too honourable, for that His glance following her as she flits about the room, taking in her dainty shape, and the expression of her pretty face, always wreathed in smiles, he has but one single-hearted desire, to which he gives muttered expression, saying, -- 

"Thet's jest the kind o' gurl a fellow ked freeze to. I ne'er seed a apple dumplin' as looked sweeter or more temptin'; an' if she's agreeable, we two air born to be bone o' one bone, and flesh o' one flesh!"



Chapter Twenty Eight.

A Sweet Awakening.

For many days the young Kentuckian remains unconscious of all that is passing around. Fortunately for him, he has fallen into the right hands; for the old gentleman in spectacles is in reality a medical man --  a skilled surgeon as well as a physician, and devotes all his time and skill to restoring his patient to health.

Soon the wound shows signs of healing, and, along with it, the fever begins gradually to abate. The brain at length relieved, reason resumes its sway.

Hamersley becomes conscious that he still lives, on hearing voices. They are of men. Two are engaged in a dialogue, which appears to be carried on with some difficulty, as one is speaking English, which the other but slightly understands. Neither is the English of the first speaker of a very correct kind, nor is his voice at all euphonious. For all that, it sounds in Hamersley's ears sweet as the most seraphic music, since in its tones he recognises the voice of Walt Wilder.

A joyous throb thrills through his heart on discovering that his comrade has rejoined him. After their parting upon the plain he had his fears they might never come together again.

Walt is not within sight, for the conversation is carried on outside the room. The invalid sees that he is in a room, a small one, of which the walls are wood, roughly-hewn slabs, with furniture fashioned in a style corresponding. He is lying upon a catre, or camp bedstead, rendered soft by a mattress of bearskins, while a serape of bright-coloured pattern is spread over him, serving both for blanket and counterpane. In the apartment is a table of the rudest construction, with two or three chairs, evidently from the hand of the same unskilful workman, their seats being simply hides with the hair on. On the table is a cup with a spoon in it, and two or three small bottles, that have the look of containing medicines.

All these objects come under his eyes at the first dim glance; but as his vision grows clearer, and he feels strength enough to raise his head from the pillow, other articles are disclosed to view, in strange contrast with the chattels first observed. Against the wall hang several articles of female apparel -- all of a costly kind. They are of silk and silk-velvet, richly brocaded; while on a second table, slab like the first, he can distinguish bijouterie, with other trifles usually belonging to a lady's toilet.

These lie in front of a small mirror set in a frame which appears to be silver; while above is suspended a guitar, of the kind known as bandolon.

The sick man sees all these things with a half-bewildered gaze, for his senses are still far from clear. The costly articles of apparel and adornment would be appropriate in a lady's boudoir or bed chamber. But they appear strange, even grotesque, in juxtaposition with the roughly-hewn timbers of what is evidently a humble cottage -- a log cabin!

Of course he connects them with her, that singular being who has succoured, and perhaps saved his life. He can have no other conjecture. He remembers seeing a house as they approached its outside. It must be that he is now in; though, from the last conscious thought, as he felt himself swooning in the saddle, all has been as blank as if he had been lying lifeless in a tomb. Even yet it might appear as a dream but for the voice of Walt Wilder, who, outside, seems labouring hard to make himself intelligible to some personage with whom he is conversing.

Hamersley is about to utter a cry that will summon his comrade to his side, when he perceives that the voices are becoming fainter, as if the two speakers had gone outside the house and were walking away from it. Feeling too weak even for the slightest exertion, he remains silent, taking it for granted they will soon return.

It is broad daylight, the sun glancing in through an aperture in the wall that serves for a window. It has neither frame nor glass, and along with the bright beams there drifts in a cool breeze laden with the delicious fragrance of flowers, among which he can distinguish the aromatic perfume of the wild China tree. There are voices of birds mingling their music with the sough of falling water -- sounds very different from those of the desert through which he has of late been straying.

He lies thinking of the beautiful being who brought him thither, shaping conjectures in regard to the strangeness of the situation. He has no idea how long he may have been unconscious; nor has the whole time been like death -- unless death have its dreams. For he has had dreams, all with a fair form and lovely face flitting and figuring in them. It is the wild huntress.

He has a fancy that the face seemed familiar to him; or, if not familiar, one he has looked upon before. He endeavours to recall all those he had met in Mexico during his sojourn there; for if encountered anywhere, it must have been there. His female acquaintances had been but few in that foreign land. He can remember every one of them. She is not of their number. If he has ever seen her before their encounter on the Staked Plain, it must have been while passing along the street of some Mexican city.

And this could scarcely be, in his silent reflection; for such a woman once seen -- even but for a moment -- could never be forgotten.

He lies pondering on all that has passed -- on all he can now recall. Walt had got back, then, to the place where they parted. He must have found food and water, though it matters now no more. Enough that he has got back, and both are in an asylum of safety, under friendly protection. This is evident from the surroundings.

Still feeble as a child, the effort of thought very soon fatigues him; and this, with the narcotic influence of the flower perfume, the songs of the birds, and the soothing monotone of the waters, produces a drowsiness that terminates in a profound slumber. This time he sleeps without dreaming.

How long he cannot tell; but once more he is awakened by voices. As before, two persons are engaged in conversation. But far different from those already heard. The bird-music still swelling in through the window is less sweet than the tones that now salute his ear.

As before, the speakers are invisible, outside the room. But he can perceive that they are close to the door, and the first words heard admonish him of their design to enter.

"Now, Conchita! Go get the wine, and bring it along with you. The doctor left directions for it to be given him at this hour."

"I have it here, senorita."

"Vaya! you have forgotten the glass. You would not have him drink out of the bottle?"

"Ay Dios! and so I have," responds Conchita, apparently gliding off to possess herself of the required article, with which she soon returns.

"Ish!" cautions the other voice; "if he be still asleep, we must not wake him. Don Prospero said that. Step lightly, muchacha!"

Hamersley is awake, with eyes wide open, and consciousness quite restored. But at this moment something -- an instinct of dissembling --  causes him to counterfeit sleep; and he lies still, with shut eyelids. He can hear the door turning upon its hinges of raw hide, then the soft rustle of robes, while he is sensible of that inexpressible something that denotes the gentle presence of woman.

"Yes, he is asleep," says the first speaker, "and for the world we may not disturb him. The doctor was particular about that, and we must do exactly as he said. You know, Conchita, this gentleman has been in great danger. Thanks to the good Virgin, he'll get over it. Don Prospero assures us he will."

"What a pity if he should not! Oh, senorita, isn't he -- "

"Isn't he what?"

"Handsome -- beautiful! He looks like a picture I've seen in the church; an angel -- only that the angel had wings, and no mustachios."

"Pif, girl; don't speak in that silly way, or I shall be angry with you. Vayate! you may take away the wine. We can come again when he awakes. Guardate! Tread lightly."

Again there is the rustling of a dress; but this time as if only one of the two were moving off. The other seems still to linger by the side of the couch.

The invalid queries which of the two it is. There is an electricity that tells him; and, for an instant, he thinks of opening his eyes, and proclaiming consciousness of what has been passing.

A thought restrains him -- delicacy. The lady will know that he has been awake all the while, and overheard the conversation. It has been in Spanish, but she is aware that he understands this, for he has no doubt that the "senorita" is she who has saved him.

He remains without moving, without unclosing his eyelids. But his ears are open, and he hears a speech pleasanter than any yet spoken.

It is in the shape of a soliloquy -- a few words softly murmured. They are, "Ay de mil 'Tis true what Conchita says, and as Valerian told me. He is, indeed, handsome -- beautiful!"

More than ever Hamersley endeavours to counterfeit sleep, but he can resist no longer. Involuntarily his eyes fly open, and, with head upraised, he turns towards the speaker.

He sees what he has been expecting, what he beheld in fancy throughout his long, delirious dream -- the fair form and beautiful face that so much interested him, even in that hour when life seemed to be forsaking him. It is the angel of the desert, no longer in huntress garb, but dressed as a lady.

There is a red tinge upon her cheek, that appears to have flushed up suddenly, as if suspecting her soliloquy has been heard. The words have but parted from her lips, and the thought is yet thrilling in her heart.

Can he have heard it? He shows no sign.

She approaches the couch with a look of solicitude, mingled with interrogation. A hand is held out to her, and a word or two spoken to say she is recognised. Her eyes sparkle with joy, as she perceives in those of the invalid that reason is once more seated on its throne.

"I am so happy," she murmurs, "we are all so happy, to know you are out of danger. Don Prospero says so. You will now get well in a short time. But I forget; we were to give you something as soon as you should awake. It is only some wine. Conchita, come hither!"

A young girl is seen stepping into the chamber. A glance would tell her to be the maid, if the overheard conversation had not already declared it. A little brown-skinned damsel, scarce five feet in height, with raven hair hanging in double plait down her back, and black eyes that sparkle like those of a basilisk.

Provident Conchila has brought the bottle and glass with her, and a portion of the famed grape juice of El Paso is administered to the invalid.

"How good and kind you've all been!" he says, as his head once more settles down upon the pillow. "And you especially, senorita. If I mistake not, I'm indebted to you for the saving of my life."

"Do not speak of that," she rejoins; "I've shown you no kindness in particular. You would not have one leave a fellow creature to perish?"

"Ah! but for you I should now have been in another world."

"No, indeed. There you are mistaken. If I had never come near you, you'd have been saved all the same. I have good news for you. Your comrade is safe, and here. He returned to your trysting-place, with both food and drink; so, as you see, I have no merit in having rescued you. But I must not talk longer. Don Prospero has given instructions for you to be kept quiet. I shall bring the doctor at once. Now that you are awake it is necessary he should see you."

Without waiting for a reply, she glides out of the room, Conchita having gone before.



Chapter Twenty Nine.

Don Valerian.

Hamersley lies pondering on what he has seen and heard, more especially on what he has overheard -- that sweet soliloquy. Few men are insensible to flattery. And flattery from fair lips! He must be indeed near death whose heart-pulsations it does not affect.

But Don Prospero! Who is he? Is he the owner of the voice heard in dialogue with Walt Wilder? May he be the owner of all? This thought troubles the Kentuckian.

Approaching footsteps put a stop to his conjectures. There are voices outside, one of them the same late sounding so sweetly in his ears. The other is a man's, but not his who was conversing with Wilder. Nor is it that of the ex-Ranger himself. It is Don Prospero, who soon after enters the room, the lady leading the way.

A man of nigh sixty years of age, spare form and face, hair grizzled, cheeks wrinkled; withal hale and hearty, as can be told by the pleasant sparkle of his eye. Dressed in a semi-military suit, of a subdued tint, and facings that tell of the medical staff.

At a glance there is no danger in Don Prospero. The invalid feels easier, and breathes freely.

"Glad to see you looking so well," says Don Prospero, taking hold of his patient's wrist and trying the pulse. "Ah! much more regular; it will be all right now. Keep quiet, and we shall soon get you on your feet again. Come, senor! A little more of this grape-juice will do you no harm. Nothing like our New Mexican wine for bringing back a sick man to his appetite. After that, we shall give you some wild-turkey broth and a bone to pick. In a day or two you'll be able to eat anything."

Other personages are now approaching the chamber. The lady glides out, calling, -- 

"Valerian!"

"Who is Valerian?" feebly interrogates the invalid. Once more the name of a man is making him unhappy.

"Don Valerian!" responds the doctor, in a tone that tells of respect for the individual so designated; "you shall see, senor. You are about to make his acquaintance. No; I am wrong about that. I forgot. You cannot now."

"Cannot! Why?"

"Because you have made it already. Mira! He is there!"

This as a tall, elegant man, under thirty years of age, steps inside the chamber, while a still taller form appears in the doorway, almost filling up the space between the posts.

The latter is Walt Wilder, but the former -- who is he? Don Valerian, of course!

"Colonel Miranda!" exclaims Hamersley, starting up on his couch. He has already dismissed all suspicious fears of Don Prospero; and now he no longer dreads Valerian.

"Colonel Miranda, is it you?"

"It is, mio amigo, myself, as you see. And I need not tell you how glad I am to meet you again. So unexpected in this queer quarter, where I little hoped to have the pleasure of entertaining an old friend. Our worthy doctor here informs us you will soon get strong again, and become more of a tax on my hospitality than you have yet been. No doubt, after your illness, you'll have the appetite of an ostrich. Well, in one way, that will be fortunate, since we are living, as you may see, in a somewhat Homeric fashion. Carrambo! you will be deeming my manners quite as rude as the roughest of Homer's heroes. I am forgetting to introduce you to one of whom you've heard me speak. Though it don't so much signify, since the lady has made your acquaintance already. Permit me to present my dear Adela."

It is the beautiful huntress who steps forward to be introduced, now looking more beautiful than ever.

To Hamersley all is explained by her presence. He remembers the portrait upon the wall, which accounts for his fancy of having seen her face before.

He sees it now; his wonder giving way to an intense, ardent admiration.

Soon, the young lady retiring, his curiosity comes back, and he asks his host for an explanation. How came Colonel Miranda there, and why? By what sinister combination of circumstances has the military commandant of Albuquerque made his home in the midst of a howling wilderness, for such is the Llano Estacado?

Despite the smiling oasis immediately surrounding it, it cannot have been choice. No. Chance, or rather mischance, must have led to this change in the affairs of his New Mexican acquaintance. More than an acquaintance -- a friend who stood by him in the hour of danger, first courageously protecting, then nobly volunteering to act as his second in a duel; afterwards taking him on to his home and showing him hospitality, kind as was ever extended to a stranger in a strange land.

No wonder Frank Hamersley holds him dear. Dearer now, after seeing his sister in propria persona -- she whose portrait had so much impressed his fancy -- the impression now deepened by the thought that to her he has been indebted for his life.

Naturally enough, the young Kentuckian is desirous of knowing all, and is anxious about the fortunes of his Mexican friend, that for the time seem adverse.

"No," is Colonel Miranda's response to his appeal. "Not now, Senor Don Francisco. Our good doctor here places an embargo on any further conversation for the present. The tale I have to tell might too much excite you. Therefore let it rest untold till you are stronger and more able to hear it rehearsed. Now, amigo, we must leave you alone, or rather, I should say, in the best of good company, for such has your worthy comrade, the Senor Wilder, proved himself to be. No doubt you'll be anxious to have a word with one who, while your life was in danger, would have sacrificed his own to save it. Don Prospero permits him to remain with you and give such explanations as you may need. The rest of us are to retire. Hasta luega." So saying, Miranda steps out of the room. "Keep perfectly quiet," adds the ex-army surgeon, preparing to follow. "Don't excite yourself by any act or thought that may cause a return of the fever. For in that lies your greatest danger. Feel confident, caballero, that you're in the company of friends. Don Gaulterio here will be able to convince you of that. Ah! senor, you've a nurse who feels a great interest in seeing you restored to health."

Pronouncing these last words in undertone and with an accent of innuendo, accompanied by a smile which the invalid pleasantly interprets, Don Prospero also retires, leaving his patient alone with his old caravan guide.

Drawing one of the chairs up to the side of the bed, the ex-Ranger sits down upon it, saying, -- 

"Wal, Frank, ain't it wonderful? That we shed both be hyar, neested snug an' comfortable as two doons in the heart of a hollow tree, arter all the dangersome scrapes we've been passin' through. Gheehorum! To think o' thar bein' sech a sweet furtile place lyin' plum centre in the innermost recesses o' the Staked Plain, whar we purairey men allers believed thar wun't nothin' 'ceptin' dry desert an' stinkin' sage-bush. Instead, hyar's a sort o' puradise aroun' us, sech as I used read o' when I war a youngster in the big Book. Thar's the difference, that in the Gardin o' Eeden thar's but one woman spoken of; hyar thar's two, one o' which you yurself hev called a angel, an' ye hain't sayed anythin' beyont the downright truth. She air a angel, if iver thar was sech on airth. Now, not detractin' anythin' from her merits, thar's another near hand -- somewhat of a smaller sort, though jest as much, an' a little bit more, to my likin'. Ye won't mind my declarin' things that way. As they say in Mexican Spanish, cadder uner a soo gooster (cada una a su gusto), every one to his own way o' thinkin', so my belief air that in this. Gardin o' Eeden thar air two Eves, one o' which, not countin' to be the mother o' all men, will yit, supposin' this chile to hev his way, be the mother o' a large family o' young Wilders."

While Hamersley is still smiling at the grotesque prognostication, the ex-Ranger, seizing hold of his hand, continues, -- 

"I'm so glad you're a goin' to rekiver. Leavin' out the angels we love, ther'll be some chance to git square wi' the devils we've sech reezun to hate. We may yit make them pay dear for the bloody deed they've done in the murderin' o' our innercent companyuns."

"Amen to that," mutters Hamersley, returning the squeeze of his comrade's hand with like determined pressure. "Sure as I live, it shall be so."



Chapter Thirty.

The Raiders Returning.

An Indian bivouac. It is upon a creek called "Pecan," a confluent of the Little Witchita river, which heads about a hundred miles from the eastern edge of the Llano Estacado.

There are no tents in the encampment; only here and there a blanket or buffalo robe extended horizontally upon upright poles -- branches cut from the surrounding trees. The umbrageous canopy of the pecans protects the encamped warriors from the fervid rays of a noonday sun, striking vertically down.

That they are on the maraud is evidenced by the absence of tents. A peaceful party, in its ordinary nomadic passage across the prairies, would have lodges along with it -- grand conical structures of painted buffalo skins -- with squaws to set them up, and dogs or ponies to transport them when struck for another move.

In this encampment on the Pecan are neither squaws, dogs, nor ponies; only men, naked to the breech clout, their bodies brightly painted from hip to head, chequered like a hatchment, or the jacket of a stage harlequin, with its fantastic devices, some ludicrous, others grotesque; still others of aspect terrible -- showing a death's-head and cross-bones.

A prairie man on seeing them would at once say, "Indians on the war trail!"

It does not need prairie experience to tell they are returning upon it. If there are no ponies or dogs beside them, there are other animals in abundance -- horses, mules, and horned cattle. Horses and mules of American breed, and cattle whose ancestral stock has come from Tennessee or Kentucky along with the early colonists of Texas.

And though there are no squaws or papooses in the encampment, there are women and children that are white. A group comprising both can be seen near its centre. It does not need the dishevelled hair and torn dresses to show they are captives; nor yet the half-dozen savages, spear-armed, keeping guard over them. Their drooping heads, woeful and wan countenances, are too sure signs of their melancholy situation.

What are these captives, and who their captors? Two questions easily answered. In a general way, the picture explains itself. The captives are the wives and children, with sisters and grown-up daughters among them, of Texan colonists. They are from a settlement too near the frontier to secure itself against Indian attack. The captors are a party of Comanches, with whom the reader has already made acquaintance; for they are no other than the sub-tribe of Tenawas, of whom the Horned Lizard is leader.

The time is two weeks subsequent to the attack on Hamersley's train; and, judging by the spectacle now presented, we may conclude that the Tenawa chief has not spent the interval in idleness. Nearly three hundred miles lie between the place where the caravan was destroyed and the site of the plundered settlement, whose spoils are now seen in the possession of the savages.

Such quick work requires explanation. It is at variance with the customs and inclinations of the prairie freebooter, who, having acquired a booty, rarely strikes for another till the proceeds of the first be squandered. He resembles the anaconda, which, having gorged itself, lies torpid till the craving of a fresh appetite stirs it to renewed activity.

Thus would it have been with the Tenawa chief and his band, but for a circumstance of a somewhat unusual kind. As is known, the attack on the prairie traders was not so much an affair of the Horned Lizard as his confederate, the military commandant of Albuquerque. The summons had come to him unexpected, and after he had planned his descent on the Texas settlement. Sanguinary as the first affair was, it had been short, leaving him time to carry out his original design, almost equally tragical in its execution. Here and there, a spear standing up, with a tuft of light-coloured hair, blood-clotted upon its blade, is proof of this. Quite as successful, too. The large drove of horses and horned cattle, to say nothing of that crowd of despairing captives, proves the proceeds of the later maraud worth as much, or perhaps more, than what had been taken from the traders' waggons.

Horned Lizard is jubilant; so, also, every warrior of his band. In loss their late foray has cost them comparatively little -- only one or two of their number, killed by the settlers while defending themselves. It makes up for the severe chastisement sustained in their onslaught upon the caravan. And, since the number of their tribe is reduced, there are now the fewer to share with, so that the calicoes of Lowell, the gaudy prints of Manchester, with stripes, shroudings, and scarlet cloth to bedeck their bodies, hand mirrors in which to admire themselves, horses to ride upon, mules to carry their tents, and cattle to eat -- with white women to be their concubines, and white children their attendants -- all these fine things in full possession have put the savages in high spirits -- almost maddened them with delight.

A new era has dawned upon the tribe of which Horned Lizard is head. Hitherto it has been a somewhat starving community, its range lying amid sterile tracts, on the upper tributaries of the Red River and Canadian. Now, before it is a plentiful future -- a time of feasting and revelry, such as rarely occurs to a robber band, whether amidst the forest-clad mountains of Italy, or on the treeless steppes of America.

The Tenawa chief is both joyous and triumphant. So, too, his second in command, whose skin, with the paint cleansed from it, would show nearly white. For he is a Mexican by birth; when a boy made prisoner by the Comanches, and long since matriculated into the mysteries of the redman's life -- its cunning, as its cruelties.

Now a man, he is one of the chiefs of the tribe, in authority only less than the Horned Lizard himself, but equal to the latter in all the cruel instincts that distinguish the savage. "El Barbato" he is called, from having a beard, though this he keeps clean shaven, the better to assimilate himself to his beardless companions; while, with painted face and hair black as their own, he looks as Indian as any of them. But he has not forgotten his native tongue, and this makes him useful to those who have adopted him, especially when raiding in the Republic of Mexico. It was through him the Tenawa chief was first brought to communicate with the military robber, Uraga.

The Indian bivouac is down in the creek bottom in a little valley, on both sides flanked by precipitous cliffs. Above and below these approach each other, so near as to leave only a narrow path along the edge of the stream.

The savages are resting after a long, rapid march, encumbered with their spoils and captives. Some have lain down to sleep, their nude bodies stretched along the sward, resembling bronze statues tumbled from their pedestals. Others squat around fires, roasting collops from cattle they have killed, or eating them half raw.

A few stand or saunter by the side of the captives, upon these casting covetous glances, as if they only waited for the opportunity to appropriate them. The women are all young; some of them scarce grown girls, and some very beautiful.

A heart-harrowing sight it would be for their fathers, brothers, husbands and sweethearts, could they but witness it. These may not be far off.

Some suspicion of this has carried the Horned Lizard and El Barbato up to the crest of the cliff. They have been summoned thither by a sign, which the traveller on the prairies of Texas or the table plains of Mexico never sees without stopping to scrutinise and shape conjecture about its cause. Before entering the canon through which runs Pecan Creek, the Tenawa chief had observed a flock of turkey-buzzards circling about in the air. Not the one accompanying him and his marauders on their march, as is the wont of these predatory birds. But another quite separate gang, seen at a distance behind, apparently above the path along which he and his freebooters had lately passed.

As the Comanche well knows, a sign too significant to be treated lightly or with negligence. And so, too, his second in command. Therefore have they climbed the cliff to obtain a better view of the birds -- those flying afar -- and, if possible, draw a correct conclusion as to the cause of their being there.

On reaching the summit they again see them, though so far off as to be barely visible -- black specks against the blue canopy of the sky. Still near enough to show a large number circling about over some object that appears stationary.

This last observation seems satisfactory to the Tenawa chief, who, turning to his fellow-freebooter, shouts out, -- 

"Nothing to fear. Don't you remember, Barbato, one of our horses gave out there, and was left? It's over him the zopilotes are swooping. He's not dead yet; that's why they don't go down."

"It may be," rejoins the renegade. "Still I don't like the look of it. Over a dead horse they'd hardly soar so high. True, they keep in one place. If it were Texans pursuing us they'd be moving onward -- coming nearer and nearer. They're not. It must be, as you say, the horse. I don't think the people of the settlement we struck would be strong enough to come after us -- at least not so soon. They may in time, after they've got up a gathering of their Rangers. That isn't likely to be till we've got safe beyond their reach. They won't gain much by a march to the Witchita mountains. Por cierte! the zopilotes out yonder are over something; but, as they're not moving on, most likely it's the horse."

Again the Horned Lizard gives a grunt, expressing satisfaction; after which the two scramble back down the cliff, to seek that repose which fighting and forced marching make necessary to man, be he savage or civilised.



Chapter Thirty One.

Pursuers On The Path.

Despite common belief, the instinct of the Indian is not always sure, nor his intellect unerring. An instance of the contrary is afforded by the behaviour of the Tenawa chief and his subordinate Barbato.

About the buzzards both have been mistaken. The second flock seen by them is not hovering over a horse, but above an encampment of horsemen. Not correctly an encampment, but a halt en bivouac -- where men have thrown themselves from their saddles, to snatch a hurried repast, and take quick consultation about continuing on.

They are all men, not a woman or child among them, bearded men with white skins, and wearing the garb of civilisation. This not of the most fashionable kind or cut, nor are they all in the exact drew of civilised life. For many of them wear buckskin hunting shirts, fringed leggings, and moccasins; more a costume peculiar to the savage. Besides these there are some in blanket-coats of red, green, and blue; all sweat-stained and dust-tarnished, till the colours nearly correspond. Others in Kentucky jeans, or copper-coloured homespun. Still others in sky-blue cottonade, product of the hand-mills of Attakapas. Boots, shoes, and brogans fabricated out of all kinds of leather; even that from the corrugated skin of the illigator. Hats of every shape, fashion, size, and material -- straw, chip, Panama, wool, felt, silk, and beaver.

In one respect they are all nearly alike -- in their armour and accoutrements. All are belted, pouched, and powder-horned. Each carries a bowie-knife and a revolving pistol -- some two -- and none are without a rifle. Besides this uniformity there are other points of resemblance -- extending to a certain number. It is noticeable in their guns, which are jagers of the US army-brand. Equally apparent is the caparison of their horses; these carrying cavalry saddles, with peaks and cantles brass mounted. Among the men to whom these appertain there is a sort of half-military discipline, indicated by some slight deference shown to two or three, who appear to act with the authority of officers. It is, in fact, a troop -- or, as by themselves styled, a "company" -- of Texan Rangers.

About one-half the band belongs to this organisation. The others are the people of the plundered settlement -- the fathers, brothers, and husbands, whom the Horned Lizard and his red robbers have bereft of daughters, sisters, and wives.

They are in pursuit of the despoilers; a chase commenced as soon as they could collect sufficient force to give it a chance of success. Luckily, a troop of Rangers, scouting in the neighbourhood, came opportunely along, just in time to join them. Soldiers and settlers united, they are now on the trail of the Tenawas, and have only halted to breathe and water their horses, eat some food themselves, and then on.

Not strange their hot haste -- men whose homes have been made desolate, their kindred carried into captivity. Each has his own painful reflections. In that hour, at that very moment, his beloved wife, his delicate daughter, his fair sister, or sweetheart, may be struggling in the embrace of a brawny savage. No wonder that to them every hour seems a day, every minute an hour.

Though with a different motive, not much less impatient are their associates in the pursuit -- the Rangers. It chances to be a company especially rabid for defence against the incursions of the Tenawa tribe; and more than once baffled by these cunning red-skins, they are anxious to make up for past disappointment. Twice before have they followed the retreating trail of these same savages, on both occasions returning foiled and empty-handed. And, now that they are again on it, with surer signs to guide them, the young men of the corps are mad to come up with the red marauders, while the elder ones are almost equally excited. Both resemble hounds in a hunt where the scent is hot -- the young dogs dashing forward without check, the old ones alike eager, but moving with more circumspection.

Between them and the settlers there is the same earnestness of purpose, though stimulated by resentment altogether different. The latter only think of rescuing their dear ones, while the former are stirred by soldier pride and the instinctive antagonism which a Texan Ranger feels for a Tenawa. Many of them have old scores to settle with the Horned Lizard, and more than one longs to send a bullet through his heart.

But, despite the general reckless impatience to proceed, there are some who counsel caution. Chief among those is a man named Cully, a thin wiry sexagenarian, who looks as if he had been at least half a century upon the prairies. All over buckskin, fitting tight to his body, without tag or tail, he is not one of the enrolled Rangers, though engaged to act as their guide. In this capacity he exercises an influence over the pursuers almost equalling that of their leader, the Ranger captain, who, with a group gathered around, is now questioning the guide as to the next move to be made.

"They can't be very far off now," replies Cully, in answer to the captain's interrogatory. "All the signs show they passed this hyar point a good hour arter sun-up. The dew war off the grass as they druv over it, else the blades 'ud a been pressed flatter down. Besides, there's the dead hoss they've left ahint. Ye see some o' 'em's cut out his tongue an' tuk it along for a tit-bit at thar next campin' place. Now, as the blood that kim out o' the animal's mouth ain't been long cruddled up, thet shows to a sartinty they can't be far forrad. I reck'n I know the adzact spot whar they're squatted."

"Where?"

"Peecawn creek. There they'll get good water for thar stock, an' the shade o' trees to rest unner; the which last they'll take to in this hottish spell o' sun."

"If they're upon the Pecan," puts in a third speaker, a tall, lathy individual, in a green blanket coat, badly faded, "and anywhere near its mouth, we can't be more than five miles from them. I know this part of the country well. I passed through it last year along with the Santa Fe expedition."

"Only five miles!" exclaims another man, whose dress bespeaks a planter of respectability, while his woe-begone countenance proclaims him to be one of the bereaved. "Oh, gentlemen I surely our horses are now rested enough. Let us ride forward and fall upon them at once!"

"We'd be durned foolish to do so," responded Cully. "Thet, Mr Wilton, 'ud be jest the way to defeet all our plans an' purpisses. They'd see us long afore we ked git sight o' them, an' maybe in time to run off all the stolen hosses an' cattle, but sartinly the keptyves."

"What's your way, Cully?" interrogates a lieutenant of the Rangers.

"My way air to wait till the sun go down, then steal torst 'm. Thar boun' to hev fires, an' thet'll guide us right into thar camp. Ef it's in the Peecawn bottom, as I'm pretty sure it air, we kin surround 'em eesy. Thar's bluffs a-both sides, an' we kin divide inter two lots -- one slippin' roun' an' comin' from up the creek, while t'other approaches 'em from below. In thet way we'll make sure o' keepin' 'em from runnin' off the weemen; beside it'll gie us the more likelier chance to make a good count o' the redskin sculps."

"What do you say, boys?" asks the Ranger captain, addressing himself more especially to the men composing his command.

"Cully's right," is the response from a majority of voices.

"Then we must stay here till night. If we go forward now, they may see us before we get within shooting distance. So you think, Cully, you can take up the trail at night, supposing it to be a dark one?"

"Pish!" retorts the old prairie-man, with a disdainful toss of his head.

"Take up the trail o' a Tenawa Injun? I'd do that in the darkest night as iver shet down over a prairie. The skunks! I ked smell the place they'd passed over."

There is no further discussion. Cully's opinion is all-powerful, and determines the course to be pursued. The halt intended to be temporary, is to continue till near sunset, despite expostulations, almost prayerful appeals, from those who have left desolate homes behind, and who burn with impatience to ride forward and rescue their captive kindred.



Chapter Thirty Two.

The Savages Surprised.

Throughout the afternoon hours both parties remained stationary; the pursued indulging in a siesta, which days of rough riding and raiding, with nights of watchfulness, have made necessary; the pursuers, on their part, wearied as well, but unable to sleep so long as their vengeance remains unappeased, and such dread danger hangs over the heads of those near and dear to them.

Above the bivouacs the black vultures spread their shadowy wings, soaring and circling, each "gang" over the cohort it has been all day accompanying.

Every now and then between the two "gangs" one is seen coming and going, like so many mutual messengers passing between; for, although the flocks are far apart, they can see one another, and each is aware, by instinct clearer than human ken, what the other is after. It is not the first time for them to follow two such parties travelling across the Texan prairie. Nor will it be the first for them to unite in the air as the two troops come into collision on the earth. Often have these birds, poised in the blue ether, looked down upon red carnage like that now impending. Their instincts -- let us call them so, for the sake of keeping peace with the naturalists of the closet -- then admonish them what is likely to ensue. For if not reason, they have at least recollection; and as their eyes rest upon men with dusky skins, and others dimly white, they know that between such is a terrible antagonism, oft accruing to their own interest. Many a time has it given them a meal. Strange if they should not remember it!

They do. Though tranquilly soaring on high -- each bird with outstretched neck and eye bent, in hungry concupiscence, looks below on the forms moving or at rest, saying to itself, "Ere long these vermin will furnish a rich repast." So sure are they of this -- the birds of both flocks --  that, although the sun is nigh setting, instead of betaking themselves to their roosts, as is their wont, they stay, each by its own pet party. Those accompanying the pursuers still fly about in the air. They can tell that these do not intend to remain much longer on that spot. For they have kindled no fires, nor taken other steps that indicate an encampment for the night.

Different with those that soar over the halting-place of the pursued. As night approaches they draw in their spread wings and settle down to roost; some upon trees, others on the ledges of rock, still others on the summits of the cliffs that overhang the camping place of the Indians.

The blazing fires, with meat on spits sputtering over them; the arms abandoned, spears stuck in the ground, with shields suspended; the noise and revelry around -- all proclaim the resolve of the savages to stay there till morning.

An intention which, despite their apparent stolidity -- in contradiction to the ideas of the closet naturalist and his theory of animal instinct -- the vultures clearly comprehend.

About the behaviour of the birds the marauders take no note. They are used to seeing turkey-buzzards around -- better known to them by the name "zopilotes."

For long ere the Anglo-American colonists came in contact with the Comanche Indians a Spano-Mexican vocabulary had penetrated to the remotest of these tribes.

No new thing for the Tenawas to see the predatory birds swooping above them all day and staying near them all night. Not stranger than a wolf keeping close to the sheepfold, or a hungry dog skulking around shambles.

As night draws near, and the purple twilight steals over the great Texan plain, the party of chasing pursuers is relieved from a stay by all deemed so irksome. Remounting their horses, they leave the scene of their reluctant halt, and continue the pursuit silently, as if moving in funeral march.

The only sounds heard are the dull thumping of their horses' hoofs upon the soft prairie turf; now and then a clink, as one strikes against a stone; the occasional tinkle of a canteen as it comes in contact with saddle mounting or pistol butt; the champing of bits, with the breathing of horses and men.

These last talk in low tones, in mutterings not much louder than whispers. In pursuit of their savage foe, the well-trained Rangers habitually proceed thus, and have cautioned the settlers to the same. Though these need no compulsion to keep silent; their hearts are too sore for speech; their anguish, in its terrible intensity, seeks for no expression, till they stand face to face with the red ruffians who have caused, and are still causing, it. The night darkens down, becoming so obscure that each horseman can barely distinguish the form of him riding ahead. Some regret this, thinking they may get strayed. Not so Cully. On the contrary, the guide is glad, for he feels confident in his conjecture that the pursued will be found in Pecan Creek, and a dark night will favour the scheme of attack he has conceived and spoken of. Counselled by him, the Ranger captain shares his confidence, and they proceed direct towards the point where the tributary stream unites with the main river -- the little Witchita, along whose banks they have been all that day tracking. Not but that Cully could take up the Indian trail. Despite the obscurity he could do that, though not, as he jestingly declared, by the smell. There are other indices that would enable him, known but to men who have spent a lifetime upon the prairies. He does not need them now, sure he will find the savages, as he said, "squatted on the Peecawn."

And, sure enough, when the pursuers, at length at the creek's mouth, enter the canon through which it disembogues its crystal water into the grander and more turbid stream, they discovered certain traces of the pursued having passed along its banks.

Another mile of travelling, the same silence observed, with caution increased, and there is no longer a doubt about the truth of Cully's conjecture. Noises are heard ahead, sounds disturbing the stillness of the night air that are not those of the uninhabited prairie. There is the lowing of cattle, in long monotonous moans, like when being driven to slaughter, with, at intervals, the shriller neigh of a horse, as if uneasy at being away from his stable.

On hearing these sounds, the Ranger captain, acting by the advice of the guide, orders a halt. Then the pursuing party is separated into two distinct troops. One, led by Cully, ascends the cliff by a lateral ravine, and pursues its way along the upper table-land. The other, under the command of the captain, is to remain below until a certain time has elapsed, its length stipulated between the two leaders before parting.

When it has passed, the second division moves forward up the creek, again halting as a light shines through the trees, which, from its reddish colour, they know to be the glare of log fires.

They need not this to tell them they are close to an encampment -- that of the savages they have been pursuing. They can hear their barbarous jargon, mingled with shouts and laughter like that of demons in the midst of some fiendish frolic.

They only stay for a signal the guide arranged to give as soon as he has got round to attack on the opposite side. The first shot heard, and they will dash forward to the fires.

Seated in their saddles, with reins tight drawn, and heels ready to drive home the spur -- with glances bent greedily at the gleaming lights, and ears keenly alert to catch every sound -- the hearts of some trembling with fear, others throbbing with hope, still others thrilling with the thought of vengeance -- they wait for the crack that is to be the signal --  wait and listen, with difficulty restraining themselves.

It comes at length. Up the glen peals a loud report, quickly followed by another, both from a double-barrelled gun.

This was the signal for attack, arranged by Cully.

Soon as hearing it, the reins are slackened, the spurs sent home, and, with a shout making the rocks ring, and the trees reverberate its echoes, they gallop straight towards the Indian encampment, and in a moment are in its midst.

They meet little resistance -- scarce any. Too far from the settlements to fear pursuit -- in full confidence they have not been followed, the red robbers have been abandoning themselves to pleasure, spending the night in a grand gluttonous feast, furnished by the captured kine.

Engrossed with sensual joys, they have neglected guard; and, in the midst of their festivities, they are suddenly set upon from all sides; the sharp cracking of rifles, with the quick detonation of repeating pistols, soon silences their cacchinations, scattering them like chaff.

After the first fusillade, there is but little left of them. Those not instantly shot down retreat in the darkness, skulking of! among the pecan trees. It is altogether an affair of firearms: and for once the bowie -- the Texan's trusted weapon -- has no part in the fray.

The first rays of next morning's sun throw light upon a sanguinary scene -- a tableau terrible, though not regrettable. On the contrary, it discloses a sight which, but for the red surroundings, might give gladness. Fathers, half frantic with joy, are kissing children they never expected to see again; brothers clasping the hands of sisters late deemed lost for ever; husbands, nigh broken-hearted, once more happy, holding their wives in fond, affectionate embrace.

Near by, things strangely contrasting -- corpses strewn over the ground, stark and bleeding, but not yet stiff, all of coppery complexion, but bedaubed with paint of many diverse colours. All surely savages.

A fearful spectacle, but one too often witnessed on the far frontier land of Texas.



Chapter Thirty Three.

A Forced Confession.

The party of Texans has made what prairie men call a "coup." On counting the corpses of their slain enemies they find that at least one-half of the Tenawa warriors have fallen, including their chief. They can make an approximate estimate of the number that was opposed to them by the signs visible around the camp, as also upon the trail they have been for several days following. Those who escaped have got off, some on their horses, hastily caught and mounted; others afoot, by taking to the timber. They were not pursued, as it was still dark night when the action ended, and by daylight these wild centaurs, well acquainted with the country, will have scattered far and wide, beyond all likelihood of being again encountered.

The settlers are satisfied at having recovered their relatives, as also their stolen stock. As to the Rangers, enough has been accomplished to slake their revengeful thirst -- for the time. These last, however, have not come off unscathed; for the Comanches, well armed with guns, bows, and lances, did not die unresistingly. In Texas Indians rarely do, and never when they engage in a fight with Rangers. Between them and these border guerrilleros -- in one sense almost as much savages as themselves -- war is an understood game -- to the bitter end, with no quarter either asked or given.

The Rangers count three of their number killed and about twice as many wounded -- enough, considering the advantage they had in their unwarned attack upon enemies who for once proved unwatchful.

When the conflict has finally come to a close, and daylight makes manifest the result, the victors take possession of the spoil -- most of it their own property. The horses that strayed or stampeded during the fight are again collected into a drove -- those of the Indians being united to it. This done, only a short stay is intended -- just long enough to bury the bodies of the three Rangers who have been killed, get stretchers prepared for such of the wounded as are unable to sit in the saddle, and make other preparations for return towards the settlements.

They do not hasten their departure through any apprehension of a counter-attack on the side of the Comanches. Fifty Texan Rangers -- and there are this number of them -- have no fear on any part of the plains, so long as they are mounted on good horses, carry rifles in their hands, bowie-knives and pistols in their belts, with a sufficient supply of powder in their flasks, and bullets in their pouches. With all these items they are amply provided; and were there now any necessity for continuing the pursuit, or the prospect of striking another coup, they would go on, even though the chase should conduct them into the defiles of the Rocky Mountains. To pursue and slay the savage is their vocation, their duty, their pastime and pleasure.

But the settlers are desirous of a speedy return to their homes, that they may relieve the anxiety of other dear ones, who there await them. They long to impart the glad tidings they will take with them.

While the preparations for departure are going on, Cully -- who, with several others, has been collecting the arms and accoutrements of their slain enemies -- gives utterance to a cry that brings a crowd of his comrades around him.

"What is it, Nat?" inquires the Ranger captain.

"Look hyar, cap! D'ye see this gun?"

"Yes; a hunter's rifle. Whose is it?"

"That's jess the questyin; though thar ain't no questyin about it. Boys, do any o' ye recognise this hyar shootin' iron?"

One after another the Rangers step up, and look at the rifle.

"I do," says one.

"And I," adds another.

And a third, and fourth, make the same affirmation, all speaking in tones of surprise.

"Walt Wilder's gun," continues Cully, "sure an' sartin. I know it, an oughter know it. See them two letters in the stock thar -- 'WW.' Old Nat Cully hez good reezun to recconise them, since 'twas hisself that cut 'em. I did it for Walt two yeern ago, when we war scoutin' on the Collyrado. It's his weepun, an' no mistake."

"Where did you find it?" inquires the captain.

"I've jess tuk it out o' the claws o' the ugliest Injun as ever made trail on a puraira -- that beauty thar, whose karkidge the buzzards won't be likely to tech."

While speaking Cully points to a corpse. It is that of the Tenawa chief, already identified among the slain.

"He must a' hed it in his clutch when suddenly shot down," pursues the guide. "An' whar did he git it? Boys, our ole kummerade's wiped out for sartin. I know how Walt loved that thar piece. He w'udn't a parted wi' it unless along wi' his life."

This is the conviction of several others acquainted with Wilder. It is the company of Rangers to which he formerly belonged.

"Thar's been foul play somewhar," continues Cully. "Walt went back to the States -- to Kaintuck, ef this chile ain't mistook. But 'tain't likely he stayed thar; he kedn't keep long off o' the purairas. I tell ye, boys, these hyar Injens hev been makin' mischief somewhar'. Look thar, look at them leggin's! Thar's no eend o' white sculps on' 'em, an' fresh tuk, too!"

The eyes of all turned towards these terrible trophies that in gory garniture fringe the buck-skin leg-wear of the savages. Cully, with several others who knew Wilder well, proceed to examine them, in full expectation of finding among them the skin of their old comrade's head. There are twelve scalps, all of white men, with others that are Indian, and not a few that exhibit the equally black, but shorter crop of the Mexican. Those that are indubitably of white men show signs of having been recently taken, but none of them can be identified as the scalp of Walt Wilder.

There is some relief in this, for his old comrades love. Walt. Still, there is the damning evidence of the gun, which Cully declares could only have been taken from him along with his life. How has it got into the hands of the Horned Lizard?

"I reckon we can settle that," says the Captain of the Rangers. "The renegade ought to know something about it."

This speech refers to Barbato, who has been taken prisoner, and about whose disposal they have already commenced to deliberate. His beard betrayed him as a renegade; and, the paint having been partially wiped from his skin, all perceive that he is a white man -- a Mexican. Some are for shooting him on the spot, others propose hanging, while only a few of the more humane advocate taking him on to the settlements and there giving him a trial. He will have to die anyhow -- that is pretty sure; for not only as a Mexican is he their enemy, but now doubly so from being found in league with their most detested foes, the Tenawa Comanches.

The wretch is lying on the ground near by, shaking with fear, in spite of the fastenings in which he is tightly held. He knows he is in dire danger, and has only so far escaped through having surrendered to a settler instead of to one of the Rangers.

"Let's gie him a chance o' his life; ef he'll tell all about it," counsels Cully. "What d'ye say, cap?"

"I agree to that," responds the Ranger captain. "He don't appear to be worth shooting; though it may be as well to take him on to the settlements, and shut him up in prison. The promise of pardon may get out of him all he knows; if not, the other will. He's not an Indian, and a bit of rope looped round his neck will, no doubt, loosen his tongue. Suppose we try boys?"

The "boys" are unanimous in their assent, and the renegade is at once brought up for examination. The man in the green blanket coat, who, as a Santa Fe expeditioner, has spent over twelve months in Mexican prisons, is appointed examiner. He has been long enough among the "yellerbellies" to have learnt their language.

The renegade is for a time reticent, and his statements are contradictory. No wonder he declines to tell what has occurred, so compromising to himself! But when the lariat is at length noosed around his neck, the loose end of it thrown over the limb of a pecan tree -- the other conditions being clearly expounded to him -- he sees that things can be no worse; and, seeing this, makes confession -- full, if not free. He discloses everything -- the attack and capture of the caravan, with the slaughter of the white men who accompanied it; he tells of the retreat of two of them to the cliff, one of whom, by the description, can be none other than Walt Wilder. When he at length comes to describe the horrible mode in which their old comrade has perished, the Rangers are almost frenzied with rage, and it is with difficulty some of them can be withheld from breaking their given word, and tearing him limb from limb.

He makes appeal to them for mercy, stating that he himself had no part in that transaction; that, although they have found him among the Indians, he was only as their prisoner; and forced to fight along with them.

This is evidently untrue; but, false or true, it has the effect of pacifying his judges, so far, that the lariat is left loose around his neck.

Further examination, and cross-examination, elicit other facts about the captured caravan -- in short, everything, except the secret alliance between the Mexican officer and the Tenawa chief. Not thinking of this -- in truth, having no suspicion of it -- his examiners do not put any questions about it; and, for himself, the wretch sees no reason to declare it, but the contrary. He indulges in the hope of one day returning to the Del Norte, and renewing his relations with Colonel Gil Uraga.

"Comrades!" cries the Ranger captain, addressing himself to his men, as soon as the examination is concluded, "you all of you loved Walt Wilder -- all who knew him?"

"We did! we did!" is the response feelingly spoken. "So did I. Well, he's dead, beyond a doubt. It's nearly a month ago, and he could not last so long, shut up in that cave. His bones will be there, with those of the other poor fellow, whoever he was, that went in with him. It's dreadful to think of it! Now, from what this scoundrel says, it can't be so very far from here. And, as we can make him guide us to the place, I propose we go there, get the remains of our old comrade, and give them Christian burial."

With the Texan Rangers obedience to duty is less a thing of command than request; and this is a request of such nature as to receive instant and unanimous assent "Let us go!" is the universal response. "We needn't all make this journey," continues the captain. "There's no need for any more than our own boys, the Rangers, and such of the settlers as may choose to go with us. The rest, who have to look after the women, and some for driving back the stock, can make their way home at once. I reckon we've left the track pretty clear of Indians, and they'll be in no further danger from them."

Without further discussion, this arrangement is decided upon; and the two parties commence making the preparations suitable to their respective plans.

In less than half an hour after they separate; the settlers, with the women, children, and cattle, wending their way eastward; while the Rangers, guided by the renegade, ride off in the opposite direction --  toward the Llano Estacado.



Chapter Thirty Four.

A Proposal By Proxy.

Day by day Hamersley grows stronger, and is able to be abroad.

Soon after Wilder, plucking him by the sleeve, makes request to have his company at some distance from the dwelling.

Hamersley accedes to the request, though not without some surprise. In the demeanour of his comrade there is an air of mystery. As this is unusual with the ex-Ranger, he has evidently something of importance to communicate.

Not until they have got well out of sight of the house, and beyond the earshot of anyone inside or around it, does Walt say a word. And then only after they have come to a stop in the heart of a cotton-wood copse, where a prostrate trunk offers them the accommodation of a seat.

Sitting down upon it, and making sign to Hamersley, still with the same mysterious air, to do likewise, the backwoodsman at length begins to unburden himself.

"Frank," says he, "I've brought ye out hyar to hev a little spell o' talk, on a subjeck as consarns this coon consid'able."

"What subject, Walt?"

"Wal, it's about a wumman."

"A woman! Why, Walt Wilder, I should have supposed that would be the farthest thing from your thoughts, especially a such a time and in such a place as this."

"True it shed, as ye say. For all that, ef this chile don't misunnerstan' the sign, a wumman ain't the furrest thing from yur thoughts, at the same time an' place."

The significance of the observation causes the colour to start to the cheeks of the young prairie merchant, late so pale. He stammers out an evasive rejoinder, -- 

"Well, Walt; you wish to have a talk with me. I'm ready to hear what you have to say. Go on! I'm listening."

"Wal, Frank, I'm in a sort o' a quandary wi' a critter as wears pettikotes, an' I want a word o' advice from ye. You're more practised in thar ways than me. Though a good score o' year older than yurself, I hain't hed much to do wi' weemen, 'ceptin' Injun squaws an' now an' agin a yeller gurl down by San Antone. But them scrapes wan't nothin' like thet Walt Wilder heve got inter now."

"A scrape! What sort of a scrape? I hope you haven't -- "

"Ye needn't talk o' hope, Frank Hamersley. The thing air past hopin', an' past prayin' for. Ef this chile know anythin' o' the signs o' love, he has goed a good ways along its trail. Yis, sir-ee; too fur to think o' takin' the backtrack."

"On that trail, indeed?"

"Thet same; whar Cyubit sots his little feet, 'ithout neer a moccasin on 'em. Yis, kummerade, Walt Wilder, for oncest in in his kureer, air in a difeequelty; an' thet difeequelty air bein' fool enuf to fall in love --  the which he hez dun, sure, sartin."

Hamersley gives a shrug of surprise, accompanied with a slight glance of indignation. Walt Wilder in love! With whom can it be? As he can himself think of only one woman worth falling in love with, either in that solitary spot, or elsewhere on earth, it is but natural his thoughts should turn to her.

Only for an instant, however. The idea of having the rough Ranger for a rival is preposterous. Walt, pursuing the theme, soon convinces him he has no such lofty aspirations.

"Beyond a doubt, she's been an' goed an' dud it -- that air garl Concheeter. Them shining eyes o' her'n hev shot clar through this chile's huntin' shirt, till thar's no peace left inside o' it. I hain't slep a soun' wink for mor'en a week o' nights; all the time dreemin' o' the gurl, as ef she war a angel a hoverin' 'bout my head. Now, Frank, what am I ter do? That's why I've axed ye to kum out hyar, and enter into this confaberlation."

"Well, Walt, you shall be welcome to my advice. As to what you should do, that's clear enough; but what you may or can do will depend a good deal on what Miss Conchita says. Have you spoken to her upon the subject?"

"Thar hain't yit been much talk atween us -- i'deed not any, I mout say. Ye know I can't parley thar lingo. But I've approached her wi' as much skill as I iver did bear or buffler. An', if signs signerfy anythin', she ain't bad skeeart about it. Contrarywise, Frank. If I ain't terribly mistuk, she shows as ef she'd be powerful willin' to hev me."

"If she be so disposed there can't be much difficulty in the matter. You mean to marry her, I presume?"

"In coorse I duz -- that for sartin'. The feelin's I hev torst that gurl air diffrent to them as one hez for Injun squaws, or the queeries I've danced wi' in the fandangoes o' San Antone. Ef she'll agree to be myen, I meen nothin' short o' the hon'rable saramony o' marridge -- same as atween man an' wife. What do ye think o't?"

"I think, Walt, you might do worse than get married. You're old enough to become a Benedict, and Conchita appears to be just the sort of girl that would suit you. I've heard it said that these Mexican women make the best of wives -- when married to Americans."

Hamersley smiles, as though this thought were pleasant to him.

"There are several things," he continues, "that it will be necessary for you to arrange before you can bring about the event you're aiming at. First, you must get the girl's consent: and, I should think, also that of her master and mistress. They are, as it were, her guardians, and, to a certain extent, responsible for her being properly bestowed. Last of all, you'll require the sanction of the Church. This, indeed, may be your greatest difficulty. To make you and your sweetheart one, a priest, or Protestant clergyman, will be needed; and neither can be had very conveniently here, in the centre of the Staked Plain."

"Durn both sorts!" exclaims the ex-Ranger in a tone of chagrin. "Ef't warn't for the need o' 'em jest now, I say the Staked Plain air better 'ithout 'em, as wu'd anywars else. Why can't she an' me be tied thegither 'ithout any sech senseless saramony? Walt Wilder wants no mumblin' o' prayers at splicin' him to the gurl he's choosed for his partner. An' why shed thar be, supposin' we both gie our mutooal promises one to the tother?"

"True. But that would not be marriage such as would lawfully and legally make you man and wife."

"Doggone the lawfulness or legullity o' it! Priest or no priest, I want Concheteter for my squaw; an' I've made up my mind to hev her. Say, Frank! Don't ye think the old doc ked do it? He air a sort o' professional."

"No, no; the doctor would be of no use in that capacity. It's his business to unite broken bones, not hands and hearts. But, Walt, if you are really resolved on the thing, there will, no doubt, be an opportunity to carry out your intention in a correct and legitimate manner. You must be patient, however, and wait till you come across either a priest or a Protestant clergyman."

"Doggoned ef I care which," is the rejoinder of the giant. "Eyther'll do; an' one o' 'em 'ud be more nor surficient, ef 't war left ter Walt Wilder. But, hark'ee, Frank!" he continues, his face assuming an astute expression, "I'd like to be sure 'bout the thing now -- that is, to get the gurl's way o' thinking on 't. Fact is, I've made up my mind to be sure, so as thar may be no slips or back kicks."

"Sure, how?"

"By procurin' her promise; getting betrothed, as they call it."

"There can be no harm in that. Certainly not."

"Wal, I'm gled you think so; for I've sot my traps for the thing, an' baited 'em too. Thet air's part o' my reezun for askin' ye out hyar. She's gin me the promise o' a meetin' 'mong these cotton woods, an' may kum at any minnit. Soon's she does, I'm agoin' to perpose to her; an' I want to do it in reg'lar, straightforrard way. As I can't palaver Spanish, an' you kin, I know'd ye wudn't mind transleetin' atween us. Ye won't, will ye?"

"I shall do that with the greatest pleasure, if you wish it. But don't you think, Walt, you might learn what you want to know without any interpreter? Conchita may not like my interference in an affair of such a delicate nature. Love's language is said to be universal, and by it you should understand one another."

"So fur's thet's consarned, I reck'n we do. But she, bein' a Mexikin, may hev queery ideas about it; an' I want her promise guv in tarms from which thar'll be no takin' the back track; same's I meen to give myen."

"All right, old fellow. I'll see you get such a promise, or none."

"Thet's satisfactory, Frank. Now, as this chile air agoin' to put the thing stiff an' strong, do you transleet it in the same sort."

"Trust me, it shall be done -- verbatim et literatim."

"Thet's the way!" joyfully exclaims Walt; thinking that the verbatim et literatim -- of the meaning of which he has not the slightest conception -- will be just the thing to clinch his bargain with Conchita.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

The singular contract between the prairie merchant and his ci-devant guide has just reached conclusion as a rustling is heard among the branches of the cottonwoods, accompanied by a soft footstep.

Looking around, they see Conchita threading her way through the grove. Her steps, cautious and stealthy, would tell of an "appointment," even were this not already known to them. Her whole bearing is that of one on the way to meet a lover; and the sight of Walt Wilder, who now rises erect to receive her, proclaims him to be the man.

It might appear strange that she does not shy back, on seeing him in company with another man. She neither starts nor shows any shyness; evidence that the presence of the third party is a thing understood and pre-arranged.

She advances without show of timidity; and, curtseying to the "Senor Francisco," as she styles Hamersley, takes seat upon the log from which he has arisen; Walt laying hold of her hand and gallantly conducting her to it.

There is a short interregnum of silence. This Conchita's sweetheart endeavours to fill up with a series of gestures that might appear uncouth but for the solemnity of the occasion. So considered, they may be deemed graceful, even dignified.

Perhaps not thinking them so himself, Walt soon seeks relief by turning to his interpreter, and making appeal to him as follows -- 

"Doggone it, Frank! Ye see I don't know how to talk to her, so you do the palaverin. Tell her right off, what I want. Say I hain't got much money, but a pair o' arems strong enuf to purtect her, thro' thick an' thro' thin, agin the dangers o' the mountain an' the puraira, grizzly bars, Injuns, an' all. She sees this chile hev got a big body; ye kin say to her thet his heart ain't no great ways out o' correspondence wi' his karkidge. Then tell her in the eend, thet his body an' his hands an' heart -- all air offered to her; an' if she'll except 'em they shall be hern, now, evermore, an' to the death -- so help me God!"

As the hunter completes his proposal thus ludicrously, though emphatically pronounced, he brings his huge hand down upon his brawny breast with a slap like the crack of a cricket bat.

Whatever meaning the girl may make out of his words, she can have had no doubt about their earnestness or sincerity, judging by the gestures that accompany them.

Hamersley can scarce restrain his inclination to laugh; but with an effort he subdues it, and faithfully, though not very literally, translates the proposal into Spanish.

When, as Walt supposes, he has finished, the ex-Ranger rises to his feet and stands awaiting the answer, his huge frame trembling like the leaf of an aspen. He continues to shake all the while Conchita's response is being delivered; though her first words would assure, and set his nerves at rest, could he but understand them. But he knows not his fate, till it has passed through the tedious transference from one language to another -- from Spanish to his own native tongue.

"Tell him," is the response of Conchita, given without sign of insincerity, "tell him that I love him as much as he can me. That I loved him from the first moment of our meeting, and shall love him to the end of my life. In reply to his honourable proposal, say to him yes. I am willing to become his wife."

When the answer is translated to Walt, he bounds at least three feet into the air, with a shout of triumph such as he might give over the fall of an Indian foe.

Then, advancing towards the girl, he flings his great arms around her, lifts her from the ground as if she were a child's doll; presses her to his broad, throbbing breast, and imprints a kiss upon her lips -- the concussion of which can be heard far beyond the borders of the cottonwood copse.



Chapter Thirty Five.

A Dangerous Eavesdropper.

However successful in his suit with Conchita, Walt Wilder is not without a rival. Hamersley has reason to suspect this soon after separating from the lovers, which he does, leaving them to themselves. It has occurred to him, that the presence of more than two on that spot can be no longer desirable. His part has been performed, and he withdraws without saying a word.

There is a third man, notwithstanding -- a spectator -- whose breast is stirred with terrible emotion.

As the Kentuckian passes out through the copse, he catches sight of a figure crouching behind the trunk of a tree -- apparently that of a man. Twilight is now on, and beneath the leafy branches reigns an obscurity almost equalling night. What he sees may be some straying animal, or perhaps it is only fancy. His thoughts are engrossed with that which carries him on towards the house. There one will be awaiting him, in whose refined presence he will soon forget the uncouth spectacle of courtship at which he has been assisting.

But the form he has observed cowering under the shadow of the cotton-woods was no fancy, nor four-footed creature, but a human being, a man -- in short, Manuel the Indian.

Manuel is mad in love with the little mestiza, who, with Spanish blood in her veins, is, nevertheless, maternally of his own race -- that of the Indios mansos, or "tame Indians," of New Mexico -- so called in contradistinction to the Indios bravos, the savages who, from the conquest till this day, have never submitted themselves to Spanish rule. Though Christianised, after a fashion, by the Franciscans, with others of the missionary fathers -- living in walled towns, each with its capilla or church, and cultivating the lands around, many of these so-called Christian Indians still continue to practice Pagan rites, more or less openly. In some of their villages, it is said, the estafa, or sacred fire, is kept burning, and has never been permitted to go out since the time of Montezuma, from whom and his people they believe themselves descended. They are undoubtedly of Aztec race, and sun-worshippers, as were the subjects of the unfortunate Emperor of Tenochtitlas.

Travellers who have visited their more remote "pueblos" have witnessed something of this sun-worship, seeing them ascend to the flat roofs of their singularly constructed houses, and there stand in fixed attitude, devoutly gazing at the sun as it ascends over the eastern horizon.

Notwithstanding the epithet "tame," which their Spanish conquerors have applied to them, they are still more than half wild; and, upon occasions, the savage instinct shows itself in deeds of cruelty and blood.

This very instinct has been kindled in the heart of Manuel. It was not devotion to Don Valerian Miranda that moved him to follow the fortunes of his master into exile; his love for Conchita accounts for his presence there. And he loves her with an ardour and singleness of passion such as often burns in the breasts of his people.

The girl has given him no encouragement, rather the reverse. For all that, he has pursued her with zealous solicitation, regardless of rebuffs and apparently unconscious of her scorn.

Hitherto he has had no rival, which has hindered him from despairing. Conchita is still young, in her earliest teens, having just turned twelve. But even at this age a New Mexican maiden is deemed old enough for matrimony; and Manuel, to do justice to him, has eyes upon her with this honest intent. For months he had made up his mind to have her for his wife -- long before their forced flight into the Llano Estacado. And now that they are in the desert, with no competitor near -- for Chico does not count as one -- he has fancied the time come for the consummation of his hopes.

But just when the fair fruit seems ripe for plucking, like the fox in the fable, he discovers it is beyond his reach. What is worse still, another, taller than he, and who can reach higher, is likely to gather it.

Ever since the arrival of Walt Wilder in the valley he has been watching the movements of the latter.

Not without observing that between the great Texan hunter and the little Mexican muchacha there has sprung up an attachment of a suspicious nature.

He has not heard them express it in speech, for in this way they cannot communicate with one another; but certain looks and gestures exchanged, unintelligible to others, have been easily interpreted by the Indian as the signs of a secret and mutual understanding between them.

They have driven the poor peon well nigh distracted with jealousy -- felt all the keener from its being his first experience of it, all the angrier from consciousness of his own honest love -- while he believes that of the intruder to have a different intent.

As the days and hours pass he observes new incidents to sharpen his suspicions and strengthen his jealous ire.

In fine, he arrives at the conclusion that Conchita -- long loved by him, long vainly solicited -- has surrendered her heart to the gigantic Texan, who like a sinister shadow, a ghoul, a very ogre, has chanced across the sunlight of his path.

Under the circumstances, what is he to do? He is powerful in passion, but weak in physical strength. Compared with his rival, he is nought. In a conflict the Texan would crush him, squeeze the breath out of his body, as a grizzly bear would that of a prairie squirrel or ground gopher.

He does not show open antagonism -- does not think of it. He knows it would but end in his ruin -- his utter annihilation.

Still, he is not despairing.

With the instincts peculiar to his race, he contemplates revenge. All his idle hours are spent brooding over plans to frustrate the designs of his rival -- in short, to put him out of the way altogether.

More than once has a thought of poison passed through his mind as the surest way of effecting his fiendish purpose, as also the safest; and upon this mode of killing the Texan he has at length determined.

That very day he has been engaged in making ready for the deed --  preparing the potion. Certain plants he has found growing in the valley, well known among his people as poisonous, will furnish him with the means of death -- a slow, lingering death, therefore all the surer to avert suspicion from the hand that has dealt it.

To all appearance, Walt Wilder is doomed. He has escaped the spears, arrows, and tomahawks of the Tenawa savages to fall a victim to a destroyer, stealthy, subtle, unseen.

And is the noble Texan -- guide, ranger, and hunter -- thus sadly to succumb? No. Fate has not decreed his death by such insidious means. A circumstance, apparently accidental, steps in to save him. On this very day, when the poison it being prepared for him, the poisoner receives a summons that for the time at least, will frustrate his foul plans. His master commands him to make ready for a journey. It is an errand similar to that he has been several times sent upon before. He is to proceed to the settlements on the Rio Grande, where Don Valerian has friends with whom, in his exile, he keeps up secret correspondence, Manuel acting as messenger. Thence the trusted peon is to bring back, as oft before, despatches, news, provisions -- the last now more than ever needed, on account of the stranger guests so unexpectedly thrown upon his hospitality.

Manuel is to commence his journey on the following day at the earliest hour of dawn. There will be no chance for him now to carry out his nefarious design. It must remain uncompleted till his return.

While chafing at the disappointment, he sees Conchita stealing out from the house and entering the cotton-wood grove. He follows her with a caution equalling her own, but from a far different cause. Crouching on through the trees, he takes stand behind a trunk, and, concealed by it, becomes spectator of all that passes. He is at first surprised at seeing three where he expected only two. Pleased also; for it gives him hope the girl's errand may not be the keeping of a love appointment. But as the triangular conference proceeds; above all, when it arrives at its conclusion, and he sees the Texan raise Conchita in his arms, giving her that kiss, the echo of which is distinctly audible to him, his blood boils, and with difficulty does he restrain himself from rushing up to the spot, and taking the lives of all three, or ending his own if he fail.

For a time he stands erect, with his machete drawn from its sheath, his eyes flashing with the fires of jealous vengeance. Fortunately for those upon whom they are bent, an instinct of self-preservation stays him. His hand is ready, but his heart fails him. Terrible as is his anger, it is yet controlled by fear. He will wait for a more favourable time and surer opportunity. A safer means, too -- this more than aught else restraining him. While still in intense agitation, he sees Hamersley depart, leaving the other two to themselves. And now, as other kisses are exchanged between the lovers, his jealous fury becomes freshly excited, and for the second time he is half resolved to rush forward and kill -- kill.

But again his fears gain the ascendency, and his hand refuses to obey the dictates of his angry heart. With the bare blade held tremblingly, he continues spectator of that scene which fills his breast with blackest, bitterest emotion. He has not the courage to interrupt it. Calculating the chances, he perceives they are against him. Should he succeed in killing the Texan, with Conchita standing by and bearing witness to the deed, would be to forfeit his own life. He could find it in his heart to kill her too; but that would lead to the same result. Failing in his first blow, the great hunter would have him under his heel, to be crushed as a crawling reptile.

Thus cogitating, he sticks to his place of concealment, and overlooks the love scene to its termination; then permits the lovers to depart in peace -- the woman he so wildly loves, the man he so madly hates.

After they have gone out of the grove, he advances towards the log upon which they were seated. Himself taking seat on it, he there ponders upon a plan of vengeance surer and safer than the assassin's steel.

It is no longer his intent to employ poison. A new idea has entered his brain -- has been in it ever since receiving notice of the journey on which he is about to set forth; in truth, suggested by this. A scheme quite as efficient as poisoning, but also having a purpose far more comprehensive, for it includes others besides his rival the Ranger. Of late neglectful of his duties, Colonel Miranda has severely chided him, thus kindling the hereditary antipathy of his race towards the white man.

His master is to be among the victims -- in short, all of them, his fellow-servant, Chico, excepted. Should the diabolical plan prove a success, not one of them can escape ruin, and most of them may meet death.



Chapter Thirty Six.

A Tale Of Peril.

Thanks to the skill of Don Prospero, exerted with kind assiduity, Hamersley's wounds are soon healed, his strength completely restored. Doubtless the tender nursing of the "angel" has something to do with his rapid recovery, while her presence, cheerful as gentle, does much to remove the gloom from his spirits, caused by the terrible disaster he had sustained. Long before reaching convalescence he has ceased to lament the loss of his property, and only sorrows as he reflects on the fate of his brave followers, whose lives were sacrificed in the effort to preserve it.

Happily, however, as time passes the retrospect of the red carnage loses something of its sanguinary hue, its too vivid tints becoming gradually obscured in the oblivion of the past with the singular surroundings of the present. Amid these his spirit yields itself to pleasanter reflections. How could it be otherwise?

Still, with restored strength, his curiosity has been increasing, till it has reached a point of keenness requiring to be satisfied. He wonders at all around him, especially the strange circumstance of finding his old friend and duelling second in such an out-of-the-way place. As yet, Miranda has only given him a hint, though one pretty much explaining all. There has been a revolution; and they are refugees.

But the young Kentuckian is curious to learn the details, about which, for some reason, the Mexican has hitherto preserved silence. His reticence has been due to an injunction of the doctor, who, still under some anxiety about the recovery of his patient, forbade imparting to him particulars that might have an injurious effect on his nervous system, sadly debilitated by the shock it has received.

Don Prospero is an acute observer. He perceives the growing interest which Hamersley takes in the sister of his host. He knows the story of the Chihuahua duel; and thinks that the other story -- that of the disastrous revolution -- told in detail, might retard the convalescence of his patient. Counselled by him, Colonel Miranda has refrained from communicating it.

Ignorant of the cause, Hamersley is all the more eager to learn it. Still, his curiosity does not impel him to importunate inquiry. In the companionship of such kind friends he can afford to be patient.

Walt Wilder has no curiosity of any kind. His thoughts have become centred, his whole soul wrapped up in Conchita. The heart of the colossal hunter has received a shock such as it never had before; for, as he declared himself, he is in love for the first time in his life.

Not but that he has made love before, after a fashion. For he has shared his tent with more than one Indian squaw, drank and danced with those nondescript damsels who now and then find their way to the forts of the fur-traders scattered among the Rocky Mountains and along the border-land of the prairies. To all this he has confessed.

But these have been only interludes, "trifling love scrapes." His present affair with the little mestiza is different. Her sparkling black eyes pierced deeper and more direct -- "straight plum-centre to his heart," as, in professional jargon, he described it.

The invalid is at length convalescent; the doctor removes the seal of injunction placed upon the lips of Colonel Miranda, and the latter fulfils his promise made to give a narrative of the events which have led to their residence in that remote and solitary spot.

The two seated together sipping Paseno wine and smoking cigars, the Mexican commences his tale.

"We are refugees, as I've already stated, and came here to save our heads. At least, there was danger of my losing mine -- or, rather, the certainty of it -- had we not succeeded in making our escape from Albuquerque. The word pronunciamento explains all. A revolt of the troops under my command, with a name, that of the leader, will give you a key to the whole affair."

"Uraga!" exclaims Hamersley, the word coming mechanically from his red lips; while a cloud passes over his brow, and a red flush flecks the pallor on his cheeks. "Captain Uraga! 'Twas he?"

"It was."

"The scoundrel! I thought so."

"Not Captain Uraga now, but Colonel; for the reward of his treason reached him simultaneously with its success, and the traitor is now in command of the district from which I have been, deposed. Not only that, but, as I have heard, he has appropriated my house -- the same where, twelve months ago, I had the pleasure of showing you some hospitality. Contrasting it with our present humble abode, you will see, senor, that my family affairs have not prospered, any more than my political fortunes. But to the narration.

"Not long after you left us I made application to the Government for an increase to the mounted force at my disposal. This had become necessary for due protection of the district from our warlike neighbours in the west -- the Navajoes. They had made several raids upon the river settlements, and carried off goods, cattle, and a number of captives. The force I had made requisition for was obtained; but not the right men, or at least the officers I should have chosen to command it. A troop of light cavalry was sent me -- Lancers. You may imagine my chagrin, not to say disgust, when I saw Captain Gil Uraga at its head. Marching into the town of Albuquerque, he reported himself for duty.

"I need not tell you how unpleasant it was for me to have such a fellow for subordinate. In addition to our Chihuahua duel, there were many reasons for my having an aversion to him -- one, and not the least, that which I have already hinted to you -- his pretensions to be the suitor of my sister."

Hamersley writhes as he listens, the red spot on his cheek spreading and flushing redder.

Miranda proceeds -- 

"He continued his ill-received attentions whenever chance gave him an opportunity. It was not often. I took care of that; though, but for precautions and my authority as his superior officer, his advances would, no doubt, have been bolder -- in short, persecutions. I knew that to my sister, as to myself, his presence was disagreeable, but there was no help for it. I could not have him removed. In all matters of military duty he took care to act so that there should be no pretext for a charge against him. Besides, I soon found that he was in favour with one of the Government dignitaries. Though I did not then know why, I learnt it afterwards; and why he, of all others, had been sent to Albuquerque. The sap had commenced for a new revolution, and he was one of its secret fomenters. He had been chosen by the parti pretre as a fitting agent to act in that district, of which, like myself, he was a native.

"Having no suspicion of this, I only thought of him in regard to his impertinent solicitation of my sister; and against this I could restrain him. He was polite; obsequiously so, and cautiously guarded in his gallantries; so that I had no cause for resorting to the desafio. I could only wait and watch.

"The vigil was not a protracted one; though, alas! it ended differently from what I expected. About two months after his coming under my command, the late grito was proclaimed all over Mexico. One morning as I went down to the military quarters I found confusion and disturbance. The soldiers were under arms, many of them drunk, and vociferating 'Viva Santa Anna! Viva el Coronel Uraga!' Hearing this, I at once comprehended all. It was a pronunciamento. I drew my sword, thinking to stem the tide of treason; and called around me such of my followers as were still faithful. It was too late. The poison had spread throughout the whole command. My adherents were soon overpowered, several of them killed; myself wounded, dragged to the carcel, and there locked up. The wonder is that I was not executed on the spot; since I know Gil Uraga thirsted for my life. He was only restrained, however, by a bit of caution; for, although I was not put to death on that day, he intended I should never see the sun rise upon another. In this he was disappointed, and I escaped.

"I know you will be impatient to learn how," resumes the refugee, after rolling and igniting a fresh cigarrito. "It is somewhat of an incident, and might serve the writer of a romance. I owe my life, my liberty, and, what is more, my sister's safety, to our good friend Don Prospero. In his capacity of military surgeon he was not compromised like the rest of us; and after the revolt in the cuartel he was left free to follow his vocation. While seeking permission to dress the wound I had received, chance conducted him to a place where he could overhear a conversation that was being carried on between Uraga and one of his lieutenants -- a ruffian named Roblez, fit associate for his superior. They were in high glee over what had happened, carousing, and in their cups not very cautious of what they said. Don Prospero heard enough to make him acquainted with their scheme, so diabolical you will scarcely give credence to it. I was to be made away with in the night -- carried up to the mountains, and there murdered! With no traces left, it would be supposed that I had made my escape from the prison. And the good doctor heard other designs equally atrocious. What the demons afterwards intended doing when my sister should be left unprotected -- "

Something like a groan escapes from the listener's lips, while his fingers move nervously, as if clutching at a weapon.

"Devoted to me, Don Prospero at once resolved upon a course of action. There was not a moment to be lost. He obtained permission to attend me professionally in the prison. It was a cheap grace on Uraga's part, considering his ulterior design. An attendant, a sort of hospital assistant, was allowed to accompany the doctor to the cell, carrying his lints, drugs, and instruments. Fortunately, I had not been quite stripped by the ruffians who had imprisoned me, and in my own purse, along with that of Don Prospero, was a considerable sum of gold -- enough for tempting the attendant to change clothes and places with me. He was the more ready to do so, relying upon a story he intended to tell -- that we had overpowered and compelled him. Poor fellow! As we afterwards learnt, it did not save him. He was shot the next morning to appease the chagrin of Uraga, furious at our escape. We cannot help feeling regret for his fate; but, under the circumstances, what else could have been done?

"We stepped forth from the carcel, the doctor leading the way, and I, his assistant, bearing the paraphernalia after him. We passed out of the barracks unchallenged. Fortunately, the night was a dark one, and the guards were given to carousing. The sentries were all intoxicated.

"By stealth, and in silence, we hastened on to my house, where I found Adela, as you may suppose, in a state of agonised distress. But there was no time for words -- not even of explanation. With two of my servants whom I could trust, we hastily collected some of our animals -- horses and pack-mules. The latter we loaded with such things as we could think of as being requisite for a journey. We intended it to be a long one -- all the way across the great prairies. I knew there would be no safety for us within the limits of New Mexico; and I remembered what you had said but a few months before -- your kind proffer of hospitality, should it ever be my fate to seek refuge in your country. And to seek it we set forth, leaving my house untenanted, or only in charge of the remaining domestics, from whom gold had gained a promise not to betray us. The doctor, Adela and myself, the two peons who had volunteered to accompany us, with the girl, Conchita, composed our travelling party. I knew we dared not take the route usually travelled. We should be followed by hostile pursuers and forced back, perhaps slain upon the spot. I at least would have had a short shrift. Knowing this, we made direct for the mountains, with whose passes I was familiar, having traversed them in pursuit of the savages.

"We passed safely through the Sierra, and kept on towards the Rio Pecos. Beyond this river all was unknown to us. We only knew that there lay the Llano Estacado, invested with mysterious terrors -- the theme of our childhood's fears -- a vast stretch of desert, uninhabited, or only by savages seeking scalps, by wild beasts ravening for blood, by hideous reptiles -- serpents breathing poison. But what were all these dangers to that we were leaving behind? Nothing, and this thought inspired us to proceed.

"We crossed the Pecos and entered upon the sterile plain. We knew not how far it extended; only that on the other side lay a fertile country through which we might penetrate to the frontier settlements of your great free nation. This was the beacon of our hopes, the goal of safety.

"We travelled in an easterly course; but there were days when the sun was obscured by clouds; and then, unguided, we had either to remain at rest or run the chance of getting strayed.

"We toiled on, growing weak for want of food, and suffering terribly from thirst. No water was to be found anywhere -- not a drop.

"Our animals suffered as ourselves. Staggering under the weight of their loads, one by one they gave out, dropping down upon the desert plain. Only one held out bravely to the last -- the mustang mare that brought you to our present abode. Yes, Lolita survived to carry my dear sister, as if she understood the value we all placed upon her precious burden. The others gave out -- first the horses ridden by Don Prospero and myself, then the pack-mules. Fortunately, these fell near the spot where we at length found relief -- near enough for their loads, and two of themselves, to be afterwards recovered.

"One day, as we toiled on afoot, in the hourly expectation of death, we came in sight of this fair spot. It appeared to us a Paradise, as you say it did to yourself. Under our eyes were green trees and the gleam of crystal streams; in our ears the songs of birds we had never expected to hear again. Chance had brought us direct to the path, the only one by which the valley can be reached from the upper plain. Inspirited by the fair spectacle below, we gained strength enough to descend. We drank of the sweet water, and procured food from the branches of the trees that shaded it. It was the season when fruits and berries were abundant. Afterwards we discovered game, and were successful in capturing it.

"Soon with restored strength we were able to go back, and recover the paraphernalia we had left upon the plain, along with two of the mules that, after resting, had regained their feet, and could stagger on a little farther.

"At first we only thought of making this a temporary resting-place; though there seemed but slight hope of being able to continue our journey. But as the days passed, and we were left undisturbed, we began to realise the fact that we had found an asylum, safe as pleasant.

"It was not likely that anyone would discover the track we had taken in our flight. Even the resentment of Uraga would scarce pursue us across the Staked Plain. In any case, there was no help for it but to remain in the valley, as we had not animals enough to carry us on. Our only alternative was to go back to the Del Norte -- a thing not to be thought of. We resolved, therefore, on staying, at least for a time. I had conceived a plan for communicating with my friends in New Mexico, and am not without hope that sooner or later we may get tidings that will make it safe for as to return. In our country, as you know, there is nothing permanent; and we have hopes ere long to see the Liberal party once more in the ascendant.

"Our resolution to remain here becoming fixed we sot about making our situation as comfortable as circumstances would permit. We erected this humble tenement whose roof now shelters us. We turned fishermen and hunters; in the last my sister proving more accomplished than any of us -- a real huntress, as you have seen. We have enjoyed the life amazingly; more especially our worthy medico, who is an enthusiastic naturalist, and here finds a rare opportunity of gratifying his scientific tastes. For subsistence we have not had to depend altogether upon the chase. Manuel, one of our peons, an old muleteer, makes an occasional trip to Albuquerque, the route of which he has good reason to remember. I send him with messages, and to purchase provisions. He is cautious to make his approaches under cover of night, and do his marketing with circumspection. With our gold, not yet all gone, he is enabled to bring back such commodities as we stand in need of; while a friend, entrusted with the secret of our hiding-place, keeps us informed of the novedades. Now you know all."



Chapter Thirty Seven.

The Intercepted Letter.

Colonel Miranda, having told the tale of his perilous escape, for a time remains silent and reflective. So does his listener. Both are thinking on the same subject -- the villainy of Gil Uraga.

Hamersley first breaks silence, asking the question, -- 

"Did you get my letter?"

"What letter?"

"I wrote you only one. Now I think of it, you could not have received it. No. By the time it would reach Albuquerque, you must have been gone from there."

"I got no letter from you, Don Francisco. You say you sent one. What was the nature of its contents?"

"Nothing of any importance. Merely to say that I was coming back to New Mexico, and hoped to find you in good health."

"Did it particularise the time you expected to reach Albuquerque?"

"Yes; as far as I could fix that, if I remember rightly, it did."

"And the route you were to take?"

"That too. When I wrote the letter I intended to make trial of a new trail lately discovered -- up the Canadian, and touching the northern end of the Staked Plain. I did make trial of it, alas! with lamentable result. But why do you ask these questions, Colonel Miranda?"

The colonel does not make immediate answer. He appears more meditative than ever, as though some question has come before his mind calling for deliberate examination.

While he is thus occupied the ex-Ranger enters the room and sits down beside them. Walt is welcome. Indeed, Don Valerian had already designed calling him into their counsel. For an idea has occurred to the Mexican Colonel requiring the joint consideration of all three. Turning to the other two, he says, -- 

"I've been thinking a good deal about the attack on your caravan. The more I reflect on it the more I am led to believe that some of the Indians who plundered you were painted."

"They were all painted," is the reply of the young prairie merchant.

"True, Don Francisco; but that isn't what I mean."

"I reckon I knows what ye mean," interposes the ex-Ranger, rising excitedly from his chair on hearing the Mexican's remark. "It's been my own suspeeshun all along. You know what I tolt ye, Frank?"

Hamersley looks interrogatively at his old comrade.

"Did I not say," continues Wilder, "that I seed two men 'mong the Injuns wi' ha'r upon thar faces? They wa'n't Injuns; they war whites. A'n't that what ye mean, Kurnel Meoranda?"

"Precisamente!" is the colonel's reply.

The other two wait for him to continue on with the explanation Wilder has already surmised. Even the young prairie merchant -- less experienced in Mexican ways and wickedness, in infamy so incredible -- begins to have a glimmering of the truth.

Seemingly weighing his words, Miranda proceeds, -- 

"No doubt it was a band of Comanche Indians that destroyed your caravan and killed your comrades. But I have as little doubt of there being white men among them -- one at least, and that one he who planned and instigated the deed."

"Who, Colonel Miranda?" is the quick interrogatory of the Kentuckian, while with flashing eyes and lips apart he breathlessly awaits the answer. For all, he does not much need it; the name to be pronounced is on the tip of his own tongue.

It is again "Gil Uraga!"

"Yes," replies the Mexican, with added emphasis. "He is, undoubtedly, the robber who despoiled you. Though done in the guise of an Indian onslaught, with real Indians as his assistants, he has been their instructor -- their leader. I see it all now clear as sunlight. He got your letter, which you say was addressed to me as colonel commanding at Albuquerque. As a matter of course, he opened it. It told him when and where to meet you; your strength, and the value of your cargo. The last has not been needed as an incentive for him to assail you, Don Francisco. The mark you made upon his cheek was sufficient. Didn't I tell you at the time he would move heaven and earth to have revenge on you -- on both of us? He has succeeded; behold his success. I a refugee, robbed of everything; you plundered the same; both ruined men!"

"Not yet!" cries the Kentuckian, starting to his feet. "Not ruined yet, Colonel Miranda. If the thing be as you say, I shall seek a second interview with this scoundrel -- this fiend; seek till I obtain it. And then -- "

"Hyur's one," interrupts the ex-Ranger, unfolding his gigantic form with unusual rapidity, "who'll take part in that sarch. Yis, Frank, this chile's willin' to go wi' ye to the heart o' Mexiko, plum centre; to the halls o' the Montyzoomas; reddy to start this minnit."

"If," resumes Hamersley, his coolness contrasting with the excited air of his comrade, now roused to a terrible indignation, "if, Colonel Miranda, it turns out as you conjecture, that Gil Uraga has taken part in the destruction of my waggon-train, or even been instrumental in causing it, I shall leave no stone unturned to obtain justice."

"Justice!" exclaims the ex-Ranger, with a deprecatory toss of the head. "In case o' this kind we want somethin' beside. To think o' thirteen innercent men attacked without word o' warnin', shot down, stabbed, slaughtered, and sculped! Think o' that; an' don't talk tamely o' justice; let's shout loudly for revenge!"



Chapter Thirty Eight.

The Land Of The "Lex Talionis."

During the quarter of a century preceding the annexation of New Mexico to the United States, that distant province of the Mexican Republic, like all the rest of the country, was the scene of constantly recurring revolutions. Every discontented captain, colonel, or general who chanced to be in command of a district, there held sway as a dictator; so demeaning himself that martial and military rule had become established as the living law of the land. The civic authorities rarely possessed more than the semblance of power; and where they did it was wielded in the most flagitious manner. Arbitrary arts were constantly committed, under the pretext of patriotism or duty. No man's life was safe who fell under the displeasure of the ruling military chieftain; and woman's honour was held in equally slight respect.

In the northern frontier provinces of the republic this irresponsible power of the soldiery was peculiarly despotic and harassing. There, two causes contributed to establish and keep it in the ascendency. One of these was the revolutionary condition of the country, which, as elsewhere, had become chronic. The contest between the party of the priests and that of the true patriots, begun in the first days of Mexico's independence, has been continued ever since; now one, now the other, in the ascendant. The monstrous usurpation of Maximilian, supported by Napoleon the Third, and backed by a soldier whom all Mexicans term the "Bandit Bazaine," was solely due to the hierarchy; while Mexico owes its existing Republican government to the patriot party -- happily, for the time, triumphant.

The province of New Mexico, notwithstanding its remoteness from the nation's capital, was always affected by, and followed, its political fortunes. When the parti pretre was in power at the capital, its adherents became the rulers in the distant States for the time being; and when the Patriots, or Liberals, gained the upper hand this role was reversed.

It is but just to say that, whenever the latter were the "ins," things for the time went well. Corruption, though not cured, was to some extent checked; and good government would begin to extend itself over the land. But such could only last for a brief period. The monarchical, dictatorial, or imperial party -- by whatever name it may be known -- was always the party of the Church; and this, owning three-fourths of the real estate, both in town and country, backed by ancient ecclesiastical privileges, and armed with another powerful engine -- the gross superstition it had been instrumental in fostering --  was always able to control events; so that no Government, not despotic, could stand against it for any great length of time. For all, freedom at intervals triumphed, and the priests became the "outs;" but ever potent, and always active, they would soon get up a new "grito" to bring about a revolutionary change in the Government. Sanguinary scenes would be enacted -- hangings, shooting, garrottings -- all the horrors of civil war that accompany the bitterest of all spite, the ecclesiastical.

In such an uncertain state of things it was but natural that the militarios should feel themselves masters of the situation, and act accordingly.

In the northern districts they had yet another pretext for their unrestrained exercise of power -- in none more than New Mexico. This remote province, lying like an oasis in the midst of uninhabited wilds, was surrounded on all sides by tribes of hostile Indians. There were the Navajoes and Apaches on its west, the Comanche and other Apache bands on the south and east, the Utahs on its north, and various smaller tribes distributed around it. They were all more or less hostile at one time or another: now on terms of an intermittent peace, secured by a "palaver" and treaty; this anon to be broken by some act of bad faith, leaving their "braves" at liberty once more to betake themselves to the war-path.

Of course this condition of things gave the soldiery a fine opportunity to maintain their ascendency over the peaceful citizens. Rabble as these soldiers were, and poltroons as they generally proved themselves in every encounter with the Indians, they were accustomed to boast of being the country's protectors, for this "protection" assumed a sort of right to despoil it at their pleasure.

Some few years preceding the American-Mexican war -- which, as well known, gave New Mexico to the United States -- these belligerent swaggerers were in the zenith of their arbitrary rule. Their special pet and protector, Santa Anna, was in for a new spell of power, making him absolute dictator of Mexico and disposer of the destinies of its people. At the same time, one of his most servile tools and successful imitators was at the head of the Provincial Government, having Santa Fe for its capital. This man was Manuel Armijo, whose character may be ascertained, by those curious to study it, from reading the chronicles of the times, especially the records of the prairie merchants, known as the "Santa Fe traders." It will there be learnt that this provincial despot was guilty of every act that could disgrace humanity; and that not only did he oppress his fellow-citizens with the soldiery placed at his disposal to protect them from Indian enemies, but was actually in secret league with the savages themselves to aid him in his mulcts and murders! Whatever his eye coveted he was sure to obtain, by fair means or foul --  by open pillage or secret theft -- not unfrequently accompanied by assassination. And as with the despot himself, so with his subordinates -- each in his own town or district wielding irresponsible power; all leading lives in imitation of the provincial chieftain, as he of him -- the great prototype and patron of all -- who held dictatorial sway in the capital of the country, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.

A knowledge of this abnormal and changeable condition of Mexican affairs will, in some measure, explain why Colonel Miranda so suddenly ceased to be commandant of Albuquerque. Santa Anna's new accession to power brought in the Padres, turning out the Patriotas, many of the latter suffering death for their patriotism, while the adherents of the former received promotion for their support.

Staunchest among these was the captain of Lancers, Gil Uraga, promoted to be colonel as also commandant of the district from which its deposed chief so narrowly escaped with his life.

And now this revolutionary usurper is in full authority, his acts imitating his master, Armijo, like him in secret league with the savages, even consorting with the red pirates of the plains, taking part in their murderous marauds, and sharing their plunder.



Chapter Thirty Nine.

Prosperous, But Not Happy.

Despite his rapid military promotion and the ill-gotten wealth he has acquired, Colonel Gil Uraga is anything but a happy man. Only at such times as he is engaged in some stirring affair of duty or devilry, or when under the influence of drink, is he otherwise than wretched. To drinking he has taken habitually, almost continually. It is not to drown conscience; he has none. The canker-worm that consumes him is not remorse, but disappointment in a love affair, coupled with a thirst for vengeance.

There are moments when he is truly miserable, his misery reaching its keenest whenever he either looks into his mirror or stands before a portrait that hangs against the wall of the sala. It is a likeness of Adela Miranda; for he has taken possession of the house of his predecessor, with all its furniture and pictures, left in their hasty retreat, the young lady's portrait as the rest.

The Lancer colonel loves Adela Miranda; and though his love be of a coarse, brutal nature, it is strong and intense as that the noblest man may feel.

In earlier days he believed there was a chance of his obtaining her hand. Humble birth is no bar in Mexico -- land of revolutions -- where the sergeant or common soldier of to-day may be a lieutenant, captain, or colonel to-morrow. His hopes had been a stimulant to his military aspirations; perchance one of the causes that first led him into crime. He believed that wealth might bridge over the social distinction between himself and her, and in this belief he cared not how it should be acquired. For the rest he was not ill-looking, rather handsome, and fairly accomplished. Like most Mexican militarios, he could boast of his bonnes fortunes, which he often did.

These have become more rare since receiving the sword-thrust from his American adversary in the duel at Chihuahua, which not only cost him three front teeth, but a hideous scar across the cheek. The teeth have been replaced, but the scar cannot be effaced; it remains a frightful cicatrix. Even his whiskers, let grow to their extremest outcrop, will not all conceal it; it is too far forward upon the face.

It was after this unfortunate affair that he made proposal to Adela Miranda. And now he cannot help thinking it had something to do with her abrupt and disdainful rejection of him, though the young lady's little concealed disgust, coupled with her brother's indignation, had no reference to the physical deformity. But for his blind passion he might have perceived this. Fancying it so, however, it is not strange that he goes half frantic, and can be heard giving utterance to fearful oaths every time he glances in his looking-glass.

After returning from his secret expedition of murder and pillage, he can gaze with more equanimity into the glass. From the man who caused the disfiguration of his visage he has exacted a terrible retribution. His adversary in the Chihuahua duel is now no more. He has met with a fate sufficient to satisfy the most implacable vengeance; and often, both sober and in his cups, does Gil Uraga break out into peals of laughter, like the glee of a demon, as he reflects on the torture, prolonged and horrible, his hated enemy must have endured before life became extinct!

But even all this does not appease his malevolent spirit. A portion of his vengeance is yet unappeased -- that due to him who was second in the duel. And if it could be satisfied by the death of Miranda himself, then there would still be the other thought to torture him -- his thwarted love scheme. The chagrin he suffers from this is stronger than his thirst for vengeance.

He is seated in the sala of Miranda's house, which he occupies as his official headquarters. He is alone, his only companion being the bottle that stands upon a table beside him -- this and a cigar burning between his lips. It is not wine he is drinking, but the whisky of Tequila, distilled from the wild maguey. Wine is too weak to calm his perturbed spirit, as he sits surveying the portrait upon the wall.

His eyes have been on it several times; each time, as he takes them off, drinking a fresh glass of the mezcal and igniting another cigar. What signifies all his success in villainy? What is life worth without her? He would plunder a church to obtain possession of her -- murder his dearest friend to get from Adela Miranda one approving smile.

Such are his coarse thoughts as he sits soliloquising, shaping conjectures about the banished commandant and his sister.

Where can they have gone to? In all probability to the United States --  that asylum of rebels and refugees. In the territory of New Mexico they cannot have stayed. His spies have searched every nook and corner of it, their zeal secured by the promise of large rewards. He has dispatched secret emissaries to the Rio Abajo, and on to the Provincias Internas. But no word of Miranda anywhere -- no trace can be found either of him or his sister. "Chingara!"

As if this exclamatory phrase, sent hissing through his teeth -- too foul to bear translation -- were the name of a man, one at this moment appears in the doorway, who, after a gesture of permission to enter, steps inside the room.

He is an officer in full uniform -- one whom we have met before, though not in military costume. It is Lieutenant Roblez, Uraga's adjutant, as also his confederate in crime.

"I'm glad you've come, ayudante," says the Colonel, motioning the new-comer to a seat. "I'm feeling a little bit lonely, and I want some one to cheer me. You, Roblez, are just the man for that; you've got such a faculty for conversation."

This is ironical; for Roblez is as silent as an owl.

"Sit down and give me your cheerful company," the Colonel adds. "Have a cigar and a copita of this capital stuff; it's the best that Tequila produces."

"I've brought other company that may be more cheerful than mine," returns the adjutant, still keeping his feet.

"Ah! some of our fellows from the cuartel? Bring them in."

"It is not any of the officers, Colonel. There's only one man, and he's a civilian.

"Civilian or soldier, you're free to introduce him. I hope," he adds, in an undertone, "it's one of the ricos of the neighbourhood, who won't mind taking an albur at monte or a throw of the dice. I'm just in the vein for a bit of play."

"He I'm going to introduce don't look much like a rico. From what I can see of him in the darkness, I should say that the blanket upon his shoulders and his sheepskin smallclothes -- somewhat dilapidated by the way -- are about all the property he possesses."

"He's a stranger to you, then?"

"As much as to yourself, as you'll say after seeing him -- perhaps more."

"What sort of man is he?"

"For that matter, he can hardly be described as a man. At least, he's not one of the gent-de-razon. He's only an Indian."

"Ha! Comanche?"

As he utters this interrogatory, Colonel Gil Uraga gives a slight start, and looks a little uneasy. His relations with men of the Indian race are of a delicate nature; and, although keen to cultivate their acquaintance whenever occasion requires it, he prefers keeping all Indians at a distance -- more especially Comanches, when he has no particular need of their services. The thought has flashed across his mind that the man waiting to be ushered into his presence may be a messenger from the Horned Lizard; and with the Tenawa chief he desires no further dealings -- at least for a time. Therefore, the belief of its being an emissary from his red-skinned confederate somewhat discomposes him.

The reply of his subordinate, however, reassures him.

"No, colonel, he's not a Comanche; bears no resemblance to one, only in the colour of his skin. He appears to be a Pueblo; and from his tattered costume, I take him to be some poor labourer."

"But what does he want with me?"

"That, colonel, I cannot say; only that he has expressed a very urgent desire to speak with you. I fancy he has something to communicate, which might be important for you to hear; else I should not have taken the liberty to bring him here."

"You have him at hand?"

"I have. He is outside in the patio. Shall I usher him in?"

"By all means; there can be no harm in hearing what the fellow has to say. It may be about some threatened invasion of the savages; and as protectors of the people, you, ayudante, know it's our duty to do whatever we can for warding off such a catastrophe."

The colonel laughs at his sorry jest; the adjutant expressing his appreciation of it in a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied by a grim smile.

"Bring the brute in!" is the command that followed, succeeded by the injunction.

"Stay outside in the court till I send for or call you. The fellow may have something to say intended for only one pair of ears. Take a glass of the mezcal, light cigarrito, and amuse yourself as you best may."

The adjutant obeys the first two of these directions; then, stepping out of the sala, leaves his superior officer alone.

Uraga glances around to assure himself that there are weapons within reach. With a conscience like his, a soul charged with crime, no wonder.

His sabre rests against the wall close to his hand, while a pair of dragoon pistols, both loaded, lie upon the table.

Satisfied with the proximity of these weapons, he sits upright in his chair and tranquilly awaits the entrance of the Indian.



Chapter Forty.

A Confidence Well Rewarded.

Only a short interval, a score of seconds elapses, when the door, once more opening, admits the expected visitor. The adjutant, after ushering him into the room, withdraws, and commences pacing to and fro in the patio.

Colonel Gil Uraga feels very much inclined to laugh as he contemplates the new-comer, and reflects on the precautions he has taken. A poor devil of an Indian peon, in coarse woollen tilma, tanned sheepskin trousers reaching only to the knee, bare legs below, guaraches upon his feet, and a straw hat upon his head; his long black hail hanging unkempt over his shoulders; his mien humble and looks downcast, like all of his tribe. Yet it might be seen that, on occasion, his eyes could flash forth a light, indicative of danger -- a fierce, fiery light, such as may have shone in the orbs of his ancestors when they rallied around Guatimozin, and with clubs and stakes beat back the spears and swords of their Spanish invaders.

At the entrance of this humble personage, into the splendidly furnished apartment, his first act is to pull off his tattered straw hat, and make lowly obeisance to the gorgeously attired officer he sees sitting behind the table.

Up to this time Uraga has presumed him to be a perfect stranger, but when the broad brim of the sombrero no longer casts its shade over his face, and his eyelids become elevated through increasing confidence, the colonel starts to his feet with an exclamatory speech that tells of recognition.

"Carrambo! You are Manuel -- mule driver for Don Valerian Miranda?"

"Si, Senor; a servido de V (Yes, Sir; at your Excellency's service)," is the reply meekly spoken, and accompanied with a second sweep of the straw hat -- as gracefully as if given by a Chesterfield.

At sight of this old acquaintance, a world of thought rushes crowding through the brain of Gil Uraga -- conjectures, mingled with pleasant anticipations.

For it comes back to his memory, that at the time of Colonel Miranda's escape, some of his domestics went off with him, and he remembers that Manuel was one of them. In the Indian bending so respectfully before him he sees, or fancies, the first link of a chain that may enable him to trace the fugitives. Manuel should know something about their whereabouts? And the ci devant mule driver is now in his power for any purpose -- be it life or death.

There is that in the air and attitude of the Indian which tells him there will be no need to resort to compulsory measures. The information he desires can be obtained without, and he determines to seek it by adopting the opposite course.

"My poor fellow," he says, "you look distressed -- as if you had just come from off a toilsome journey. Here, take a taste of something to recuperate your strength; then you can let me know what you've got to say. I presume you've some communication to make to me, as the military commandant of the district. Night or day, I am always ready to give a hearing to those who bring information that concerns the welfare of the State."

While speaking the colonel has poured out a glass of the distilled mezcal juice. This the peon takes from his hand, and, nothing loth, spills the liquor between his two rows of white glittering teeth.

Upon his stomach, late unused to it, the fiery spirit produce! an effect almost instantaneous; and the moment after he becomes freely communicative -- if not so disposed before. But he has been; therefore the disclosures that follow are less due to the alcohol than to a passion every whit as inflammatory. He is acting under the stimulus of a revenge, terrible and long restrained.

"I've missed you from about here, Manuel," says the colonel, in kindly tones, making his approaches with skill. "Where have you been all this while, my good man?"

"With my master," is the peon's reply.

"Ah, indeed! I thought your master had gone clear out of the country?"

"Out of the settled part of it only, senor."

"Oh! he is still, then, within Mexican territory! I am glad to hear that. I was very sorry to think we'd lost such a good citizen and patriot as Don Valerian Miranda. True, he and I differ in our views as regards government; but that's nothing, you know, Manuel. Men may be bitter political enemies, yet very good friends. By-the-way, where is the colonel now?"

Despite his apparent stolidity, the Indian is not so stupid as to be misled by talk like this. With a full knowledge of the situation --  forced upon him by various events -- the badinage of the brilliant militario does not for a moment blind him. Circumstances have given him enough insight into Uraga's character and position to know that the tatter's motives should somewhat resemble his own. He has long been aware that the Lancer colonel is in love with his young mistress, as much as he himself with her maid. Without this knowledge he might not have been there -- at least, not with so confident an expectation of success in the design that has brought him hither. For design he has, deep, deadly, and traitorous.

Despite the influence of the aguardiente, fast loosening his tongue, he is yet somewhat cautious in his communications; and not until Uraga repeats the question does he make answer to it. Then comes the response, slowly and reluctantly, as if from one of his long-suffering race, who has discovered a mine of precious metal, and is being put to the torture to "denounce" it.

"Senor coronel," he says, "how much will your excellency give to know where my master now is? I have heard that there's a large bounty offered for Don Valerian's head."

"That is an affair that concerns the State. For myself, I've nothing personally to do with it. Still, as an officer of the Government, it is my duty to take what steps I can towards making your master a prisoner. I think I may promise a good reward to anyone who, by giving information, would enable me to arrest a fugitive rebel and bring him before the bar of justice. Can you do that?"

"Well, your excellency, that will depend. I'm only a poor man, and need money to live upon. Don Valerian is my master, and if anything were to happen to him I should lose my situation. What am I to do?"

"Oh, you'd easily get another, and better. A man of your strength --  By the way, talking of strength, my good Manuel, you don't seem to have quite recovered from your journey, which must have been long and fatiguing. Take another copita; you're in need of it; 'twill do you good."

Pressure of this sort put upon an Indian, be he bravo or manso, is rarely resisted. Nor is it in Manuel's case. He readily yields to it, and tosses off another glass of the aguardiente.

Before the strong alcohol can have fairly filtered down into his stomach its fumes ascend to his skull.

The cowed, cautious manner -- a marked characteristic of his race -- now forsakes him; the check-strings of his tongue become relaxed, and, with nothing before his mind save his scheme of vengeance, and that of securing Conchita, he betrays the whole secret of Colonel Miranda's escape -- the story of his retreat across the Staked Plain, and his residence in the lone valley.

When he further informs Uraga about the two guests who have strayed to this solitary spot, and, despite his maudlin talk, minutely describes the men, his listener utters a loud cry, accompanied by a gesture of such violence as to overturn the table, sending bottle and glasses over the floor.

He does not stay to see the damage righted, but with a shout that reverberates throughout the whole house, summons his adjutant, and also the corporal of his guard.

"Cabo!" he cries, addressing himself to the latter in a tone at once vociferous and commanding; "take this man to the guard-house! And see you keep him there, so that he may be forthcoming when wanted. Take heed to hold him safe. If he be missing, you shall be shot ten minutes after I receive the report of it. You have the word of Gil Uraga for that."

From the way the corporal makes prisoner the surprised peon, almost throttling him, it is evident he does not intend running any risk of being shot for letting the latter escape. The Indian appears suddenly sobered by the rough treatment he is receiving. But he is too much astonished to find speech for protest. Mute, and without offering the slightest resistance, he is dragged out through the open doorway, to all appearance more dead than alive.

"Come, Roblez!" hails his superior officer, as soon as the door has closed behind the guard corporal and his captive, "Drink with me! Drink! First to revenge! I haven't had it yet, as I'd thought; that has all to be gone over again. But it's sure now -- surer than ever. After, we shall drink to success in love. Mine is not hopeless, yet. Lost! she is found again -- found! Ah, my darling Adela!" he exclaims, staggering towards the portrait, and in tipsy glee contemplating it, "you thought to escape me; but no. No one can get away from Gil Uraga --  friend, sweetheart, or enemy. You shall yet be enfolded in these arms; if not as my wife, my -- margarita!"



Chapter Forty One.

An Earthly Paradise.

"Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my monitor! That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her. Ye elements, in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted, can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot --  Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot."

Oft during his sojourn in the sequestered valley do these lines occur to the young prairie merchant. And vividly; for, in very truth, he has realised the aspiration of the poet.

But, though dwelling in a desert, far different is the scene habitually before his eyes. From the front of the humble chalet that has so opportunely afforded him a shelter, seated under the spreading branches of a pecan-tree, he can look on a landscape lovely as ever opened to the eyes of man -- almost as that closed against our first parents when expelled from Paradise. Above he beholds a sapphire sky, scarce ever shadowed by a cloud; a sun whose fierce, fervid beams become softened as they fall amid the foliage of evergreen oaks; among clustering groves that show all the varied tints of verdure, disporting upon green glassy glades, and glinting into arbours overshadowed by the sassafras laurel, the Osage orange, and the wild China-tree, laced together by a trellis of grape vines. A lake in the centre of this luxurious vegetation, placid as sleep itself, only stirred by the webbed feet of waterfowl, or the wings of dipping swallows, with above and below a brawling rivulet, here and there showing cascades like the tails of white horses, or the skirts of ballroom belles floating through waltz or gallopade.

In correspondence with these fair sights are the sounds heard. By day the cooing of doves, the soft tones of the golden oriole, and the lively chatter of the red cardinal; by night the booming note of the bull-bat, the sonorous call of the trumpeter swan, and that lay far excelling all -- the clear song of the polyglot thrush, the famed mocking-bird of America.

No wonder the invalid, recovering from his illness, after the long dark spell that has obscured his intellect, wrapping his soul, as it were, in a shroud -- no wonder he fancies the scene to be a sort of Paradise, worthy of being inhabited by Peris. One is there he deems fair as Houri or Peri, unsurpassed by any ideal of Hindoo or Persian fable -- Adela Miranda. In her he beholds beauty of a type striking as rare; not common anywhere, and only seen among women in whose veins courses the blue blood of Andalusia -- a beauty perhaps not in accordance with the standard of taste acknowledged in the icy northland. The vigolite upon her upper lip might look a little bizarre in an assemblage of Saxon dames, just as her sprightly spirit would offend the sentiment of a strait-laced Puritanism.

It has no such effect upon Frank Hamersley. The child of a land above all others free from conventionalism, with a nature attuned to the picturesque, these peculiarities, while piquing his fancy, have fixed his admiration. Long before leaving his sick couch there has been but one world for him -- that where dwells Adela Miranda; but one being in it -- herself.

Surely it was decreed by fate that these two should love one another! Surely for them was there a marriage in heaven! Else why brought together in such a strange place and by such a singular chain of circumstances?

For himself, Hamersley thinks of this -- builds hopes upon it deeming it an omen.

Another often occurs to him, also looking like fate. He remembers that portrait on the wall at Albuquerque, and how it had predisposed him in favour of the original. The features of Spano-Mexican type -- so unlike those he had been accustomed to in his own country -- had vividly impressed him. Gazing upon it he had almost felt love for the likeness. Then the description of the young girl given by her brother, with the incidents that led to friendly relations between him and Colonel Miranda, all had contributed to sow the seed of a tender sentiment in the heart of the young Kentuckian. It had not died out. Neither time nor absence had obliterated it. Far off -- even when occupied with the pressing claims of business -- that portrait-face had often appeared upon the retina of his memory, and often also in the visions of dreamland. Now that he has looked upon it in reality -- sees it in all its blazing beauty, surrounded by scenes picturesque as its own expression, amid incidents romantic as his fancy could conjure up -- now that he knows it as the face of her who has saved his life, is it any wonder the slight, tender sentiment first kindled by the painted picture should become stronger at the sight of the living original?

It has done this -- become a passion that pervade his soul, filling his whole heart. All the more from its being the first he has ever felt --  the first love of his life. And for this also all the more does he tremble as he thinks of the possibility of its being unreciprocated.

He has been calculating the chances in his favour every hour since consciousness returned to him. And from some words heard in that very hour has he derived greater pleasure, and draws more hope than from aught that has occurred since. Constantly does he recall that soliloquy, speech spoken under the impression that it did not reach his ears.

There has been nothing afterwards -- neither word nor deed -- to give him proof he is beloved. The lady has been a tender nurse -- a hostess apparently solicitous for the happiness of her guest -- nothing more. Were the words she had so thoughtlessly spoken unfelt, and without any particular meaning? Or was the speech but an allusion, born from the still lingering distemper of his brain?

He yearns to know the truth. Every hour that he remains ignorant of it, he is in torture equalling that of Tantalus. Yet he fears to ask, lest in the answer he may have a painful revelation.

He almost envies Walt Wilder his commonplace love, its easy conquest, and somewhat grotesque declaration. He wishes he could propose with like freedom, and receive a similar response. His comrade's success should embolden him; but does not. There is no parallelism between the parties.

Thus he delays seeking the knowledge he most desires to possess, through fear it may afflict him. Not from any lack of opportunity. Since almost all the time is he left alone with her he so worships. Nothing stands in his way -- no zealous watchfulness of a brother. Don Valerian neglects every step of fraternal duty -- if to take such ever occurred to him. His time is fully occupied in roving around the valley, or making more distant excursions, in the companionship of the ci-devant Ranger, who narrates to him a strange chapter in the life-lore of the prairies.

When Walt chances to be indoors, he has companion of his own, which hinder him from too frequently intruding upon his comrade. Enough for him the company of Conchita.

Hamersley has equally as little to dread the intrusion of Don Prospero. Absorbed in his favourite study of Nature, the ex-army surgeon passes most of his hours in communion with her. More than half the day is he out of doors, chasing lizards into their crevices among the rocks, impaling insects on the spikes of the wild maguey plant, or plucking such flowers as seem new to the classified list of the botanist. In these tranquil pursuits he is perhaps happier than all around -- even those whose hearts throb with that supreme passion, full of sweetness, but too often bringing bitterness.

So ever near the shrine of his adoration, having it all to himself, Hamersley worships on, but in silence.



Chapter Forty Two.

A Dangerous Design.

At length the day, the hour, is at hand when the young Kentuckian purposes taking departure. He does not anticipate this with pleasure. On the contrary, the prospect gives him pain. In that sequestered spot he could linger long -- for ever, if Adela Miranda were to be with him. He is leaving it with reluctance, and would stay longer now, but that he is stirred by a sense of duty. He has to seek justice for the assassination of his teamsters, and, if possible, punish their assassins. To obtain this he intends going on to the Del Norte -- if need be, to Albuquerque itself. The information given by the ex-commandant, with all the suspicious circumstances attending, have determined him how to act. He intends calling Uraga to account; but not by the honourable action of a duel, but in a court of justice, if such can be found in New Mexico.

"If it turns out as we have been conjecturing," he says, in conversation with Miranda, "I shall seek the scoundrel in his own stronghold. If he be not there, I shall follow him elsewhere -- ay, all over Mexico."

"Hyar's one'll be wi' ye in that chase," cries the ex-Ranger, coming up at the moment. "Yis, Frank, go wi' ye to the heart o' Mexiko, plum centre; to the halls o' the Montezoomas, if ye like, enywhar to be in at the death o' a skunk like that."

"Surely, Colonel Miranda," continues Hamersley, gratified, though not carried away by his old comrade's enthusiastic offer of assistance, "surely there is law in your land sufficient to give redress for such an outrage as that."

"My dear Don Francisco," replies the Mexican, tranquilly twirling a cigarrito between his fingers, "there is law for those who have the power and money to obtain it. In New Mexico, as you must yourself know, might makes right; and never more than at this present time. Don Manuel Armijo is once more the governor of my unfortunate fatherland. When I tell you that he rose to his present position by just such a crime as that we've been speaking of, you may then understand the sort of law administered under his rule. Manuel Armijo was a shepherd, employed on one occasion to drive a flock of thirty thousand sheep -- the property of his employer, the Senor Chavez -- to the market Chihuahua. While crossing the Jornado del Muerte, he and one or two confederates, whom he had put up to his plan, disguised themselves as Apache Indians, attacked their fellow sheep-drivers, murdered them, and made themselves masters of the flock. Then pulling the plumes from their heads, and washing the paint off their faces, they drove their muttons to a different market, sold them, and returned to Chavez to tell a tale of Indian spoliation, and how they themselves had just escaped with their scalps. This is the true history of General Don Manuel Armijo, Governor of New Mexico; at least that of his first beginnings. With such and many similar deeds since, is it likely he would look with any other than a lenient eye on the doings of Gil Urago, his imitator? No, senor, not even if you could prove the present commandant of Albuquerque, in full, open court, to have been the individual who robbed yourself and murdered your men."

"I shall try, for all that," rejoins Hamersley, his heart wrung with sorrow at the remembrance of his slaughtered comrades, and bursting with the bitter thought of justice thus likely to be obstructed. "Don't suppose Colonel Miranda, that I intend resting my cause on the clemency of Don Manuel Armijo, or any chance of right to be expected at his hands. There's a wide stretch of desert between the United States and Mexico, but not wide enough to hinder the American eagle from flapping its wings across, and giving protection to all who have a right to claim it, even to a poor prairie trader. A thousand thanks, Colonel Miranda. I owe you that for twice saving my life, and now for setting me on the track of him who has twice endangered it. No use your trying to dissuade me. I shall go in search of this forban direct to the valley of the Del Norte. Don't fear that I shall fail in obtaining justice, whatever Don Manuel Armijo may do to defeat it."

"Well, if you are determined I shall not hold out against you. Only I fear your errand may be fruitless, if not worse. The two mules are at your service, and you can leave them at a place I shall indicate. When Manuel returns I shall send him to bring them back."

"Possibly I may bring them myself. I do not intend making stay in New Mexico; only long enough to communicate with the American Consul at Santa Fe, and take some preliminary steps for the end in view. Then I shall return to the -- States to lay the whole affair before our Government."

"And you think of coming this way?"

"Walt, here, has been making explorations down the stream that runs through this valley; he has no doubt about its being one of the heads of the Red River of Louisiana, if not the Texan Brazos. By keeping down it we can reach the frontier settlements of Texas, then on to the States."

"I'm glad you intend returning this way. It will give us the pleasure of soon again seeing you."

"Colonel Miranda," rejoins Hamersley, in a tone that tells of something on his mind, a proposition he would make to his host, and feels delicacy in declaring it, "in coming back by the Llano Estacado I have another object in view besides the idea of a direct route."

"What other object, amago mio?"

"The hope of inducing you to accompany me to the States -- you and yours."

"Senor Don Francisco, 'tis exceedingly kind of you. But the period of our banishment may not be long. I've had late news from our friends, telling me things are taking a turn and the political wheel must soon make another revolution, the present party going below. Then I get back to my country, returning triumphant. Meanwhile we are happy enough here, and I think safe."

"In the last I disagree with you. I'm sorry to say, but have reasons. Now that I know the real character of this ruffian Uraga -- his deeds actually done, and others we suspect -- he's just the man who'll leave no stone unturned to discover your hiding place. He has more than one motive for doing so, but one that will move him to follow you here into the desert -- aye, to the uttermost end of the earth!"

The motive in the speaker's mind is Uraga's desire to possess Adela.

After a pause, this though: passing him, he adds, -- 

"No, Don Valerian, you are not safe here."

Then, continuing, -- 

"How know you that your servant Manuel has not been recognised while executing some of those errands on which you've sent him; or that the man himself may not turn traitor? I confess, from what I've seen of the fellow, he has not favourably impressed me."

The words make an impression upon Miranda anything but pleasant. It is not the first time for him to have the thought suggested by them. More than once has he entertained suspicions about the peon's fidelity. It is possible the man might prove traitor; if not then, at some future time -- aye, and probable, too, considering the reward offered for the exile's head.

Miranda, knowing and now thinking of it, admits the justice of his friend's fear. More; he sees cause for raising alarm. So does Don Prospero, who, at the moment coming up, takes part in the conference.

It ends in the refugees resolving to stay in the valley till Hamersley and Walt can return to them; then to forsake that asylum, no longer deemed safe, and retire to one certainly so -- the land over which waves a flag powerful to protect its citizens and give the same to their friends -- the Star-spangled Banner.



Chapter Forty Three.

The Last Appeal.

"I have news for you, nina."

It is Colonel Miranda speaking to his sister, shortly after the conversation reported.

"What news, Valerian?"

"Well, there are two sorts of them."

"Both good, I hope."

"Not altogether; one will be pleasant to you, the other, perhaps, a little painful."

"In that case they should neutralise one another; anyhow, let me hear them."

"I shall tell the pleasant ones first. We shall soon have an opportunity of leaving this lonely place."

"Do you call that good news? I rather think it the reverse. What will the bad be?"

"But, dear Adela, our life here, away from all society, has been a harsh experience -- to you a terrible one."

"In that, hermano mio, you're mistaken. You know I don't care a straw for what the world calls society -- never did. I prefer being free from its stupid restraints and silly conventionalities. Give me Nature for my companion -- ay, in her wildest scenes and most surly moods."

"Surely you've had both to a surfeit."

"Nothing of the kind; I'm not tired of Nature yet. I have never been happier than in this wilderness home. How different from my convent school -- my prison, I should rather call it! Oh, it is charming! and if I were to have my way, it should never come to an end. But why do you talk of leaving this place? Do you suppose the troubles are over, and we can return safely? I don't wish to go there, brother. After what has happened, I hate New Mexico, and would prefer staying in the Llano Estacado."

"I have no thought of going back to New Mexico."

"Where, then, brother?"

"In the very opposite direction -- to the United States. Don Francisco advises me to do so; and I have yielded to his counsel."

Adela seems less disposed to offer opposition. She no longer protests against the change of residence.

"Dear sister," he continues, "we cannot do better. There seems little hope of our unfortunate country getting rid of her tyrants -- at least, for some time to come. When the day again arrives for our patriots to pronounce, I shall know it in time to be with them. Now, we should only think of our safety. Although I don't wish to alarm you, I've never felt it quite safe here. Who knows, but that Uraga may yet discover our hiding-place? He has his scouts searching in all directions. Every time Manuel makes a visit to the settlements, I have fear of his being followed back. Therefore, I think it will be wiser for us to carry out our original design, and go on to the American States."

"Do you intend accompanying Don Francisco?"

She listens eagerly for an answer.

"Yes; but not now. It will be some time before he can return to us."

"He is going home first, and will then come back?"

"Not home -- not to his home."

"Where, then?"

"That is the news I thought might be painful. He has resolved upon going on to our country for reasons already known to you. We suspect Uraga of having been at the head of the red robbers who have plundered him and killed his people. He is determined to find out and punish the perpetrators of that foul deed. It will be difficult; nay, more, there will be danger in his attempting it -- I've told him so."

"Dear brother, try to dissuade him!"

If Hamersley could but hear the earnest tone in which the appeal is spoken it would give him gratification.

"I have tried, but to no purpose. It is not the loss of his property --  he is generous, and does not regard it. His motive is a nobler, a holier one. His comrades have been murdered; he says he will seek the assassins and obtain redress, even at the risk of sacrificing his own life."

"A hero! Who could not help loving him?"

Adela does not say this aloud, nor to her brother. It is a thought, silent within the secret recesses of her own heart.

"If you wish," continues the colonel, "I will see him, and again try to turn him from this reckless course; though I know there is little hope. Stay! a thought strikes me, sister. Suppose you speak to him. A woman's words are more likely to be listened to; and I know that yours will have great weight with him. He looks upon you as the saviour of his life, and may yield to your request."

"If you think so, Valerian -- "

"I do. I see him coming this way. Remain where you are. I shall send him in to you."

With a heart heaving and surging, Hamersley stands in the presence of her, the sole cause of its tumultuous excitement. For he has been summoned thither in a manner that somewhat surprises him. "Don Francisco, my sister wishes a word with you," is the speech of Colonel Miranda, an invitation promptly responded to.

What is to be the import of his interview, unexpected, unsought, apparently commanded?

He asks himself this question as he proceeds towards the place where she stands waiting to receive him. Coming up to her, he says, -- 

"Senorita, your brother has told me you wish to speak with me?"

"I do," she replies, without quail in her look or quiver in her voice.

In returning her glance Hamersley feels as if his case is hopeless. That very day he had thought of proposing to her. It almost passes from his mind. So cool, she cannot care for him. He remains silent, leaving her to proceed.

"Senor, it is about your going to the Rio del Norte. My brother tells me such is your intention. We wish you not to go, Don Francisco. There is danger in your doing it."

"It is my duty."

"In what respect? Explain yourself!"

"My brave comrades have been slain -- assassinated. I have reason to believe that in the town of Albuquerque I may discover their assassins --  at all events their chief, and perhaps bring him to justice. I intend trying, if it costs me my life."

"Do you reflect what your life is worth?"

"To me not much."

"It may be to others. You have at home a mother, brothers, and sisters. Perhaps one dearer?"

"No -- not at home."

"Elsewhere, then?"

He is silent under this searching inquisition.

"Do you think that danger to your life would be unhappiness to her's --  your death her life's misery?"

"My dishonour should be more, as it would to myself. It is not vengeance I seek against those who have murdered my men, only to bring them to justice. I must do that, or else proclaim myself a poltroon -- I feel myself one -- a self-accusation that would give me a life-long remorse. No, Senorita Adela. It is kind of you to take an interest in my safety. I already owe you my life; but I cannot permit you to save it again, at the sacrifice of honour, of duty, of humanity."

Hamersley fancies himself being coldly judged and counselled with indifference. Could he know the warm, wild admiration struggling in the breast of her who counsels him, he would make rejoinder in different fashion.

Soon after he talks in an altered tone, and with changed understanding. So also does she, hitherto so difficult of comprehension.

"Go!" she cries. "Go and get redress of your wrongs, justice for your fallen comrades; and if you can, the punishment of their assassins. But remember! if it brings death to you, there is one who will not care to live after."

"Who?" he asks, springing forward, with heart on fire and eyes aflame. "Who?"

He scarce needs to put the question. It is already answered by the emphasis on her last words.

But it is again replied to, this time in a more tranquil tone; the long, dark lashes of the speaker veiling her eyes as she pronounces her own name, -- 

"Adela Miranda!"

From poverty to riches, from a dungeon to bright daylight, from the agonising struggle of drowning to that confident feeling when the feet stand firm upon terra firma -- all these are sensations of a pleasantly-exciting kind. They are dull in comparison with that delirious joy, the lot of the despairing lover on finding that his despair has been all a fancy, and that his passion is reciprocated.

Such a joy thrills through Hamersley's breast as he hears the name pronounced. It is like a cabalistic speech, throwing open to him the portals of Paradise.



Chapter Forty Four.

A Mysterious Message.

As is known, Hamersley's suspicions about the treachery of the peon are not without cause. On the contrary, they might seem second-sight. For, almost at the moment he is communicating them to Colonel Miranda, the native is telling his tale to Uraga.

Nor does the latter lose much time in acting upon the information gained -- only that short interlude given to exultation as he stepped up to the portrait of Adela Miranda, and stood triumphantly regarding the likeness of her he now looks upon as sure to be his. He has no hope to get possession of her by fair means; foul are alone in his thoughts.

After delivering his half-frenzied apostrophe to the painted image, he returns to the table, beside which Roblez has already taken a seat.

They re-fill their glasses, and drink the toasts specified, with a ceremony in strange contrast to the hellish glee sparkling in the eyes of the Lancer-Colonel. His countenance beams with triumph, such as might be shown by Satan over the ruin of innocence. For he now feels sure of his victims -- alike that of his love as well as those of his revenge.

Not long does he remain over his cups in the company of his subordinate. He has an important matter upon his mind which calls for reflection -- in silence and by himself.

Though often admitting his adjutant to a share in his criminal schemes, the participation is only in their profits and the act of execution. Despotic even in his villainies, he keeps the planning to himself, for he has secrets even Roblez must not know. And now an idea has dawned upon his mind, a purpose he does not care to communicate to the subaltern till such time as may be necessary or seem fit to him. Not that he dreads treachery on the part of his fellow freebooter. They are mutually compromised, and long have been; too much to tell tales about one another. Besides, Roblez, though a man of undoubted courage, of the coarse, animal kind, has, neverthless, a certain moral dread of his commanding officer, and fears to offend him. He knows Gil Uraga to be one whose hostility, once provoked, will stop short at nothing, leave no means untried to take retribution -- this of a terrible kind. Hence a control which the colonel holds over him beyond that drawn from his superior military rank. Hence, also, his receiving but a small share in the proceeds of their various robberies, and his being satisfied with this, or, at all events, seeming so.

On his side, Uraga has several motives for not letting his subordinate into the knowledge of all his complicated schemes; among them one springing from a moral peculiarity. He is of a strangely-constituted nature, secretive to the last degree -- a quality or habit in which he prides himself. It is his delight to practice it whenever the opportunity offers; just as the thief and detective officer take pleasure in their respective callings beyond the mere prize to be derived from their exercise.

The intelligence just received from the traitorous mule-driver, unexpected as pleasing, has opened to him the prospect of a grand success. It may enable him to strike a coup covering all -- alike giving gratification to his love, as his hate.

But the blow must needs be dealt deftly. There are circumstances to be considered and precautions taken, not only to prevent its failing, but secure against a publicity that might cause scandal to himself, to say naught of consequent danger.

And it must be struck soon -- at once. It is too ticklish a matter to admit of delay, either in the design or execution.

Already has the matter flitted before his mind in its general outlines; almost soon as receiving the report of the peon.

It is only the details that remain for consideration; and these he intends considering alone, without any aid from his adjutant.

As time is an object, he speedily terminates his carousal with the subaltern; who, dismissed, returns to the military cuartel.

Soon as he is gone the colonel again seats himself, and lighting a fresh cigar, continues smoking. For several minutes he remains silent, his eyes turned upwards, and his features set in a smile. One might fancy him but watching the smoke of his cigar as it rises in spiral wreaths to the ceiling. He is occupied with no such innocent amusement. On the contrary, his grim smile betokens meditation deep and devilish. He is mentally working out a problem, a nefarious scheme, which will ere long bear evil fruit.

As the cigar grows shorter he seems to draw nearer to his conclusions. And when at length there is only the stump between his teeth, he spits it out; and, taking a hand-bell from the table, rings until a domestic appears in the doorway in answer to the summons.

"Call in the guard-corporal!" is the order received by the servant, who withdraws without saying a word.

Soon the soldier shows himself, saluting as he enters the door.

"Cabo! Bring your prisoner before me."

The corporal retires, and shortly after returns, having the Indian in charge. He is commanded to leave the latter, and himself remain waiting without. Directed also to close the door; which he does on getting outside.

Thus closeted with the peon -- still wondering why he has been made a prisoner -- Uraga submits him to a process of examination, which elicits from the scared creature everything he seeds to know. Among the rest, he makes himself acquainted with the situation of the valley, where the exiles have found temporary asylum; the direction, distance, and means of access to it -- in short, its complete topography.

With all the Indian is familiar, can correctly describe it, and does so. In that imposing presence he dare not attempt deception, even if inclined. But he is not. Between questioner and questioned the aim and end are similar, if not the same. Besides, the peon's blood has again been warmed up, and his tongue set loose, by a fresh infusion of aguardiente -- so that his confessions are full as free. He tells about the life led by the Mexican refugees, as also their American guests -- all he knows, and this is nearly everything. For trusted, unsuspected, he has had every opportunity to learn. The only thing concealed by him is his own love affair with Conchita and its disastrous ending, through the intrusion of the Texan Ranger.

This, if told, would give his listener slight concern, alongside the grave impressions made upon him by another affair; some particulars of which the peon communicates. These points refer to tender relations existing between the young prairie trader and Adela Miranda, almost proving their existence. Confirmed or not, on hearing of them Gil Uraga receives a shock which sends the blood rushing in quick current through his veins; while upon his countenance comes an expression of such bitter malignity, that the traitor, in fear for his own safety, repents having told him.

But Uraga has no spite against him -- no motive for having it. On the contrary, he intends rewarding him, after he gets out of him certain other services for which he is to be retained.

When his cross-questioning is at length brought to a close, he is once more committed to the charge of the guard-corporal, with orders to be returned to the prison. At the same time a hint is given him that his incarceration is only precautionary, with a promise it will not be for long.

Immediately after his removal, Uraga seats himself before an escritoire, which stands on one side of the room. Laying open the lid, he spreads a sheet of paper upon it, and commences to write what appears an epistle.

Whatever it is, the composition occupies some considerable time. Occasionally he stops using the pen, as though pondering what to put down.

When it is at length completed, apparently to his satisfaction, he folds the sheet, thrusts a stick of wax into the flame of a candle, and seals the document, but without using any seal-stamp. A small silver coin taken from his pocket makes the necessary impression. There does not appear to be any name appended to the epistle, if one it is; and the superscription shows only two words, without any address. The words are "El Barbato."

Again ringing the bell, the same servant answers it.

"Go to the stables," commands his master, "or the corral, or wherever he may be, and tell Pedrillo I want him. Be quick about it!"

The man bows and disappears.

"It will take them -- how many days to reach the Tenawas' town, and how many back to the Pecos?" soliloquises Uraga, pacing the floor, as he makes his calculations. "Three, four, five. No matter. If before them we can wait till they come. Pedrillo!"

Pedrillo has put in an appearance. He is an Indian of the tame sort, not greatly differing from the man Manuel, with a countenance quite as forbidding. But we have seen Pedrillo before; since he was one of the two muleteers who conducted the atajo transporting the spoil from the caravan of the prairie traders.

"Pedrillo," directs the Colonel, "catch a couple of the best roadsters in the corral -- one for yourself, the other for Jose. Have them saddled, and get yourselves ready for a journey of two weeks, or so. Make all haste with your preparations. When ready, come here, and report yourself."

The muleteer disappears, and Uraga continues to pace the floor, apparently yet busied with a mental measurement of time and distance. At intervals he stops before the portrait on the wall, and for a second or two gazes at it. This seems to increase his impatience for the man's reappearance.

He has not a great while to wait. The scrip and staff of a New Mexican traveller of Pedrillo's kind is of no great bulk or complexity. It takes but a short time to prepare it. A few tortillas and frijoles, a head or two of chile Colorado, half a dozen onions, and a bunch of tasojo -- jerked beef. Having collected these comestibles, and filled his xuaje, or water gourd, Pedrillo reports himself ready for the road, or trail, or whatever sort of path, and on whatever errand, it may please his master to despatch him.

"You will go straight to the Tenawa town -- Horned Lizard's -- on the south branch of the Goo-al-pah. You can find your way to the place, Pedrillo. You've been there before?"

The Indian nods an affirmative.

"Take this." Here Uraga hands him the sealed paper. "See you show it to no one you may chance to meet passing out from the settlements. Give it to Barbato, or hand it to the Horned Lizard himself. He'll know who it's for. You are to ride night and day, as fast as the animals can carry you. When you've delivered it you needn't wait, but come back --  not here, but to the Alamo. You know the place -- where we met the Tenawas some weeks ago. You will find me there. Vaya!"

On receiving these instructions Pedrillo vanishes from, the room; a strange sinister glance in his oblique Indian eyes telling that he knows himself to be once more -- what he has often been -- an emissary of evil.

Uraga takes another turn across the floor, then, seating himself by the table, seeks rest for his passion-tossed soul by drinking deep of the mescal of Tequila.



Chapter Forty Five.

The Staked Plain.

The elevated table-land known as Llano Estacado is in length over three hundred miles, with an average width of sixty or seventy. It extends longitudinally between the former Spanish provinces of New Mexico and Texas; their respective capitals, Santa Fe and San Antonia de Bejar, being on the opposite side of it. In the days of vice-royal rule, a military road ran across it, connecting the two provincial centres, and mule trains of traders passed to and fro between. As this road was only a trail, often obliterated by the drifting sands of the desert, tall stakes were set up at intervals to indicate the route. Hence the name "Llano Estacado" -- literally, Staked Plain.

In those days Spain was a strong, enterprising nation, and her Mexican colonists could travel over most parts of their vast territory without fear of being assaulted by the savages. At a later period, when Spanish power began to decline, all this became changed. Cities fell to ruin, settlements were deserted, mission establishments abandoned, and in the provinces of Northern Mexico white travellers had to be cautious in keeping to the most frequented roads, in some districts not daring even to venture beyond the walls of their haciendas or towns. Many of these were fortified against Indian attack, and are so to this day.

Under these circumstances the old Spanish trail across the Staked Plain fell into disuse; its landmarks became lost, and of late years only expeditions of the United States army have traversed it for purposes of exploration.

In physical aspect it bears resemblance to the table lands of Abyssinia and Southern Arabia, and at its northern end many outlying spurs and detached mesas remind the traveller of the Abyssinian hills -- known as ambas. A portion of this singular territory belongs to the great gypsum formation of the south-western prairies, perhaps the largest in the world; while a highly-coloured sandstone of various vivid hues, often ferruginous, forms a conspicuous feature in its cliffs. Along its eastern edge these present to the lower champaign of Texas a precipitous escarpment several hundred feet sheer, in long stretches, tending with an unbroken facade, in other places showing ragged, where cleft by canons, through which rush torrents, the heads of numerous Texan streams. Its surface is, for the most part, a dead horizontal level, sterile as the Sahara itself, in places smooth and hard as a macadamised road. Towards its southern end there is a group of medanos (sandhills), covering a tract of several hundred square miles, the sand ever drifting about, as with dunes on the seashore. High up among their summits is a lakelet of pure drinking water, though not a drop can be found upon the plateau itself for scores of miles around. Sedge and lilies grow by this tarn so singularly situated.

Here and there the plain is indented by deep fissures (barrancas), apparently the work of water. Often the traveller comes upon them without sign or warning of their proximity, till, standing on the edge of a precipitous escarpment, he sees yawning below a chasm sunk several hundred feet into the earth. In its bed may be loose boulders piled in chaotic confusion, as if cast there by the hands of Titans; also trunks of trees in a fossilised state such as those observed by Darwin on the eastern declivity of the Chilian Andres.

Nearly all the streams that head in the Staked Plain cut deep channels in their way to the outer world. These are often impassable, either transversely or along their course. Sometimes, however, their beds are worn out into little valleys, or "coves," in which a luxuriant vegetation finds shelter and congenial soil. There flourish the pecan, the hackberry, the black walnut, the wild china, with evergreen oaks, plums, and clustering grapevines; while in the sterile plain above are only seen those forms of the botanical world that truly indicate the desert -- various species of cactaceae, agaves, and yuccas -- the palmilla and lechuguilla, dwarf-cedars, and mezquites, artemisia, and the strong-smelling larrea, or "creosote plant."

Animals are rare upon the Llano Estacado, although the prong-horn antelope -- true denizen of the desert -- is there found, as also its enemy, the Mexican jackal, or coyote. To the rattlesnake and horned lizard (agama) it is a congenial home; and the singular snake-bird (paisano) may frequently be seen running over the arid waste, or skulking through the tortuous stems of the nopals. In the canons of the stream the grizzly bear makes his haunt, and in times not long gone by it was ascended and traversed by the unwieldy buffalo. The wild horse (musteno) still occasionally courses across it.

Of all the living things it is least frequented by man. Even the Indian rarely strays into its solitudes; and the white man, when necessitated to enter them, does so with fear and trembling, for he knows there is danger.

This is chiefly due to the absence of water; but there is also the chance of going astray -- getting lost in the absence of landmarks. To be astray in a wilderness of any kind is a perilous predicament for the traveller -- in one without water it is death.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

After their affair with the Tenawas, the Texan Rangers directed their course towards the Llano Estacado. On starting, it was their intention to strike north, and get upon the main stream of the Canadian, then follow it up to the place where the prairie traders met their murderous doom. From the country of the Tenawa Comanches this would be the correct route, and was the same taken by these freebooters returning with the spoils of the caravan. But from the mouth of the Pecan Creek is one more direct, leading across a spur of the plateau itself, instead of turning its north-eastern extremity.

It was not known to the Rangers, though Cully remembered having heard something about it. But the Mexican renegade declared himself familiar with, and counselled taking it. There had been hesitation before acceding to his counsel. Of course, they could have no confidence in such a man, but rather suspicion of all he said or did. In guiding them across the Staked Plain he might have some sinister purpose -- perhaps lead them into a trap.

After all, how could he? The tribe of savages with which he had been consorting was now so terribly chastised, so effectually crushed, it was not probable -- scarce possible -- they would be encountered again. Certainly not for a season. For weeks there would be weeping and wailing in the tents of the Tenawas. If the renegade had any hope of being rescued from his present captivity, it could not be by them. He might have some thought of escape, taking the Rangers by the route he proposed to them. On this score they had no apprehension -- not the slightest. Suspicious, they would keep close watch upon him; shoot him down like a dog at the first sign of his attempting to deceive them. And, as Cully remembered having heard of this trail over the Staked Plain, it was most probable the Mexican had no other object than to bring them to the end of their journey in the shortest time and straightest course. All knew it would be a near cut, and this decided them in its favour.

After parting from Pecan Creek, with their faces set westward, they had a journey before them anything but easy or pleasant. On the contrary, one of the most difficult and irksome. For it lay across a sterile tract -- the great gypsum bed of North-western Texas, on which abut the bluffs of the Llano Estacado. Mile after mile, league after league; no "land in sight," to use a prairie-man's phrase -- nothing but level plain, smooth as a sleeping sea; but, unlike the last, without water -- not a sheet to cheer their eyes, not a drop to quench the thirst, almost choking them. Only its resemblance, seen in the white mist always moving over these arid plains -- the deluding, tantalising mirage. Lakes lay before them, their shores garlanded by green trees, their bosoms enamelled with islets smiling in all the verdure of spring -- always before them, ever receding; the trees, as the water, never to be reached!

Water they do arrive at more than once -- streams rushing in full flow across the barren waste. At sight they ride towards them rapidly. Their horses need not to be spurred. The animals suffer as themselves, and rush on with outstretched necks, eager to assuage their thirst. They dip their muzzles, plunge in their heads till half-buried, only to draw out again and toss them aloft with snorts of disappointment shaking the water like spray from their nostrils. It is salt!

For days they have been thus journeying. They are wearied, worn down by fatigue, hungry; but more than all, tortured by the terrible thirst --  their horses as themselves. The animals have become reduced in flesh and strength; they look like skeletons staggering on, scarce able to carry their riders.

Where is the Mexican conducting them? He has brought them into a desert. Is the journey to end in their death? It looks like enough.

Some counsel killing him, and returning on their tracks. Not all; only a minority. The majority cry "Onward!" with a thought beyond present suffering. They must find the bones of Walt Wilder and bury them! Brave men, true men, these Texan Rangers! Rough in outward appearance, often rude in behaviour, they have hearts gentle as children. Of all friends the most faithful, whether it be affection or pure camaraderie. In this case a comrade has been killed -- cruelly murdered, and in a strange manner. Its very strangeness has maddened them the more, while sharpening their desire to have a last look at his remains, and give them Christian burial. Only the fainthearted talk of retreating; the others do not think of it, and these are more than the majority.

On, therefore, they ride across treeless, grassless tracks; along the banks of streams, of whose bitter, saline waters they cannot drink, but tantalising themselves and their animals. On, on!

Their perseverance is at length rewarded. Before their eyes looms up a line of elevated land, apparently the profile of a mountain.

But no; it cannot be that.

Trending horizontally, without curvature, against the sky, they know it is not a mountain, but a mesa -- a table-land.

It is the Llano Estacado.

Drawing nearer, they get under the shadow of its beetling bluffs.

They see that these are rugged, with promontories projecting far out over the plain, forming what Spanish Americans, in their expressive phraseology, call ceja.

Into an embayment between two of the out-stretching spurs Barbato conducts them.

Joyously they ride into it, like ships long storm-tossed entering a haven of safety; for at the inner end of the concavity there is a cleft in the precipitous wall, reaching from base to summit, out of which issues a stream whose waters are sweet!

It is a branch of the Brazos River, along whose banks they have been some time travelling, lower down finding its waters bitter as gall. That was in its course through the selenite. Now they have reached the sandstone it is clear as crystal, and to them sweeter than champagne.

"Up it lies our way," says the renegade guide, pointing to the portals of the canon through which the stream debouched from the table to the lower plain.

But for that night the Rangers care hot to travel further. There is no call for haste. They are en route to bury the bones of a dead man, not to rescue one still living.



Chapter Forty Six.

A Brilliant Band.

Just as the Texan Rangers are approaching the Staked Plain on its eastern edge, another body of horsemen, about their equal in number, ascends to the same plateau, coming from the very opposite direction --  the west.

Only in point of numbers, and that both are on horseback, is there any similitude between the two troops. Individually they are unlike as human beings could be; for most of those composing the Texan party are great, strapping fellows, fair-haired, and of bright complexions; whereas they coming in the counter direction are all, or nearly all, small men, with black hair and sallow visage -- many of them dark as Indians. Between the horses of the two troops there is a proportionate disparity in size; the Texans bestriding animals of nearly sixteen hands in height, while they approaching from the west are mounted on Mexican mustangs, few over fourteen. One alone at their head, evidently their leader, rides a large American horse. In point of discipline the second troop shows superiority. It is a military organisation pur sang, and marches in regular formation, while the men composing it are armed and uniformed alike. Their uniform is that of Mexican lancers, very similar to the French, their arms the same. And just such are they; the lancers of Colonel Uraga, himself at their head.

Having crossed the Rio Pecos bottom, and climbed up the bluffs to the higher bench of the Llano Estacado, they strike out over the sterile plain.

As it is early morning, and the air is chilly, they wear their ample cavalry cloaks of bright yellow cloth. These falling back over the flanks of their horses, with their square lancer caps, plumed, and overtopped by the points of the pennoned lances, give them an imposing martial appearance. Though it is but a detachment of not over fifty men -- a single troop -- riding by twos, the files stretch afar in shining array, its sheen all the more brilliant from contrast with the sombre sterility of the desert.

A warlike sight, and worthy of admiration, if one knew it to be an expedition directed against the red pirates of the plains, en route to chastise them for their many crimes -- a long list of cruel atrocities committed upon the defenceless citizens of Chihuahua and New Mexico. But knowing it is not this -- cognisant of its true purpose -- the impression made is altogether different. Instead of admiration it is disgust; and, in place of sending up a prayer for its success, the spectator would feel apprehension, or earnestly desire its failure.

Its purpose is anything but praiseworthy. On the contrary, sinister, as may be learnt by listening to the conversation of the two who ride at the head of the detachment, some paces in advance of the first file. They are its chief and his confidential second, the ruffian Roblez.

Uraga is speaking.

"Won't our worthy friend Miranda be surprised when he sees us riding up to the door of his jacal, with these fifty fellows behind us? And the old doctor, Don Prospero? I can fancy his quizzical look through those great goggle spectacles he used to wear. I suppose they are still on his nose; but they'll fly off as soon as he sees the pennons of our lances."

"Ha! ha! ha! That will be a comical sight, colonel. But do you think Miranda will make any resistance?"

"Not likely. I only wish he would."

"Why do you wish that?"

"Ayadante! you ask a stupid question. You ought to have a clearer comprehension in the brisk, bright atmosphere of this upland plain. It should make your brain more active."

"Well, Coronel mio, you're the first man I ever saw on the way to make a prisoner who desired to meet resistance. Carrambia! I can't understand that."

"I don't desire to make any prisoner -- at least, not Don Valerian Miranda. For the old doctor, I shan't much care one way or the other. Living or dead, he can't do any great harm. Miranda I'd rather take dead."

"Ah! now I think I comprehend you."

"If he show the slightest resistance -- raise but a hand -- I shall have him that way."

"Why can't you anyhow? Surely you can deal with him as you think proper -- a refugee, a rebel?"

"There you again show your want of sense. You've got a thick skull, teniente; and would be a bad counsellor in any case requiring skilful management. This is one of the kind, and needs the most delicate manipulation."

"How so?"

"For several reasons. Remember, Roblez, we're not now acting with the Horned Lizard and his painted freebooters. Our fellows here have eyes in their heads, and tongues behind their teeth. They might wag the latter to our disadvantage if we allowed the former to see anything not exactly on the square. And if we were to shoot or cut down Miranda, he not resisting, that would be a scandal I might have difficulty in suppressing. It would spread surely, go over the country, get to the ears of the Central Government, and return to New Mexico with a weight that might overwhelm me. Besides, amigo mio, it would spoil my plan in several respects -- notably, that with the nina and others too numerous to mention. Of course, we'll kill him if we can, with fair pretext for doing so. But unless he show fight, we must take him alive, his guests along with him. I hope he will."

"I think it likely you'll have your hopes. The two Americanos are not men to submit tamely. Remember how they fought at the attack on their waggon-train, and how they got off afterwards. They're a rough couple, and likely to give us anything but a smooth reception."

"The rougher the better. That would be just as wanted, and we'll settle everything at once. If otherwise, I have my plan fixed and complete."

"What is it, colonel?"

"Not now. I'll tell you in the proper time. First to make experiment of what's immediately before us. If it succeed, we shall return this way with only women as our prisoners. If it fail, we'll have men -- four of them. A word in your ear to content you for the while. Not one of the four will ever enter the prison of Albuquerque."

"You intend sending them to some other?"

"I do."

"Where?"

"A gaol from which there can be no escape -- need I name it?"

"You need not. There's but one will answer your description -- the grave."

With this solemn conjecture the sotto voce conversation comes to a close, the ruffians riding at the head of their troop, far extending after, its files resembling the vertebrae of some grand glittering serpent on its way to seize a victim, the two in front fair types of its protruding poisonous fangs.



Chapter Forty Seven.

A Coming Cloud.

Between lovers, those who truly love, the parting is ever painful Frank Hamersley, taking leave of Adela Miranda, feels this as does Walt Wilder separating from Conchita.

There may be a difference in degree, in the intensity of their respective passions; perhaps also something in its character. Still the sentiment is the same. Both suffer at the thought of separation, feel it keenly. All the more as they reflect on what is before them -- a prospect anything but cheerful. Clouds in the sky; many chances they may never see their loved ones again. No wonder they turn towards the Del Norte with gloom in their glances and dark forebodings in their breasts. Men of less loyal hearts, less prone to the promptings of humanity, would trifle and stay; spend longer time in a dalliance so surely agreeable, so truly delightful. Not so the young Kentuckian and his older companion, the Texan. Though the love of woman is enthroned in their hearts, each has kept a corner sacred to a sentiment almost as strong, and perhaps purer. The blood of their slaughtered comrades cries from the ground, from the sand through which they saw it filtering away. They cannot find peace without responding to its appeal; and for this even the fruition of their love is to be delayed. To seek retribution they must journey on to the settlements of the Del Norte; not sure of success on arrival there, but more likely to meet failure --  perhaps imprisonment. In this there would be nothing new or strange. They would not be the first Americans to suffer incarceration without cause in a New Mexican calabozo, and lie there for long years without trial.

Once more Miranda represents the danger they are about to undergo. It does not daunt them.

"No matter," is the reckless response. "Whatever be the consequences, go we will. We must."

Thus determined to start off, after exchanging tender adieus with those left behind -- two of them in tears.

According to promise, Miranda has placed his mules at their disposal, and on these they are mounted. He has, moreover, furnished them with spare dresses from his wardrobe -- costumes of his native country, which will enable them to travel through it without attracting attention.

Starting at sunrise, it is still early morning when they reach the upper plain through the ravine between the two twin mountains. So far Colonel Miranda accompanies them, as also Don Prospero. There parting, the refugees return to the ranche, while the travellers strike out over the treeless waste, which spreads before their faces to the very verge of vision.

They have no landmark to guide them, neither rock nor tree; but the sky is without a cloud, and there is a sun in it gleaming like a globe of fire. To the experienced prairie man this is sufficient for telling every point of the compass, and they but want one. Their course is due west till they strike the Pecos; then along its bank to the crossing, thence west again through the Sierras, and on to Santa Fe.

Keeping the sun slightly on the left shoulder, they journey till near noon, when a dark object, seen a little to the right, attracts them. Not to surprise, for they well know what it is -- a grove. They can tell, too, that the trees composing it are oaks, of the species known as black-jack. Notwithstanding their stunted growth, the black-jacks are umbrageous, and give good shade. Though the sun has not yet reached meridian, its rays are of meridian heat, and strike down with fiery fervour on the surface of the parched plain.

This determines them to seek the shelter of the grove, and there make their noontide halt. It is a little but of their way; but, far as they can see ahead, no other spot offers a chance of protection against the burning beams.

The grove is a mere copse, covering scarce half an acre, and the topmost branches rise but a few feet above their heads. Still is there shade, both for them and their animals; and cover, should they require to conceal themselves -- the last a fortunate circumstance, as is soon proved. Equally fortunate their not having need to kindle a fire. In their haversacks they carry provisions already cooked.

Dismounting, they lead their males in among the trees, and there make them secure by looping the bridles to a branch. Then, laying themselves along the earth, they eat their midday meal, pull out their pipes, and follow it with a smoke.

With little thought, they are burning the last bit of tobacco which remained to the refugees. At parting, their generous host, to comfort them on their journey, presented them with the ultimate ounce of his stock; with true Spanish politeness saying nothing of this.

As they lie watching the blue film curling up among the branches of the black-jacks, as little do they reflect how fortunate for them it is not the smoke of a fire, nor visible at any great distance. Were it so, there would not be much likelihood of their ever reaching the Del Norte or leaving the Llano Estacado alive.

Not dreaming of danger in that desolate place -- at least none caused by human kind -- they remain tranquilly pulling at their pipes, now conversing of the past, anon speculating about their plans for the future.

Three or four hours elapse; the sun having crossed the meridian, begins to stoop lower. Its rays fall less fervently, and they think of continuing their journey. They have "unhitched" the mules, led them out to the edge of the copse, and are standing by the stirrup, ready to remount, when an object catches the quick eye of the ex-Ranger, causing him to utter a sharp ejaculation.

Something seen west, the way they want to go.

Pointing it out to Hamersley, the two stand observing. No great scrutiny needed to tell them 'tis a cloud of dust, although in breadth not bigger than a blanket. But while they are regarding it it gradually spreads out, at the same time showing higher above the surface of the plain.

It may be a swirl of the wind acting on the dry sand of the desert -- the first commencement of a regular whirlwind -- a thing common on the table lands of New Mexico. But it has not the round pillar-like form of the molino, nor do they believe it to be one. Both are too well acquainted with this phenomenon to be deceived by its counterfeit.

If they had any doubts, as they stand gazing these are resolved. The cloud presents a dense dark head, with a nucleus of something more solid than dust. And while guessing at the true character of this opaque central part, a circumstance occurs disclosing it. A puff of wind striking the dust causes it to swirl sideways, showing underneath a body of mounted men. Men, too, in military array, marching in double file, armed, uniformed, with lances borne erect, their blades glinting in the sun.

"Sogers!" exclaims the ex-Ranger.



Chapter Forty Eight.

Dread Conjectures.

It is Wilder who so emphatically proclaims the character of the cavalcade. He has no need, Hamersley having already made it out himself.

"Yes; they are soldiers," he rejoins, mechanically, adding, "Mexican, as a matter of course. None of our troops ever stray this fair west. 'Tis out of United States territory. The Texans claim it. But those are not Texans: they are uniformed, and carry lances. Your old friends, the Rangers, don't affect that sort of thing."

"No," responds Wilder, with a contemptuous toss of the head, "I shedn't think they did. We niver tuk to them long sticks; 'bout as much use as bean-poles. In coorse they're Mexikins, lanzeeros."

"What can they be doing out here? There are no Indians on the Staked Plain. If there were, such a small party as that, taking it to be Mexican, would not be likely to venture after them."

"Maybe it's only a advance guard, and thar's a bigger body behint. We shell soon see, as they're ridin' deerect this way. By the 'Tarnal, 'twon't do to let 'em sight us; leastwise, not till we've seen more o' them, an' know what sort they air. White men tho' they call themselves, I'd a'most as soon meet Injuns. They'd be sure to take us for Texans; and 'bout me there'd be no mistake in that. But they'd treet you the same, an' thar treetment ain't like to be civil. Pull yur mule well back among the bushes. Let's blind the brutes, or they may take it into their heads to squeal."

The hybrids are led back into the grove, tied, and zapadoed -- the last operation performed by passing a blanket, mask fashion, over their eyes. This done, the two men return to the edge of the copse, keeping themselves screened behind the outstanding trees.

In their absence the moving cohort has drawn nearer, and still advances. But slowly, and, as when first sighted, enveloped in a cloud of dust. Only now and then, as the wind wafts this aside, can be distinguished the forms of the individuals composing it. Then but for an instant, the dust again drifting around them.

Still the nimbus draws nigher, and is gradually approaching the spot where the travellers had concealed themselves.

At first only surprised at seeing soldiers on the Staked Plain, they soon become seriously alarmed. The troop is advancing towards the black-jack grove, apparently intending it for a place of bivouac; if so, there will be no chance for them to escape observation. The soldiers will scatter about, and penetrate every part of the copse. Equally idle to attempt flight on their slow-footed animals, pursued by over two score of cavalry horses.

They can see no alternative but surrender, submit to be made prisoners, and receive such treatment as their captors may think fit to extend to them.

While thus despairingly reflecting, they take note of something that restores their disturbed equanimity. It is the direction in which the Mexicans are marching. The cloud moving in slow, stately progress does not approach any nearer to the copse. Evidently the horsemen do not design halting there, but will ride past, leaving it on their left.

They are, in truth, passing along the same path from which the travellers have late deflected; only in the counter direction.

Now, for the first time, a suspicion occurs to Hamersley, shared by the Texan, giving both far greater uneasiness than if the soldiers were heading direct towards them.

It is further intensified as a fresh spurt of the desert wind sweeps the dust away, displaying in clear light the line of marching horsemen. No question as to their character now. There they are, with their square-peaked corded caps, and plumes of horsehair; their pennoned spears sloped over their shoulders; their yellow cloaks folded and strapped over the cantles of their saddles; sabres lying along thighs, clinking against spurs and stirrups -- all the picturesque panoply of lancers.

It is not this that strikes dismay into the minds of those who are spectators, for it is now struck into their heart of hearts. On one figure of the cavalcade the eyes of both become fixed; he who rides at its head.

Their attention had been first attracted to his horse, Wilder gasping out, soon as he set eyes on the animal, "Look yonner, Frank!"

"At what?"

"The fellur ridin' foremost. D'ye see the anymal he's on? It's the same we war obleeged to abandon on takin' to the rocks."

"By heavens! my horse!"

"Yurs, to a sartinty."

"And his rider! The man I fought with at Chihuahua, the ruffian Uraga!"

On recognising his antagonist in the duel, the Kentuckian gives out a groan. The Texan, too. For on both the truth flashes in all its fulness -- all its terrible reality.

It is not the possession of Hamersley's horse, identifying its rider with the destroyers of the caravan. That is nothing new, and scarce surprises them. What pains -- agonises them -- is the direction in which the soldiers are proceeding.

They can have no doubt as to the purpose of the military march, or the point to which it is tending.

"Yes," says Walt, "they're strikin' straight fur the valley, goin' 'ithout guess-work, too. Thar's a guide along, an' thar's been a treetur."

"Who do you think?"

"That Injun, Manoel. Ye remember he went on a errand 'bout a week ago, to fetch them some things that war needed. Instead, he's made diskivery o' the hidin' place o' his master, and sold that master's head. That's what he's did, sure."

"It is," mutters Hamersley, in a tone that tells of affliction too deep for speech. Before his mind is a fearful forecast. Don Valerian a prisoner to Uraga and his ruffians -- Don Prospero, too; both to be dragged back to Albuquerque and cast into a military prison. Perhaps worse still -- tried by court-martial soon as captured, and shot as soon as tried. Nor is this the direst of his previsions. There is one darker -- Adela in the company of a ribald crew, surrounded by the brutal soldiery, powerless, unprotected -- she his own dear one, now his betrothed! Overcome by his emotions he remains for some time silent, scarce heeding the remarks of his comrade. One, however, restores his attention.

"I tolt ye so," says Walt. "See! yonner's the skunk himself astride o' a mule at the tail o' the gang."

Hamersley directs his eyes to the rear of the outstretched rank. There, sure enough, is a man on muleback, dressed differently from the troopers. The coarse woollen tilma, and straw hat, he remembers as having been worn by one of Mirander's male domestics. He does not identify the man. But Walt's recollection of his rival is clearer, and he has no doubt that he on the mule is Manuel. Nor, for that matter, has Hamersley. The peon's presence is something to assist in the explanation. It clears up everything.

Hamersley breathes hard as the dark shadows sweep through his soul. For a long time absorbed in thought, he utters scarce an ejaculation. Only after the lancer troop has passed, its rearmost files just clearing the alignment of the copse, he gasps out, in a voice husky as that of one in the act of being strangled, -- 

"They're going straight for the place. O God!"

"Yes," rejoins the ex-Ranger, in a tone like despondent, "Thar boun' thar for sartint. The darned creetur's been tempted by the blood-money set on Kumel Miranda's head, an' air too like to git it. They'll grup him, sure; an's like as not gie him the garota. Poor gentleman! He air the noblest Mexikin I iver sot eyes on, an' desarves a better fate. As for the ole doc, he may get off arter sarvin' a spell in prison, an' the saynorita -- "

A groan from Hamersley interrupts the remark. His comrade, perceiving how much he is pained, modifies what he meant to say.

"Thar's no need to be so much afeard o' what may happen to her. She ain't goin' to be rubbed out, anyhow; an' if she hasn't no brother to purtect her, I reckon she's got a frien' in you, Frank. An' hyar's another o' the same, as they say in the Psalms o' Davit."

Walt's words have a hopeful sound. Hamersley is cheered by them, but replies not. He only presses the hand of his comrade in silent and grateful grasp.

"Yis," continues the ex-Ranger with increased emphasis, "I'd lay down my life to save that young lady from harum, as I know you'd lay down yourn. An' thet air to say nothin' o' my own gurl. This chile ain't niver been much guv to runnin' arter white wheemen, an' war gen'rally content to put up wi' a squaw. But sech as them! As for yourn, I don't wonder yur heart beats like a chased rabbit's; myen air doin' the same for Concheeter. Wal, niver fear! Ef thar's a hair o' eyther o' thar heads teched, you'll hear the crack o' Walt Wilder's rifle, and see its bullet go into the breast o' him as harms 'em. I don't care who or what he air, or whar he be. Nor I don't care a durn -- not the valley of a dried buffler-chip -- what may come arter -- hangin', garrotin', or shootin'. At all risks, them two sweet creeturs air bound to be protected from harum; an ef it comes, they shall be reevenged. I swar that, by the Eturnal!"

"I join you in the oath," pronounces Hamersley, with emphatic fervour, once more exchanging a hand-squeeze with his companion. "Yes, Walt; the brave Miranda may be sacrificed -- I fear it must be so. But for his sister, there is still a hope that we may save her; and surely heaven will help us. If not, I shall be ready to die. Ah! death would be easier to bear than the loss of Adela!"

"An' for this chile the same, rayther than he shed lose Concheeter."



Chapter Forty Nine.

A Cautious Commander.

No need saying that the cavalcade seen passing the copse is the lancer troop of Colonel Uraga.

Some thirty hours before, they ascended to the Staked Plain, and are now nearly across it. Guided by the traitor, they had no need to grope their way, and have made quick time. In a few hours more they will pounce upon the prey for which they have swooped so far.

The two men concealed in the grove expect them to ride on without stopping, till out of sight. Instead, they see them draw up at a few miles distance, though all remain mounted. Two separate from the rest keep on a couple of hundred yards ahead, then also halt.

These are Uraga himself, with his adjutant Roblez.

'Tis only a temporary pause to exchange counsel about the plan of proceeding -- as a falcon expands itself in the air before its last flight towards the quarry it has selected.

Before separating from his followers, Uraga has summoned to his side the youngest commissioned officer of the troop, saying, -- 

"Alferes! go back to that Indian! Send the brute on to the front here."

Manuel is the individual thus coarsely indicated.

Told that he is wanted, the peon spurs his mule forward, and places himself by the side of the commanding officer, who has meanwhile dismounted.

In the countenance of the Indian there is an expression of conscious guilt, such as may appear in that of one not hardened by habitual crime. There is even something like compunction for what he is about to do, with remorse for what he has already done. Now that he is drawing near the scene, where those betrayed by him must suffer, his reflections are anything but pleasant. Rather are they tinged with regret. Don Valerian Miranda has been an indulgent master to him, and the Dona Adela a kind mistress. On both he is bringing destruction.

And what is to be his reward? From the time of his betraying them, the moment he parted with the secret of their hiding-place, he has lost control of it.

He is no longer treated with the slightest respect. On the contrary, he to whom he communicated it behaves to him as conqueror to conquered, master to slave, forcing him forward with sword pointed at his breast, or pistol aimed at his head.

If a guide, he is no longer looked upon as a voluntary one. Nor would he be this, but for a thought that inspires, while keeping him true to his treasonous intent. When he thinks of Conchita -- of that scene in the cotton-wood grove -- of the Texan kissing her -- holding her in his fond embrace -- when the Indian recalls all this, torturing his soul afresh, then no more remorse, not a spark of regret, not a ray of repentance!

No; perish the dueno -- the duena too! Let die the good doctor, if need be -- all whom his vengeance has devoted!

"Sirrah! are those the two peaks you spoke of?"

It is Uraga who puts this interrogatory, pointing to a pair of twin summits seen rising above the horizon to eastward.

"Si Senor Coronel; they are the same."

"And you say the path leads down between them?"

"Goes down through a gulch, after keeping round the cliff."

"And there's no other by which the valley may be entered?"

"Your excellency, I did not say that. There is another entrance, but not from the upper plain here. A stream runs through, and cuts it way out beyond. Following its channel through the canon, the place can be reached from below; but not after it's been raining. Then the flood fills its bed, and there's no path along the edge. As it hasn't rained lately, the banks will be above water."

"And anyone could pass out below?"

"They could, Senor Coronel."

"We require to observe caution, Roblez," says Uraga, addressing himself to the adjutant; "else we may have made our long journey for nothing. 'Twill never do to enter the cage and find the birds flown. How far is it to the point where the river runs below?"

The question is put to the peon.

"Cinco leguas, Senor; not less. It's a long way to get round, after going down the cliff."

"Five leagues there, and five back up the canon of the stream -- quite a day's journey. If we send a detachment round 'twill take all of that. Shall we do it?"

"I don't think there's the slightest need for wasting so much time," counsels the adjutant.

"But the Indian says any one going down the defile between those hills can be seen from the house. Supposing they should see us, and retreat by the opening below?"

"No need to let them see us. We can stay above till night, then descend in the darkness. As they're not likely to be expecting visitors, there should be no great difficulty in approaching this grand mansion unannounced. Let us make our call after the hour of midnight, when, doubtless, the fair Adela will be dreaming of -- "

"Enough!" exclaims Uraga, a cloud suddenly coming over his countenance, as if the words of his subordinate recalled some unpleasant souvenir. "We shall do as you say, ayadante. Give orders for the men to dismount. We shall halt here till sunset. Meanwhile, see that this copper-skin is closely kept. To make safe, you may as well clap the manacles on him."

In obedience, Roblez takes the Indian back to the halted troop, directs him to be shackled; then gives the order for dismounting.

But not for a night camp, only for a temporary bivouac; and this without fires, or even unsaddling of the horses. The troopers are to stay by the stirrup, ready at any moment to remount.

There stay they; no longer in formation, but, as commanded, silent and motionless; only such stir as is made by snatching a morsel from their haversacks or smoking their corn-husk cigarritos.

Thus till near sundown, when, remounting, they move on.



Chapter Fifty.

Stalking The Stalker!

The spot upon which the lancer troop had halted was less than a league from the grove that gave shelter to the two Americans. In the translucent atmosphere of the tableland it looked scarce a mile. The individual forms of troopers could be distinguished, and the two who had taken themselves apart. The taller of these was easily identified as the commanding officer of the troop.

"If they'd only keep thar till arter sundown," mutters Wilder, "especially him on yur hoss, I ked settle the hul bizness. This hyar gun the doc presented to me air 'bout as good a shootin'-iron as I'd care to shet my claws on, an 'most equal to my own ole rifle. I've gin it all sorts o' trials, tharfor I know it's good for plum center at a hundred an' fifty paces. Ef yonner two squattin' out from the rest 'ill jest stay thur till the shades o' night gie me a chance o' stealin' clost enuf, thar's one o' 'em will never see daylight again."

"Ah!" exclaimed Hamersley, with a sigh of despair, and yet half hopeful, "if they would but remain there till night, we might still head them into the valley, time enough to get our friends away."

"Don't you have any sech hopes, Frank; thar's no chance o' that I kin see what the party air arter. They've made up thar mind not to 'tempt goin' inter the gully till they hev a trifle o' shadder aroun' them. They think that ef they're seen afore they git up to the house their victims might 'scape 'em. Tharfor they purpiss approachin' the shanty unobserved, and makin' a surround o' it. That's thar game. Cunnin' o' them, too, for Mexikins."

"Yes, that is what they intend doing -- no doubt of it. Oh, heavens! only to think we are so near, and yet cannot give Miranda a word of warning!"

"Can't be helped. We must put our trust in Him as hes an eye on all o' us -- same over these desert purairas an' mountains as whar people are livin' in large cities. Sartin we must trust to Him an' let things slide a bit, jest as He may direct 'em. To go out of our kiver now 'ud be the same as steppin' inter the heart o' a forest fire. Them sogers air mounted on swift horses, an' 'ud ketch up wi these slow critturs o' mules in the shakin' o' goat's tail. Thurfor, let's lie by till night. Tain't fur off now. Then, ef we see any chance to steal down inter the valley, we'll take edvantage o' it."

Hamersley can make no objection to the plan proposed. He sees no alternative but accede to it. So they remain watching the halted troop, regarding every movement with keen scrutiny.

For several hours are they thus occupied, until the sun begins to throw elongated shadows over the plain. Within half an hour of its setting the Mexicans again mount their horses and move onwards.

"Jest as I supposed they'd do," said Walt. "Thar's still all o' ten miles atween them and the place. They've mezyured the time it'll take 'em to git thur -- an hour or so arter sundown. Thar ain't the shadder o' a chance for us to steal ahead o' 'em. We must stay in this kiver till they're clar out o' sight."

And they do stay in it until the receding horsemen, who present the appearance of giants under the magnifying twilight mist, gradually grow less, and at length fade from view under the thickening darkness.

Not another moment do Hamersley and the hunter remain within the grove, but springing to their saddles, push on after the troop.

Night soon descending, with scarce ten minutes of twilight, covers the plain with a complete obscurity, as if a shroud of crape had been suddenly thrown over it.

There is no moon, not even stars, in the sky; and the twin buttes, that form the portals of the pass, are no longer discerned.

But the ex-Ranger needs neither moon, nor stars, nor mountain peaks to guide him for such a short distance. Taking his bearings before starting from the black-jack copse, he rides on in a course straight as the direction of a bullet from his own rifle, until the two mounds loom up, their silhouettes seen against the leaden sky.

"We mustn't go any furrer, Frank," he says, suddenly pulling up his mule; "leastwise, not a-straddle o' these hyar conspikerous critters. Whether the sogers hev goed down inter the valley or no, they're sartin to hev left some o' the party ahind, by way o' keepin' century. Let's picket the animals out hyar, an' creep forrad afut. That'll gie us a chance o' seeing in, 'ithout bein' seen."

The mules being disposed of as Walt had suggested, the two continue their advance.

First walking erect, then in bent attitude, then crouching still lower, then as quadrupeds on all-fours, and at length, crawling like reptiles, they make their approach to the pass that leads down into the valley.

They do not enter it; they dare not. Before getting within the gape of its gloomy portals they hear voices issuing therefrom. They can see tiny sparks of fire glowing at the lips of ignited cigars. From this they can tell that there are sentries there -- a line of them across the ravine, guarding it from side to side.

"It ain't no use tryin', Frank," whispers Wilder; "ne'er a chance o' our settin' through. They're stannin' thick all over the ground. I kin see by thar seegars. Don't ye hear them palaverin? A black snake kedn't crawl through among 'em 'ithout bein' obsarved."

"What are we to do?" asks Hamersley, in a despairing tone.

"We kin do nothin' now, 'ceptin' go back an' git our mules. We must move them out o' the way afore sun-up. 'Taint no matter o' use our squattin' hyar. No doubt o' what's been done. The main body's goed below; them we see's only a party left to guard the gap. Guess it's all over wi' the poor critters in the cabin, or will be afore we kin do anythin' to help 'em. Ef they ain't kilt, they're captered by this time."

Hamersley can scarce restrain himself from uttering an audible groan. Only the evident danger keeps him silent.

"I say agin, Frank, 'tair no use our stayin' hyar. Anythin' we kin do must be did elsewhar. Let's go back for our mules, fetch 'em away, an' see ef we kin clomb up one o' these hyar hills. Thar's a good skirtin' o' kiver on thar tops. Ef the anymals can't be tuk up, we kin leave them in some gulch, an' go on to the summut ourselves. Thar we may command a view o' all that passes. The sogers'll be sartin to kum past in the mornin', bringin' thar prisoners. Then we'll see who's along wi' 'em, and kin foller thar trail."

"Walt, I'm willing to do as you direct. I feel as if I'd lost all hope, and could give way to downright despair."

"Deespair be durned! Thar's allers a hope while thar's a bit o' breth in the body. Keep up yur heart, man! Think o' how we war 'mong them wagguns. That oughter strengthen yur gizzern. Niver say die till yur dead, and the crowner are holdin' his 'quest over yur karkidge. Thet's the doctryne o' Walt Wilder."

As if to give illustrative proof of it, he catches hold of his comrade's sleeve; with a pluck turns him around, and leads him back to the place where they had parted from the mules. These are released from their pickets, then led silently, and in a circuitous direction, towards the base of one of the buttes.

Its sides appear too steep for even a mule to scale them; but a boulder-strewed ravine offers a suitable place for secreting the animals.

There they are left, their lariats affording sufficient length to make them fast to the rocks, while a tapado of the saddle-blankets secures them against binneying.

Having thus disposed of the animals, the two men scramble on up the ravine, reach the summit of the hill, and sit down among the cedar-scrub that crowns it, determined to remain there and await the "development of events."



Chapter Fifty One.

Approaching The Prey.

Were we gifted with clairvoyance, it might at times spare us much misery, thought at other times it would make it. Perhaps 'tis better we are as we are.

Were Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder, keeping watch on the summit of the mound, possessed of second sight, they would not think of remaining there throughout all the night -- not for an hour -- nay, not so much as a minute, for they would be aware that within less than ten miles of them is a party of men with friendly hearts and strong arms, both at their disposal for the very purpose they now need such. Enough of them to strike Uraga's lancers and scatter them like chaff.

And could the man commanding these but peep over the precipitous escarpment of the Llano Estacado and see those stalwart Texans bivouacked below, he would descend into the valley with less deliberation, and make greater haste to retire out of it. He and his know nothing of the formidable foes so near, any more than Hamersley and Wilder suspect the proximity of such powerful friends. Both are alike unconscious that the Texans are encamped within ten miles. Yet they are; for the gorge at whose mouth they have halted is the outlet of the valley stream, where it debouches upon the Texan plain.

Without thought of being interfered with, the former proceed upon their ruthless expedition; while the latter have no alternative but await its issue. They do so with spirits impatiently chafing, and hearts sorely agonised.

Both are alike apprehensive for what next day's sun will show them --  perchance a dread spectacle.

Neither shuts eye in sleep. With nerves excited and bosoms agitated they lie awake, counting the hours, the minutes; now and then questioning the stars as to the time.

They converse but little, and only in whispers. The night is profoundly still. The slightest sound, a word uttered above their breath, might betray them.

They can distinctly hear the talk of the lancers left below. Hamersley, who understands their tongue, can make out their conversation. It is for the most part ribald and blasphemous, boasts of their bonnes fortunes with the damsels of the Del Norte, commingled with curses at this ill-starred expedition that for a time separates them from their sweethearts.

Among them appears a gleam greater than the ignited tips of their cigarittos. 'Tis the light of a candle which they have stuck up over a serape spread along the earth. Several are seen clustering around it; while their conversation tells that they are relieving the dull hours with a little diversion. They are engaged in gambling, and ever and anon the cries, "Soto en la puerta!" "Cavallo mozo!" ascending in increased monotone, proclaim it to be the never-ending national game of monte.

Meanwhile Uraga, with the larger body of the lancers, has got down into the glen, and is making way towards the point aimed at. He proceeds slowly and with caution. This for two distinct reasons -- the sloping path is difficult even by day, at night requiring all the skill of experienced riders to descend it. Still with the traitor at their head, who knows every step, they gradually crawl down the cliff, single file, again forming "by twos" as they reach the more practicable causeway below.

Along this they continue to advance in silence and like caution. Neither the lancer colonel nor his lieutenant has forgotten the terrible havoc made among the Tenawas by the two men who survived that fearful affray, and whom they may expect once more to meet. They know that both have guns -- the traitor has told them so -- and that, as before, they will make use of them. Therefore Uraga intends approaching stealthily, and taking them by surprise. Otherwise he may himself be the first to fall -- a fate he does not wish to contemplate. But there can be no danger, he fancies as he rides forward. It is now the mid-hour of night, a little later, and the party to be surprised will be in their beds. If all goes well he may seize them asleep.

So far everything seems favourable. No sound comes from the direction of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. The only noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry of the coyote and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle -- the Mexican nightingale -- intermittently silenced as the marching troop passes near the spot where it is perched.

Once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, Uraga commands a halt. This time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. The troopers sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their victims -- to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish!



Chapter Fifty Two.

A Bloodless Capture.

A house from which agreeable guests have just taken departure is rarely cheerful. The reverse, if these have been very agreeable -- especially on the first evening after.

The rude sheiling which gives shelter to the refugees is no exception. Everyone under its roof is afflicted with low spirits, some of them sad -- two particularly so.

Thus has it been since the early hour of daybreak, when the guests regretted spoke the parting speech.

In the ears of Adela Miranda, all day long, has been ringing that painful word, "Adios!" while thoughts about him who uttered it have been agitating her bosom.

Not that she has any fear of his fealty, or that he will prove traitor to his troth now plighted. On the contrary, she can confide in him for that, and does -- fully, trustingly.

Her fears are from a far different cause; the danger he is about to dare.

Conchita, in like manner, though in less degree, has her apprehensions. The great Colossus who has captured her heart, and been promised her hand, may never return to claim it. But, unacquainted with the risk he is going to run, the little mestiza has less to alarm her, and only contemplates her lover's absence, with that sense of uncertainty common to all who live in a land where every day has its dangers.

Colonel Miranda is discomforted too. Never before since his arrival in the valley have his apprehensions been so keen. Hamersley's words, directing suspicion to the peon, Manuel, have excited them. All the more from his having entertained something of this before. And now still more, that his messenger is three days overdue from the errand on which he has sent him.

At noon he and Don Prospero again ascend to the summit of the pass, and scan the table plain above -- to observe nothing upon it, either westwardly or in any other direction. And all the afternoon has one or the other been standing near the door of the jacal, with a lorgnette levelled up the ravine through which the valley is entered from above.

Only as the shades of night close over them do they desist from this vigil, proving fruitless.

Added to the idea of danger, they have another reason for desiring the speedy return of the messenger. Certain little luxuries he is expected to bring -- among the rest a skin or two of wine and a few boxes of cigars. For neither the colonel himself nor the ex-army surgeon are anchorites, however much they have of late been compelled to the habit. Above all, they need tobacco, their stock being out; the last ounce given to their late guests on leaving.

These are minor matters, but yet add to the cheerlessness of the time after the strangers have gone. Not less at night, when more than ever one feels a craving for the nicotian weed, to consume it in some way --  pipe, cigar, or cigaritto.

As the circle of three assemble in their little sitting-room, after a frugal supper, tobacco is the Colonel's chief care, and becomes the first topic of conversation.

"Carramba!" he explains, as if some new idea had entered his head, "I couldn't have believed in a man suffering so much from such a trifling cause."

"What are you referring to?" interrogates the doctor.

"The thing you're thinking of at this moment, amigo mio. I'll make a wager it's the same."

"As you know, colonel, I never bet."

"Nor I upon a certainty, as in this case it would be. I know what your mind's bent upon -- tobacco."

"I confess it, colonel. I want a smoke, bad as ever I did in my life."

"Sol."

"But why don't you both have it, then?"

It is Adela who thus innocently interrogates.

"For the best of all reasons," rejoins her brother. "We haven't the wherewith."

"What! no cigarittos? I saw some yesterday on one of the shelves."

"But not to day. At this moment there isn't a pinch of tobacco within twenty miles of where we sit, unless our late guests have made a very short day's march. I gave them the last I had to comfort them on the journey."

"Yes, senorita," adds the doctor, "and something quite as bad, if not worse. Our bottles are empty. The wine is out as well as the weed."

"In that," interrupts the Colonel, "I'm happy to say you're mistaken. It's not so bad as you think, doctor. True, the pigskin has collapsed; for the throat of the huge Texan was as difficult to saturate as the most parched spot on the Staked Plain. Finding it so, I took occasion to abstract a good large gourd, and set it surreptitiously aside. I did that to meet emergencies. As one seems to have arisen, I think the hidden treasure may now be produced."

Saying this, the colonel steps out of the room, soon returning with a large calabash bottle.

Conchita is summoned, and directed to bring drinking cups, which she does.

Miranda, pouring out the wine says, -- 

"This will cheer us; and, in truth, we all need cheering. I fancy there's enough to last us till Manuel makes his reappearance with a fresh supply. Strange his not having returned. He's had time to do all his bargainings and been back three days ago. I hoped to see him home before our friends took departure, so that I could better have provided them for their journey. They'll stand a fair chance of being famished."

"No fear of that," puts in Don Prospero.

"Why do you say so, doctor?"

"Because of the rifle I gave to Senor Gualtero. With it he will be able to keep both provisioned. 'Tis marvellous how he can manage it. He has killed bits of birds without spoiling their skins or even ruffling a feather. I'm indebted to him for some of my best specimens. So long as he carries a gun, with ammunition to load it, you need have no fear he or his companion will perish from hunger, even on the Llano Estacado."

"About that," rejoins Miranda, "I think we need have no uneasiness. Beyond lies the thing to be apprehended -- not on the desert, but amid cultivated fields, in the streets of towns, in the midst of so-called civilisation. There will be their real danger."

For some time the three are silent, their reflections assuming a sombre hue, called forth by the colonel's words.

But the doctor, habitually light-hearted, soon recovers, and makes an effort to imbue the others with cheerfulness like his own.

"Senorita," he says, addressing himself to Adela, "your guitar, hanging there against the wall, seems straining its strings as if they longed for the touch of your fair fingers. You've been singing every night for the last month, delighting us all I hope you won't be silent now that your audience is reduced, but will think it all the more reason for bestowing your favours on the few that remain."

To the gallant speech of pure Castilian idiom, the young lady answers with a smile expressing assent, at the same time taking hold of her guitar. As she reseats herself, and commences tuning the instrument, a string snaps.

It seems an evil omen; and so all three regard it, though without knowing why. It is because, like the strings of the instrument, their hearts are out of tune, or rather attuned to a presentiment which oppresses them.

The broken string is soon remedied by a knot; this easily done. Not so easy to restore the tranquillity of thought disturbed by its breaking.

No more does the melancholy song which succeeds. Even to that far land has travelled the strain of the "Exile of Erin." Its appropriateness to their own circumstances suggesting itself to the Mexican maiden, she sings -- 

Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me.

"Dear Adela!" interrupts Miranda. "That song is too sad. We're already afflicted with its spirit. Change it for one more cheerful. Give us a lay of the Alhambra -- a battle-song of the Cid or the Campeador --  something patriotic and stirring."

Obedient to her brother's request, the young girl changes tune and song, now pouring forth one of those inimitable lays for which the language of Cervantes is celebrated.

Despite all, the heaviness of heart remains, pressing upon those who listen as on her who sings. Adela's voice appears to have lost its accustomed sweetness, while the strings of her guitar seem equally out of tune.

All at once, while in the middle of her song, the two bloodhounds, that have been lying on the floor at her feet, start from their recumbent position, simultaneously giving utterance to a growl, and together rush out through the open door.

The singing is instantly brought to an end; while Don Valerian and the doctor rise hastily from their chairs.

The bark of watch-dog outside some quiet farmhouse, amidst the homes of civilisation, can give no idea of the startling effect which the same sound calls forth on the far Indian frontier -- nothing like the alarm felt by the dwellers in that lone ranche. To add to it, they hear a hoof striking on the stones outside -- that of either horse or mule. It cannot be Lolita's; the mustang mare is securely stalled, and the hoof-stroke comes not from the stable. There are no other animals. Their late guests have taken away the two saddle mules, while the mulas de carga are with the messenger, Manuel.

"It's he come back!" exclaims the doctor. "We ought to be rejoiced instead of scared. Come, Don Valerian! we shall have our smoke yet before going to bed."

"It's not Manuel," answers Miranda. "The dogs would have known him before this. Hear how they keep on baying! Ha! what's that? Chico's voice! Somebody has caught hold of him!"

A cry from the peon outside, succeeded by expostulations, as if he was struggling to escape -- his voice commingled with shrill screams from Conchita -- are sounds almost simultaneous.

Don Valerian strides back into the room and lays hold of his sword, the doctor clutching at the first weapon that presents itself.

But weapons are of no avail where there are not enough hands to wield them.

Into the cabin lead two entrance doors -- one front, the other back -- and into both is seen pouring a stream of armed men, soldiers in uniform.

Before Miranda can disengage his sword from its scabbard, a perfect chevaux-de-frise of lance-points are within six inches of his breast, while the doctor is similarly menaced.

Both perceive that resistance will be idle. It can only end in their instant impalement.

"Surrender, rebels!" cries a voice rising above the din.

"Drop your weapons, and at once, if you wish your lives spared! Soldiers, disarm them!"

Miranda recognises the voice. Perhaps, had he done so sooner, he would have held on to his sword, and taken the chances of a more protracted and desperate resistance.

It is too late. As the weapon is wrested from his grasp, he sees standing before him the man of all others he has most reason to fear --  Gil Uraga!



Chapter Fifty Three.

A Sleepless Night.

All night long Hamersley and the hunter remain upon the summit of the mound. It is a night of dread anxiety, seeming to them an age.

They think not of taking sleep -- they could not. There is that in their minds that would keep them wakeful if they had not slept for a week. Time passing does not lessen their suspense. On the contrary, it grows keener, becoming an agony almost unendurable.

To escape from it, Hamersley half forms the resolution to descend the hill and endeavour to steal past the sentinels. If discovered, to attack them boldly, and attempt cutting a way through; then on into the valley, and take such chances as may turn up for the rescue of the refugees.

Putting it to his companion, the latter at once offers opposing counsel. It would be more than rashness -- sheer madness. At least a dozen soldiers have been left on picket at the summit of the pass. Standing or sitting, they are scattered all over the ground. It would be impossible for anyone going down the gorge to get past them unperceived; and for two men to attack twelve, however courageous the former and cowardly the latter, the odds would be too great.

"I wouldn't mind it for all that," says Walt, concluding his response to the rash proposal, "ef thar war nothin' more to be did beyont. But thar is. Even war we to cut clar through, kill every skunk o' 'em, our work 'ud be only begun. Thar's two score to meet us below. What ked we do wi' 'em? No, Frank; we mout tackle these twelve wi' some sort o' chance, but two agin forty! It's too ugly a odds. No doubt we ked drop a good grist o' 'em afore goin' under, but in the eend they'd git the better o' us -- kill us to a sartinty."

"It's killing me to stay here. Only to think what the ruffians may be doing at this moment! Adela -- "

"Don't gie yur mind to thinkin' o' things now. Keep your thoughts for what we may do arterward. Yur Adela ain't goin' to be ate up that quick, nor yet my Concheeter. They'll be tuk away 'long wi' t'others as prisoners. We kin foller, and trust to some chance o' bein' able to git 'em out o' the clutches o' the scoundrels."

Swayed by his comrade's counsel, somewhat tranquillised by it, Hamersley resigns himself to stay as they are. Calmer reflection convinces him there is no help for it. The alternative, for an instant entertained, would be to rush recklessly on death, going into its very jaws.

They lie along the ground listening, now and then standing up and peering through the branches at the sentries below. For a long while they hear nothing save the calls of the card-players, thickly interlarded with carajoz, chingaras, and other blasphemous expressions. But just after the hour of midnight other sounds reach their ears, which absorb all their attention, taking it away from the gamesters.

Up out of the valley, borne upon the buoyant atmosphere, comes the baying of bloodhounds. In echo it reverberates along the facade of the cliff, for a time keeping continuous. Soon after a human voice, quickly followed by a second; these not echoes or repetitions of the same; for one is the coarse guttural cry of a man, the other a scream in the shrill treble of of a woman. The first is the shout of surprise uttered by Chico, the second the shriek of alarm sent forth by Conchita.

With hearts audibly beating, the listeners bend their ears to catch what may come next, both conjecturing the import of the sounds that have already reached them, and this with instinctive correctness. Walt is the first to give speech to his interpretation of it.

"They're at the shanty now," he says, in a whisper. "The two houn's guv tongue on hearin' 'em approach. That fust shout war from the Injun Cheeko; and the t'other air hern -- my gurl's. Durnation! if they hurt but a he'r o' her head -- Wagh! what's the use o' my threetenin'?"

As if seeing his impotence, the hunter suddenly ceases speech, again setting himself to listen. Hamersley, without heeding him, is already in this attitude.

And now out of the valley arise other sounds, not all of them loud. The stream, here and there falling in cataracts, does something to deaden them. Only now and then there is the neigh of a horse, and intermittently the bark of one of the bloodhounds, as if these animals had yielded, but yet remain hostile to the intruders. They hear human voices, too, but no shout following that of Chico, and no scream save the one sent up by Conchita.

There is loud talk, a confusion of speakers, but no report of firearms. This last is tranquillising. A shot at that moment heard by Hamersley would give him more uneasiness than if the gun were aimed at himself.

"Thank God!" he gasps out, after a long spell of listening, "Miranda has made no resistance. He's seen it would be no use, and has quietly surrendered. I suppose it's all over now, and they are captives."

"Wal, better thet than they shed be corpses," is the consolatory reflection of the hunter. "So long as thar's breath left in thar bodies we kin hev hope, as I sayed arready. Let's keep up our hearts by thinkin' o' the fix we war in atween the wagguns, an' arterwards thet scrape in the cave. We kim clar out o' both in a way we mout call mirakelous, an' we may yit git them clar in someat the same fashion. 'Slong's I've got my claws roun' the stock o' a good gun, wi' plenty o' powder and lead, I ain't a-goin' to deespar. We've both got that, tharfor niver say die!"

The hunter's quaint speech is encouraging; but for all, it does not hinder him and his comrade from soon after returning to a condition of despondency, if not actual despair.

A feeling which holds possession of them till the rising of the sun, and on till it reaches meridian.

When the day breaks, with eyes anxiously scrutinising, they look down into the valley. A mist hangs over the stream, caused by the spray of its cataracts.

Lifting at length, there is displayed a scene not very different from what they have been expecting.

Around the ranche they see horses picketed and soldiers moving among them or standing in groups apart; in short, a picture of military life in "country quarters."

Their point of view is too far off to identify individual forms or note the exact action carried on. This last, left to conjecture, is filled up by fancies of the most painful kind.

For long hours are they constrained to endure them -- up to that of noon. Then, the notes of a bugle, rising clear above the hissing of the cascades, foretell a change in the spectacle. It is the call, "Boots and saddles!" The soldiers are seen caparisoning their horses and standing by the stirrup.

Another blast gives the order to "Mount!" Soon after, the "Forward!" Then the troop files off from the front of the jacal, disappearing under the trees like a gigantic glittering serpent. The white drapery of a woman's dress is seen fluttering at its head, as if the reptile had seized upon some tender prey -- a dove from the cote -- and was bearing it off to its slimy lair.

For another half-hour the two men on the mound wait with nervous impatience. It requires this time to make the ascent from the centre of the valley to the upper plain. After entering among the trees, the soldiers and their captives are out of sight; but the clattering of their horses' hoofs can be heard as they strike upon the rock-strewn path. Once or twice a trumpet sound proclaims their movements upon the march.

At length the head of the troop appears, the leading files following one after the other along the narrow ledge. As they approach the summit of the pass the track widens, admitting a formation "by twos." At the trumpet call they change to this, a single horseman riding at their head.

He is now near enough for his features to be distinguished, and Hamersley's heart strikes fiercely against his ribs as he recognises them. If he had any doubt before, it is set at rest now. He sees Gil Uraga, certain of his being the man who caused the destruction of his caravan. His own horse, ridden by the robber, is proof conclusive of the crime.

He takes note that the lancer colonel is dressed in splendid style, very different from the dust-stained cavalier who the day before passed over the desert plain. Now he appears in a gorgeous laced uniform, with lancer cap and plume, gold cords and aiguillettes dangling adown his breast; for he has this morning made his toilet with care, in consideration of the company in which he intends travelling.

Neither Hamersley nor the hunter hold their eyes long upon him; they are both looking for another individual -- each his own. These soon make their appearance, their white dresses distinguishable amid the darker uniforms. During the march their position has been changed. They are now near the centre of the troop, the young lady upon her own mare Lolita, while the Indian damsel is mounted on a mule. They are free, both hand and limb, but a file in front, with another behind, have charge of them. Farther rearward is another group, more resembling captives. This is composed of three men upon mules, fast bound to saddle and stirrup, two of them having their arms pinioned behind their backs. Their animals are led each by a trooper who rides before. The two about whose security such precaution has been taken are Don Valerian and the doctor, the third, with his arms free, is Chico. His fellow-servant Manuel, also on mule-back, is following not far behind, but in his attitude or demeanour there is nothing to tell of the captive. If at times he looks gloomy, it is when he reflects upon his black treason and infamous ingratitude. Perhaps he has repented, or deems the prospect not so cheerful as expected. After all, what will be his reward? He has ruined his master and many others beside, but this will not win him the love of Conchita.

The spectators feel somewhat relieved as Colonel Miranda comes in sight. Still more as the march brings him nearer, and it can be seen that he sits his horse with no sign of having received any injury; and neither has Don Prospero. The elaborate fastenings are of themselves evidences that no hurt has happened to them. It has been a capture without resistance, as their friends hoped it would, their fears having been of a conflict to end in the death of the exiles.

One by one, and two by two, the troops come filing on, till the leader is opposite the spot where the two spectators stand crouching among the trees. These are dwarf cedars, and give the best cover for concealment. Thoroughly screened by their thickly-set boughs and dense dark foliage, Hamersley and the hunter command a clear view of everything below. The distance to the summit of the pass is about two hundred yards in a slanting direction.

As the lancer colonel approaches the spot where the picket is posted, he halts and gives an order. It is for the guard to fall in along with the rest of the troop.

At this moment a similar thought is in the minds of the two men whose eyes are upon him from above. Wilder is the first to give expression to it. He does so in an undertone, -- 

"Ef we ked trust the carry o' our rifles, Frank."

"I was thinking of it," is the rejoinder, equally earnest. "We can't I'm afraid it's too far."

"I weesh I only had my old gun; she'd a sent a bullet furrer than that. A blue pill inter his stomach 'ud simplerfy matters consid'rable. 'Tall events it 'ud git your gurl out o' danger, and mayhap all on 'em. I b'lieve the hul clanjamfery o' them spangled jay birds 'ud run at hearin' a shot. Then we ked gie 'em a second, and load an' fire half a dozen times afore they could mount up hyar -- if they'd dar to try it. Ah! it's too fur. The distance in these hyar high purairas is desprit deceivin'. Durned pity we kedn't do it. I fear we can't."

"If we should miss, then -- "

"Things 'ud only be wuss. I reck'n we'd better let'm slide now, and foller arter. Thar boun' straight for the Del Norte; but whether or no, we kin eesy pick up thar trail."

Hamersley still hesitates, his fingers alternately tightening on his gun, and then relaxing. His thoughts are flowing in a quick current --  too quick for cool deliberation. He knows he can trust his own aim, as well as that of his comrade. But the distance is doubtful, and the shots might fall short. Then it would be certain death to them; for the situation is such that there could be no chance to escape, with fifty horsemen to pursue, themselves mounted upon mules, and therewith be reached without difficulty. They might defend themselves on the mound, but not for long. Two against fifty, they would soon be overpowered. After all, it will be better to let the troop pass on. So counsels the ex-Ranger, pointing out that the prisoners will be carried on to New Mexico -- to Albuquerque, of course. He and his comrade are Americans, and not proscribed there. They can follow without fear. Some better opportunity may arise for rescuing the captives. Their prison may offer this; and from what they have heard of such places it is probable enough. A golden key is good for opening the door of any gaol in Mexico.

Only one thought hinders Hamersley from at once giving way to this reasoning -- the thought of his betrothed being in such company -- under such an escort, worse than unprotected!

Once more he scans the distance that separates him from the soldiers, his gun tightly grasped.

Could their colonel but suspect his proximity at that moment, and what is passing through his mind, he would sit with little confidence in his saddle, bearing himself less pompously.

Caution, backed by the ex-Ranger's counsel, asserts its sway, and the Kentuckian relaxes his grasp on the gun, dropping its butt to the ground.

The last files, having cleared the gap, are formed into a more compact order; when, the bugle again sounding "Forward," the march is resumed, the troop striking off over the plain in the direction whence it came.



Chapter Fifty Four.

A Man And A Mule.

Carefully as ever, Hamersley and the Texan keep to their place of concealment. They dare not do otherwise. The slope by which they ascended is treeless, the cedars only growing upon the summit. The gorge, too, by which they went up, and at the bottom of which their mules were left, debouches westwardly on the plain -- the direction in which the lancers have ridden off. Any of these chancing to look back would be sure to catch sight of them if they show themselves outside the sheltering scrub. They have their apprehensions about their animals. It is a wonder these have not been seen by the soldiers. Although standing amid large boulders, a portion of the bodies of both are visible from the place mentioned. Fortunately for their owners, their colour closely resembled the rocks, and for which the troopers may have mistaken them. More probably, in their impatience to proceed upon the return route, none of them turn their eyes in that direction.

An equally fortunate circumstance is the fact of the mules being muffled. Otherwise they might make themselves heard. Not a sound, either snort or hinney, escape them; not so much as the stamping of a hoof. They stand patient and silent, as if they themselves had fear of the men who are foes to their masters.

For a full hour after the lancers have left these stay crouching behind the cedars. Even an hour does not take the troop out of sight. Cumbered with their captives, they march at slow, measured pace -- a walk. Moreover, the pellucid atmosphere of the Staked Plain makes objects visible at double the ordinary distance. They are yet but five miles from the buttes, and, looking back, could see a man at their base, more surely one mounted.

The two who are on the summit allow quite twenty minutes more to elapse before they think of leaving it. Then, deeming it safe, they prepare to descend.

Still they are in no haste. Their intention is to follow the cavalcade, but by no means to overtake it. Nor do they care to keep it in sight, but the contrary, since that might beget danger to themselves. They anticipate no difficulty in taking up the trail of a troop like that Walt confidently declares he could do so were he blindfolded as their mules, adding, in characteristic phraseology, "I ked track the skunks by thar smell."

Saying this he proposes a "bit o' brakwist," a proposition his comrade assents to with eagerness. They have not eaten since dinner of the day before, their provisions having been left below, and the sharp morning air has given additional edge to their appetites. This at length draws them down to their mules.

Taking off the tapados to relieve the poor animals, who have somewhat suffered from being so scurvily treated, they snatch a hasty repast from their haversacks, then light their pipes for a smoke preparatory to setting forth. It is not yet time, for the soldiers are still in sight. They will wait till the last lance pennon sinks below the horizon.

Whilst smoking, with eyes bent upon the receding troop, a sound salutes their ears, causing both to start. Fortunately they draw back behind one of the boulders, and there remain listening. What they heard was certainly a hoofstroke, whether of horse or mule -- not of either of their own; these are by their sides, while the sound that has startled them appears to proceed from the other side of the mound, as if from the summit of the pass leading up out of the valley.

They hear it again. Surely it is in the gorge that goes down, or at the head of it.

Their conjecture is that one of the lancers has lagged behind, and is now en route to overtake the troop.

If it be thus what course are they to pursue? He may look back and see themselves or their animals, then gallop on and report to his comrades.

'Twould be a sinister episode, and they must take steps to prevent it.

They do so by hastily restoring the tapados and leading the mules into a cul-de-sac, where they will be safe from observation.

Again they hear the sound, still resembling a hoofstroke, but not of an animal making way over the ground in walk, trot, or gallop, but as one that refused to advance, and was jibbing.

Between them and it there seems great space, a projecting spur of the butte from which they have just descended. By climbing the ridge for a score of yards or so they can see into the gorge that goes down to the valley.

As the trampling still appears steadfast to the same point, their alarm gives place to curiosity, then impatience. Yielding to this, they scramble up the ridge that screens the kicking animal from their view.

Craning their heads over its crest, they see that which, instead of causing further fear, rather gives them joy.

Just under their eyes, in the gap of the gorge, a man is struggling with a mule. It is a contest of very common occurrence. The animal is saddled, and the man is making attempts to get his leg over the saddle. The hybrid is restive, and will not permit him to put foot in the stirrup. Ever as he approaches it shies back, rearing and pitching to the full length and stretch of the bridle-rein.

Soon as seeing him, they upon the ridge recognise the man thus vexatiously engaged. He is the peon Manuel.

"The durned scoundrel," hissed Walt, through clenched teeth. "What's kep him ahint, I wonder?"

Hamersley responds not -- he, too, conjecturing.

"By Jehorum!" continues the hunter, "it looks like he'd stayed back apurpose. Thar ked been nothin' to hinder him to go on 'long wi' the rest. The questyun air what he's stayed for. Some trick o' trezun, same as he's did afore."

"Something of the kind, I think," rejoins Hamersley, still considering.

"Wal, he's wantin' to get on bad enuf now, if the mule 'ud only let him. Say, Frank, shell I put a payriud to their conflict by sendin' a bit o' lead that way, I kin rub the varmint out by jest pressin' my finger on this trigger."

"Do you mean the man or the mule?"

"The man, in coorse. For what shed I shoot the harmless critter that's been carryin' him? Say the word, an' I'll send him to kingdom come in the twinklin' o' a goat's tail. I've got sight on him. Shall I draw the trigger?"

"For your life, don't look yonder! They're not yet out of sight. They might see the smoke, perhaps hear the crack. Comrade, you're taking leave of your senses!"

"Contemplatin' that ugly anymal below air enough to make me. It a'most druv me out o' my mind to think o' his black ungratefulness. Now, seein' hisself through the sight of a rifle 'ithin good shootin' distance, shurely ye don't intend we shud let him go!"

"Certainly not. That would be ruin to ourselves. We must either kill or capture him. But it must be done without noise, or at least without firing a shot. They're not far enough off yet."

"How d'ye devise, then?"

"Let's back to our mules, mount, and get round the ledge. We must head him before he gets out of the gap. Come on!"

Both scramble back down the slope quicker than they ascended it, knowing there is good reason for haste -- the best for their lives -- every thing may depend on capturing the peon. Should he see them, and get away, it will be worse both for them and their dear ones.

In two minutes the mules are again unmuffled and mounted. In two more they are entering the gap from outside, their masters on their backs.

These, spurring the animals to speed, enter the gorge, their eyes everywhere. They reach the spot where the peon was so late seen, striving to get into his saddle. They see the turf torn up by the hybrid's hoofs, but no man, no mule.



Chapter Fifty Five.

A Lagger Lagged.

The surprise of the two men is but momentary; for there can be no mystery about the peon's disappearance. He has simply gone down the ravine, and back into the valley. Is he on return to the house, which they know is now untenanted, and, if so, with what intent? Has he become so attached to the place as to intend prolonging his sojourn there? or has something arisen to make him discontented with the company he has been keeping, and so determined to get quit of it by hanging behind?

Something of this sort was on their minds as they last saw him over the crest of the ridge. While in conflict with his mule, he was ever and anon turning his eyes towards the point where the soldiers must have been last seen by him; for from the gap in which he was these were no longer visible. Both Hamersley and Wilder had noticed an uneasy air about him at the time, attributing it to his vexation at being delayed by the obstinacy of the animal and the fear of being left behind. Now that he had mounted and taken the back-track, the cause must be different.

"Thar's somethin' queery in what the coyoats doin'," is Walt's half-soliloquised observation; adding, "Though what he's arter tain't so eezy to tell. He must be tired o' their kumpany, and want to get shet o' it. He'll be supposin' they ain't likely to kum back arter him; an' I reck'n they won't, seein' they've got all out o' him they need care for. Still, what ked he do stayin' hyar by himself?"

Walt is still ignorant of the peon's partiality for his own sweetheart. He has had a suspicion of something, but not the deep, dire passion that burns in the Indian's heart. Aware of this, he would not dwell on the probability of the man having any intention, any more than himself, remain behind now that Conchita is gone.

"Arter all," he continues, still speaking in half soliloquy, "I don't think stayin's his game. There's somethin' else at the bottom on't."

"Can Uraga have sent him back on any errand?"

"No, that ain't it eyther. More like he's good on a errand o' his own. I reckon I ken guess it now. The traitur intends turnin' thief as well -- doin' a leetle bit o' stealin' along wi' his treason. Ye remember, Frank, thar war a goodish grit o' valleyables in the shanty --  the saynorita's jeweltry an' the like. Jest possyble, in the skrimmage, whiles they war making capter o' thar prisoners, this ugly varmint tuk devantage o' the confusion to secret a whun o' thar gimcracks, an's now goed back arter 'em."

"It seems probable enough. Still, he might have some other errand, and may not go on as far as the house. In which case, we may look for his return this way at any moment. It will never do for us to start upon their trail, leaving him coming in our rear. He would see us, and in the night might slip past and give them warning they were followed."

"All that air true. We must grup him now."

"Should we go down after him, or stay here till he comes up?"

"Neythur o' the two ways'll do. He moutn't kum along no time. If he's got plunder he won't try to overtake the sogers, but wait till they're well out o' his way. He knows the road to the Del Norte, and kin travel it by hisself."

"Then we should go down after him."

"Only one o' us. If we both purceed to the shanty there's be a chance o' passin' him on the way. He mout be in the timmer, an', seein' us, put back out hyar, an' so head us. There'd no need o' both for the capterin' sech a critter as that. I'll fetch him on his marrowbones by jest raisin' this rifle. Tharfor, s'pose you stay hyar an' guard this gap, while I go arter an' grup him. I'm a'most sartin he'll be at the shanty. Anyhow, he's in the trap, and can't get out till he's hed my claws roun' the scruff o' his neck an' my thumb on his thropple."

"Don't kill him if you can help it. True he deserves to die; but we may want a word with him first. He may give information that will afterwards prove useful to us."

"Don't be afeared, Frank. I shan't hurt a har o' his head, unless he reesists, then I must kripple him a bit. But he ain't like to show fight, such a coyoat as he!"

"All right, Walt. I'll wait for you."

"You won't hev long. Ye'd better take kiver back o' them big stones to make sure o' not bein' seen by him, shed he by any chance slip past me. An' keep yur ears open. Soon as I've treed him I'll gie a whistle or two. When ye hear that ye can kim down."

After delivering this chapter of suggestions and injunctions, the ex-Ranger heads his mule down the pass, and is soon lost to his comrade's sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff.

Hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. Keeping in the saddle, he sits in silent meditation. Sad thoughts alone occupy his mind. His prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark and doubtful. He has but little hope of being able to benefit Don Valerian Miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister -- his own betrothed -- in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to be impending over her. He does not give it a name -- he scarce dares let it take shape in his thoughts.

Nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. He is aroused from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. With a start of joy he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. The whistle is heard in three distinct "wheeps," rising clear above the hoarser sibillations of the cascades. From the direction he can tell it comes from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as possible.

On reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon arrives at the ranche.

There, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive.

The two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted dwelling.

The ex-Ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward, his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground. At his feet is the Indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured.

"I ked catched him a leetle sooner," says Walt to his comrade, coming up, "but I war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an' waited to watch him. That's the explication o' it."

He points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out --  a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a cornucopia; spilling its fruits. Hamersley recognises them as part of the penates of his late host.

"Stolen goods," continues Walt, "that's what they air. An' stole from a master he's basely betrayed, may be to death. A mistress, besides, that's been too kind to him. Darnation! that's a tortiss-shell comb as belonged to my Concheeter, an' a pair o' slippers I ken swar wur here. What shed we do to him?"

"What I intended," responds Hamersley, assuming a curious air; "first make him confess -- tell all he knows. When we've got his story out of him we can settle that next."

The confession is not very difficult to extract. With Wilder's bowie-knife gleaming before his eyes, its blade within six inches of his breast, the wretch reveals all that has passed since the moment of his first meditating treason. He even makes declaration of the motive, knowing the nobility of the men who threatened him, and thinking by this means to obtain pardon.

To strengthen his chances he goes still farther, turning traitor against him to whom he had sold himself -- Uraga. He has overheard a conversation between the Mexican colonel and his adjutant, Lieutenant Roblez. It was to the effect that they do not intend taking their prisoners all the way back to Albuquerque. How they mean to dispose of them the peon does not know.

He had but half heard the dialogue relating to Don Valerian and the doctor.

The female prisoners! Can he tell anything of what is intended with them? Though not in these terms, the question is asked with this earnestness.

The peon is unable to answer it. He does not think they are prisoners --  certainly not Conchita. She is only being taken back along with her mistress. About the senorita, his mistress, he heard some words pass between Uraga and Roblez, but without comprehending their signification.

In his own heart Hamersley can supply it -- does so with dark, dire misgivings.



Chapter Fifty Six.

"The Norte."

Westward, across the Liana Estacado, Uraga and his lancers continue on their return march. The troop, going by twos, is again drawn out in an elongated line, the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers glancing in the sun, while the breeze floats back the pennons of their lances. The men prisoners are a few files from the rear, a file on each flank guarding them. The women are at the head, alongside the guide and sub-lieutenant, who has charge of the troop.

For reasons of his own the lancer colonel does not intrude his company on the captives. He intends doing so in his own time. It has not yet come. Nor does he take any part in directing the march of the men. That duty has been entrusted to the alferez; he and Roblez riding several hundred paces in advance of the troop.

He has thus isolated himself for the purpose of holding conversation with his adjutant, unembarrassed by any apprehension of being overheard.

"Well, ayadante," he begins, as soon as they are safe beyond earshot, "what's your opinion of things now?"

"I think we've done the thing neatly, though not exactly the way you wanted it."

"Anything but that. Still, I don't despair of getting everything straight in due time. The man Manuel has learnt from his fellow-servant that our American friends have gone on to the settlements of the Del Norte. Strange if we can't find them there; and stranger still if, when found, I don't bring them to book at last. Caraja! Neither of the two will ever leave New Mexico alive."

"What about these two -- our Mexican friends?"

"For them a fate the very reverse. Neither shall ever reach it alive."

"You intend taking them there dead, do you?"

"Neither living nor dead. I don't intend taking them there at all."

"You think of leaving them by the way?"

"More than think; I've determined upon it."

"But surely you don't mean to kill them in cold blood?"

"I won't harm a hair of their heads -- neither I, nor you, nor any of my soldiers. For all that, they shall die."

"Colonel, your speech is somewhat enigmatical. I don't comprehend it."

"In due time you will. Have patience for four days more -- it may be less. Then you will have the key to the enigma. Then Don Valerian Miranda and the old rascal Don Prospero shall cease to trouble the dreams of Gil Uraga."

"And you are really determined on Miranda's death?"

"A silly question for a man who knows me as you. Of course I am."

"Well, for my part, I don't care much one way or the other, only I can't see what benefit it will be to you. He's not such a bad sort of a fellow, and has got the name of being a courageous soldier."

"You're growing wonderfully sentimental, ayadante. The tender glances of the senorita seem to have softened you."

"Not likely," rejoins the adjutant with a grim smile. "The eyes that could make impression upon the heart of Gaspar Roblez don't exist in the head of woman. If I have any weaknesses in the feminine way, it's for the goddess Fortuna. So long as I can get a pack of playing cards, with some rich gringo to face me in the game, I'll leave petticoats alone."

In turn the colonel smiles. He knows the idiosyncracy of his confederate in crime. Rather a strange one for a man who has committed many robberies, and more than once imbued his hands in blood. Cards, dice and drink are his passions, his habitual pleasure. Of love he seems incapable, and does not surrender himself to its lure, though there has been a chapter of it in his life's history, of which Uraga is aware, having an unfortunate termination, sealing his heart against the sex to contempt, almost hatred. Partially to this might be traced the fact of his having fallen into evil courses, and, like his colonel, become a robber. But, unlike the latter, he is not all bad. As in the case of Conrad, linked to a thousand crimes, one virtue is left to him --  courage. Something like a second remains in his admiration of the same quality in others. This it is that leads him to put in a word for Colonel Miranda, whose bravery is known far and wide throughout the Mexican army. Continuing to plead for him, he says -- 

"I don't see why you should trouble yourself to turn States' executioner. When we get to Santa Fe our prisoners can be tried by court-martial. No doubt they'll be condemned and shot."

"Very great doubt of it, ayadante. That might have done when we first turned their party out. But of late, things are somewhat changed. In the hills of the Moctezumas matters are again getting complicated, and just now our worthy chief, El Cojo, will scarce dare to sign a sentence of death, especially where the party to be passado por les armes is a man of note like Don Valerian Miranda."

"He must die?"

"Teniente! Turn your head round and look me straight in the face."

"I am doing so, colonel. Why do you wish me?"

"You see that scar on my cheek?"

"Certainly I do."

"Don Valerian Miranda did not give the wound that's left it, but he was partly the cause of my receiving it. But for him the duel would have ended differently. It's now twelve months gone since I got that gash, at the same time losing three of my teeth. Ever since the spot has felt aflame as if hell's fire were burning a hole through my cheek. It can only be extinguished by the blood of those who kindled it. Miranda is one of them. You've asked the question, 'Must he die?' Looking at this ugly scar, and into the eye above it, I fancy you will not think it necessary to repeat the question."

"But how is it to be done without scandal? As you yourself have said, it won't do for us to murder the man outright. We may be held to account -- possibly ourselves called before a court-martial. Had he made resistance, and given us a pretext -- "

"My dear ayadante, don't trouble yourself about pretexts. I have a plan which will serve equally as well -- my particular purpose, much better. As I've promised, you shall know it in good time -- participate in its execution. But, come, we've been discoursing serious matters till I'm sick of them. Let's talk of something lighter and pleasanter --  say, woman. What think you of my charmer?"

"The Dona Adela?"

"Of course. Could any other charm me? Even you, with your heart of flint, should feel sparks struck out of it at the sight of her."

"Certainly she's the most beautiful captive I've ever assisted at the taking of."

"Captive!" mutters Uraga, in soliloquy. "I wish she were, in a sense different."

Then, with a frown upon his face, continuing, -- 

"What matters it! When he is out of the way, I shall have it all my own way. Woo her as Tarquin did Lucretia, and she will yield not as the Roman matron, but as a Mexican woman -- give her consent when she can no longer withhold it. What is it, cabo?"

The interrogatory is addressed to a corporal who has ridden alongside, and halts, saluting him.

"Colonel, the alferez sends me to report that the Indian is no longer with us."

"What! the man Manuel?"

"The same, colonel."

"Halt!" commands Uraga, shouting aloud to the troop, which instantly comes to a stand. "What's this I hear, alferez?" he asks, riding back, and speaking to the sub-lieutenant.

"Colonel, we miss the fellow who guided us. He must have dropped behind as we came out of the gorge. He was with us on leaving the house, and along the valley road."

"It don't much signify," says Uraga, in an undertone to Roblez; "we've got all out of him we need care for. Still, it may be better to bring him along. No doubt he slipped off to settle some affair of his own --  some pilferings, I presume; and will be found at the ranche. Cabo! take a file of men, go back to the valley, and bring the loiterer along with you. As I intend marching slowly, you'll easily overtake us at our night camp."

The corporal, singling out the file as directed, rides back towards the buttes, still in sight, while the troop continues its uninterrupted march. Uraga and Roblez again go in advance, the former making further disclosure of his plans to his particeps criminis.

Their confidential dialogue has lasted about an hour, when another of the lancers riding up again interrupts it. He is a grizzled old veteran, who has once been a cibolero, and seen life upon the plains.

"What is it, Hernandez?" demands the colonel.

"Senor coronel," says the man, pointing to a little speck in the sky, that has just shown itself above the north-eastern horizon, "do you see yonder cloud?"

"Cloud! I see no cloud, unless you mean that spot on the horizon, scarce so large as the crown of my hat Is it that you mean?"

"It is, colonel. And small as it seems, there may come trouble from it. It don't look much now, but in ten minutes time it will be big enough to spread all over the sky, and over us too."

"You think so? Why, what is it, Hernandez? El Norte?"

"I'm sure of it. Carramba! I've seen it too often. Trust me, colonel, we're going to have a storm."

"In that case we'd better bring to a halt and get under shelter. I see nothing here that would screen a cat, save yonder clump of dwarf oaks. In a way it'll keep the blast off us, and, as we may as well stay under it for the night, it will furnish fuel for our fires. Ride back to the troop. Tell the alferez to bring on the men to yonder grove, and quickly. Let the tents be pitched there. Vaya!"

The ci-devant cibolero does as directed, going at a gallop; while the colonel and his adjutant trot on to the clump of blackjacks, standing some three hundred paces out of the line of march. It was the same copse that gave shade and concealment to Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder on the day preceding.

On arriving at its edge, which they do before their followers, Uraga and Roblez see the tracks of the two mules. Not without surprise, and they exchange some words regarding them. But the fast-darkening sky drives the subject out of their thoughts, and they occupy themselves in choosing a spot for pitching the tents.

Of these there are too -- one which Urago owns, the other, found in the ranche, an old marquee Miranda had carried with him in his flight. This has been brought along for the accommodation of his sister, whom Uraga has reason to treat tenderly.

Both tents are soon set up in the shelter of the black-jacks; the marquee, as ordered by Uraga, occupied by the female captives.

The lancers, having hastily dismounted, picket their horses and make other preparations for the storm, predicted by the ex-cibolero as something terrific.

Before long they see his prediction verified to the spirit and the letter.

The sky, hitherto shining like a sapphire and blue as a turquoise, becomes changed to the sombre hue of lead; then darker, as if night had suddenly descended over the sterile plain. The atmosphere, but a moment before unpleasantly hot, is now cold as winter; the thermometer is less than twenty minutes falling over forty degrees -- almost to freezing point!

It is not night which causes the darkness, nor winter the cold. Both come from an atmospheric phenomenon peculiar to the table-lands of Texas, and far more feared by the traveller. It is that called by Mexicans and styled by the ex-cibolero El Norte; by Texans known as "The Norther."

Alike dreaded by both.



Chapter Fifty Seven.

A Cumbersome Captive.

Having made prisoner of the peon, and drawn out of him all he is able to tell, his captors have a difficulty in deciding what to do with him. It will hamper them to take him along. Still they cannot leave him behind; and the young Kentuckian is not cruel enough to kill him, though convinced of his deserving death.

If left to himself, Walt might settle the question quickly. Indignant at the Indian's treason, he has now a new reason to dislike him -- as a rival.

With the ex-Ranger this last weighs little. He is sure of having the affections of Conchita. He has her heart, with the promise of her hand, and in his own confiding simplicity has no fear of failure in that sense -- not a pang of jealousy. The idea of having for a rival the abject creature at his feet, whom he could crush out of existence with the heel of his horseskin boot, is too ridiculous for him to entertain. He can laugh it to scorn.

Not for that would he now put an end to the man's life, but solely from a sense of outraged justice, with the rough-and-ready retribution to which, as a Texan Ranger, he has been accustomed.

His comrade, less prone to acts of high-handed punishment, restrains him; and the two stand considering what they are to do with their prisoner, now proving so inconvenient.

While still undecided a sound reaches their ears causing them to start and turn pale. It is the trampling of horses; there can be no mistaking it for aught else. And many of them; not two or three, or half a dozen, but a whole troop.

Uraga and his lancers have re-entered the valley! They are riding up to the ranche! What but this can it be? No other party of horsemen could be expected in that place.

And no other thought have the two men hearing the hoof strokes. They are sure it is the soldiers returning.

Instinctively they retreat into the house, without taking their prisoner along with them. Tied, he cannot stir from the spot. If he could it would make little difference now. Their determination is to defend themselves, if need be, to the death; and the hut, with its stout timber walls, is the best place they can think of. It has two doors, opening front and back, both of heavy slabs -- split trunks of the palmilla. They have been constructed strongly and to shut close, for the nights are sometimes chilly, and grizzly bears stray around the ranche.

Hastily shutting to the doors and barring them they take stand, each at a window, of which there are also two, both being in front. They are mere apertures in the log wall, and of limited dimensions, but on this account all the better for their purpose, being large enough to serve as loopholes through which they can deliver their fire.

The position is not unfavourable for defence. The cabin stands close to a cliff, with but passage way behind. In front the ground is open, a sort of natural lawn leading down to the lake; only here and there a tree diversifies its smooth surface. Across this anyone approaching must come, whether they have entered the valley from above or below. On each flank the facade of the precipice projects outward, so that the abutting points can be seen from either of the windows; and, as they are both within rifle range, an assailant attempting to turn the cabin so as to enter from the back would be exposed to the enfilading fire of those inside. For security against a surround, the spot could not have been better chosen, and with anything like a fair proportion between besiegers and besieged the former would fail. Under the circumstances, however, there is not likely to be this, and for the two men to attempt defending themselves would seem the certain sealing of their doom.

What chance for them to hold the hut against a force of fifty armed men -- soldiers -- for if the whole of the troop is returning there is this number? It may be not all have re-entered the valley -- only a party sent back to bring on the pilferer, who has been missed upon the march. In that case there will be some chance of withstanding their attack. At all hazards it is to be withstood.

What else can the two men do? Surrender, and become the prisoner of Uraga? Never! They know the relentless ruffian too well, and with too good reason. After their experience of him they need expect no mercy. The man who could leave them buried alive to die a lingering death in the gloomy recesses of a cavern, would be cruel enough not only to kill but torture them. They have to "go under," anyhow, as the prairie hunter expresses it, adding, "Ef we must die let's do so, killin' them as kills us. I'm good for half a score o' them leetle minikin Mexikins, an' I reck'n you, Frank, kin wipe out as many. We'll make it a bloody bizness for them afore the last breath leeves our bodies. Air you all churged an' riddy?"

"I am," is the response of the Kentuckian, in stern, solemn tones, showing that he, as the Texan, has made up his mind to "die killing."

Says the latter, "They'll come out through the trees yonder, where the path runs in. Let's take the fust as shows, an' drop him dead. Gie me the chance, Frank. I'm dyin' to try the doctor's gun."

"By all means do so."

"You fetch the second out o' his saddle, if a second show. That'll gie the others a scare, an' keep 'em back a bit, so's we'll hev good time to get loaded agin."

All this -- both speech and action -- has not occupied over two minutes of time. The rush inside the cabin, the closing of the doors, and taking stand at the windows, have been done in that haste with which men retreat from a tiger or flee before a prairie fire.

And now, having taken all the precautions possible, the two men wait behind the walls, gun in hand, prepared for the approach of the assailants -- themselves so sheltered by the obscurity inside as not to be seen from without.

As yet no enemy has made appearance. No living thing is seen outside, save the lump of copper-coloured humanity prostrate on the sward, beside the bag and swag he has been hindered from taking away. Still the shod hoofs are heard striking against stones, the click sounding clearer and nearer. They inside the jacal listen with bated breath, but hearts beating audibly. Hearts filled with anxiety. How could it be else? In another minute they may expect to engage in a life-and-death conflict --  for themselves too likely a death one.

Something more than anxiety stirs within them. Something of apprehension, perhaps actual fear. If so, not strange; fear, under the circumstances, excusable, even in the hearts of heroes. Stranger were it otherwise.

Whatever their emotions at the moment, they experience a sudden change, succeeded by a series. The first is surprise. While listening to the hoof strokes of the horses, all at once it appears to them that these are not coming down the valley, but up it from below. Is it a sonorous deception, caused by the sough of the cascade or reverberation from the rocks?

More intently they bend their ears, more carefully note the quarter whence proceeds the sound. Soon to answer the above question, each to himself, in the negative. Unquestionably it comes from below.

They have recovered from this, their first surprise, before a second seizes upon them. Mingling with the horses' tramp they hear voices of men. So much they might expect; but not such voices. For amidst the speeches exchanged arise roars of laughter, not such as could come from the slender gullets of puny Mexicans, nor men of the Spanish race. Nor does it resemble the savage cachinnation of the Comanche Indians. Its rough aspirate, and rude, but hearty, tone could only proceed from Celtic or Anglo-Saxon throats.

While still wondering at the sound ringing in their ears, a sight comes before their eyes which but lessens their surprise by changing it into gladness. Out of the trees at the lower end of the lake a horseman is seen riding -- after him a second. Both so unlike Uraga or any of his lancers, so different from what they would deem enemies, that the rifles of Hamersley and the hunter, instead of being aimed to deliver their fire, are dropped, butts to the ground.

Before clearing the skirt of timber, the two horsemen make halt -- only for an instant, as if to reconnoitre. They appear surprised at seeing the hut, and not less at sight of a man lying along the ground in front of it. For they are near enough to perceive that he is tied hand and foot, and to note the spilled paraphernalia beside him.

As they are men not easily to be daunted, the tableau, though it somewhat mystifies, does not affright or drive them back. Instead, they advance without the slightest show of fear. And behind the two first showing themselves follow two others, and two more, till fifty have filed out of the timber, and ride across the clear ground, heading direct for the house.

Clad in rough coats of sombre hue, jeans, blanket, and buckskin, not a few of them ragged, with hats of all shapes and styles; carrying rifles in their hands, with revolving pistols and bowie-knives in their belts, there could be no mistaking them for the gaudily-bedizened troop whose horses at sunrise of that same day trampled over the same turf. To the spectators no two cohorts could present a coup d'oeil more dissimilar. Though about equal in numbers, the two bodies of men were unlike in everything else -- arms, dresses, accoutrements; even their horses having but slight resemblance. The horsemen late upon the spot would seem dwarfs beside those now occupying it, who in comparison might be accounted giants.

Whatever the impression made upon the young prairie merchant by the sight of the newly-arrived troop, its effect upon the ex-Ranger might be compared to a shock of electricity, or the result that succeeds the inspiration of laughing-gas.

Long before the first files have reached the centre of the cleared space he has sprung to the door, pulled the bar back, slammed open the slabs, almost smashing them apart, and rushed out; when outside sending forth a shout that causes every rock to re-echo it to the remotest corner of the valley. It is a grand cry of gladness like a clap of thunder, with its lightning flash bursting forth from the cloud in which in has been pent up.

After it some words spoken more coherently give the key to its jubilant tone.

"Texas Rangers! Ye've jest come in time. Thank the Lord!"



Chapter Fifty Eight.

Old Acquaintances.

Not necessary to say that the horsemen riding up to the ranche are Captain Haynes and his company of Rangers. They have come up the canon guided by Barbato.

Even more than they is the renegade surprised at seeing a house in that solitary spot. It was not there on his last passing through the valley in company with his red-skinned confederates, the Tenawas, which he did some twelve months before. Equally astonished is he to see Walt Wilder spring out from the door, though he hails the sight with a far different feeling. At the first glance he recognises the gigantic individual who so heroically defended the waggon-train, and the other behind -- for Hamersley has also come forth -- as the second man who retreated along with him. Surely they are the two who were entombed!

The unexpected appearance produces on the Mexican an effect almost comical, though not to him. On the contrary, he stands appalled, under the influence of a dark superstitious terror, his only movement being to repeatedly make the sign of the Cross, all the while muttering Ave Marias.

Under other circumstances his ludicrous behaviour would have elicited laughter from the Rangers -- peals of it. But their eyes are not on him, all being turned to the two men who have issued out of the cabin and are coming on towards the spot where they have pulled up.

Several of them have already recognised their old comrade, and in hurried speech communicate the fact to the others.

"Walt Wilder!" are the words that leap from a dozen pairs of lips, while they, pronouncing the name with glances aghast, look as if a spectre had suddenly appeared to them.

An apparition, however, that is welcome; altogether different to the impression it has produced upon their guide.

Meanwhile, Wilder advances to meet them; as he comes on, keeping up a fire of exclamatory phrases, addressed to Hamersley, who is close behind.

"Air this chile awake, or only dreaming? Look thar, Frank! That's Ned Haynes, my old captin'. An' thar's Nat Cully, an' Jim Buckland. Durn it, thar's the hul strenth o' the kumpany."

Walt is now close to their horses' heads, and the rangers, assured it is himself and not his ghost, are still stricken with surprise. Some of them turn towards the Mexican for explanation. They suppose him to have lied in his story about their old comrade having been closed up in a cave, though with what motive they cannot guess. The man's appearance does not make things any clearer. He still stands affrighted, trembling, and repeating his Paternosters. But now in changed tone, for his fear is no longer of the supernatural. Reason reasserting itself, he has given up the idea of disembodied spirits, convinced that the two figures coming forward are real flesh and blood; the same whose blood he assisted in spilling, and whose flesh he lately believed to be decaying in the obscurity of a cave. He stands appalled as ever; no more with unearthly awe, but the fear of an earthly retribution -- a terrible one, which he is conscious of having provoked by the cruel crime in which he participated.

Whatever his fears and reflections they are not for the time intruded upon. The rangers, after giving a glance to him, turn to the two men who are now at their horses' heads; and, springing from their saddles, cluster around them with questions upon their tongues and eager expectations in their eyes.

The captain and Cully are the two first who interrogate.

"Can we be sure it's you, Walt?" is the interrogatory put by his old officer. "Is it yourself?"

"Darn me ef I know, cap. Jess now I ain't sure o' anythin', arter what's passed. Specially meetin' you wi' the rest o' the boys. Say, cap, what's fetched ye out hyar?"

"You."

"Me!"

"Yes; we came to bury you."

"Yis, hoss," adds Cully, confirming the captain's statement. "We're on the way to gie burial to your bones, not expecting to find so much flesh on 'em. For that purpiss we've come express all the way from Peecawn Crik. An' as I know'd you had a kindly feelin' for yur ole shootin' - iron, I've brought that along to lay it in the grave aside o' ye."

While speaking, Cully slips out of his saddle and gives his old comrade a true prairie embrace, at the same time handing him his gun.

Neither the words nor the weapon makes things any clearer to Walt, but rather add to their complication. With increased astonishment he cries out, -- 

"Geehorum! Am I myself, or somebody else? Is't a dream, or not? That's my ole shootin' stick, sartin. I left it over my hoss, arter cuttin' the poor critter's throat. Maybe you've got him too? I shedn't now be surprised at anythin'. Come, Nat; don't stan' shilly-shallyin', but tell me all about it. Whar did ye git the gun?"

"On Peecawn Crik. Thar we kim acrost a party o' Tenawa Kimanch, unner a chief they call Horned Lizart, o' the whom ye've heern. He han't no name now, seein' he's rubbed out, wi' the majority of his band. We did that. The skrimmage tuk place on the crik, whar we foun' them camped. It didn't last long; an' arter 'twere eended, lookin' about among thar bodies, we foun' thar beauty o' a chief wi' this gun upon his parson, tight clutched in the death-grup. Soon's seeing it I know'd 'twar yourn; an' in coorse surspected ye'd had some mischance. Still, the gun kedn't gie us any informashun o' how you'd parted wi' it. By good luck, 'mong the Injuns we'd captered a Mexikin rennygade -- thet thing ye see out thar. He war joined in Horned Lizart's lot, an' he'd been wi' 'em some time. So we put a loose larzette roun' his thrapple, an' on the promise o' its bein' tightened, he tolt us the hul story; how they hed attackted an' skuttled a carryvan, an' all 'bout entoomin' you an' a kimrade -- this young fellur, I take it -- who war wi' ye. Our bizness out hyar war to look up yur bones an' gie 'em a more Christyun kind o' beril. We were goin' for that cave, the rennygade guidin' us. He said he ked take us a near cut up the gully through which we've just come --  arter ascendin' one o' the heads o' the Loosyvana Rod. Near cut! Doggone it, he's been righter than I reck'n he thort o'. Stead o' your bones thar's yur body, wi' as much beef on't as ever. Now I've told our story, we want yourn, the which appears to be a darned deal more o' a unexplainable mistry than ourn. So open yur head, ole hoss, and let's have it."

Brief and graphic as is Cully's narrative, it takes Walt still less time to put his former associates in possession of what has happened to himself and Hamersley, whom he introduces to them as the companion of his perilous adventures -- the second of the two believed to have been buried alive!



Chapter Fifty Nine.

Mutual Explanations.

The arrival of the Rangers at that particular time is certainly a contingency of the strangest kind. Ten minutes later, and they would have found the jacal deserted; for Hamersley and Wilder had made up their minds to set off, taking the traitor along with them. The Texans would have discovered signs to tell of the place having been recently occupied by a large body of men, and from the tracks of shod horses these skilled trailers would have known the riders were not Indians. Still, they would have made delay around the ranche and encamped in the valley for that night. This had been their intention, their horses being jaded and themselves wearied making their way up the canon. Though but ten miles in a direct line, it was well nigh twenty by the winding of the stream -- a good, even difficult, day's journey.

On going out above they would have seen the trail of Uraga's party, and known it to be made by Mexican soldiers. But, though these were their sworn foemen, they might not have been tempted to follow them. The start of several hours, their own animals in poor condition, the likelihood of a larger force of the enemy being near -- all this would have weighed with them, and they would have continued on to the cave whither the renegade was guiding them -- a direction altogether different. A very singular coincidence, then, their coming up at that exact instant. It seemed the hand of Providence opportunely extended; and in this light Hamersley looked upon it, as also the ex-Ranger.

Briefly as may be they make known to the new-comers all that had transpired, or as much as for the time needs to be told. Then appeal to them for assistance.

By the Texans their cause is instantly espoused -- unanimously, without one dissenting voice. On the contrary, all are uttered with an energy and warmth that give Hamersley a world of hope. Here are friends, whose enemies are his own. And they are in strength sufficient to pursue Uraga's troop and destroy it. They may overtake it that very night; if not, on the morrow. And if not then, they will pursue it to the borders of New Mexico -- to the banks of the Del Norte itself.

His heart is no more depressed. The chance of rescuing his friends from death and saving his betrothed from dishonour is no longer hopeless. There is now a probability -- almost a certainty -- of its success. Backed by Wilder, he proposes instant pursuit.

To the Texans the proposal is like an invitation to a ball or frontier fandango. Excitement is the breath of their life, and a fight with Mexicans their joy; a pursuit of these their supremest delight. Such as this, moreover, having for its object not only the defeat of a hated foe, but the recovery of captives, beautiful women, as their old comrade Walt enthusiastically describes them, is the very thing to rouse the Rangers to energetic action, rekindling in their hearts the spirit of frontier chivalry -- the same which led them to become Rangers.

Notwithstanding their wild enthusiasm they do not proceed rashly. Haynes, their captain, is an old "Indian fighter," one of the most experienced chiefs of that Texan border warfare, so long continued.

Checking their impatience to pursue at once, he counsels prudence and deliberate action. Cully also recommends this course.

"But why should we lose a moment?" inquires the hot-blooded Kentuckian, chafing at the delay; "they cannot yet be more than ten miles off. We may overtake them before sunset."

"That's just what we mustn't do," rejoins the Ranger chief. "Suppose they get sight of us before we're near? On the naked plain, you say it is, they'd be sure to do that. What then? Their horses, I take it, are fresh, compared with ours. They might gallop off and leave us gazing after them like so many April fools. They'd have time, too, to take their prisoners along with them."

This last speech makes an impression upon all. Even Hamersley no longer offers opposition.

"Let the sun go down," continues the Texan captain; "that's just what we want. Since they're bound due west I reckon we can easily keep on their trail, clear night or dark one. Here's Nat Cully can do that; and if our friend Walt hasn't lost his old skill he can be trusted for the same."

The Ranger and ex-Ranger, both standing by, remain modestly silent.

"Our plan will be," pursues Haynes, "to approach their camp under cover of night, surround, and so make certain of them. They'll have a camp; and these Mexican soldiers are such greenhorns, they're sure to keep big fires burning, if it is only to give them light for their card-playing. The blaze'll guide us to their squatting-ground, wherever they may make it."

The captain's scheme seems so rational that no one opposes it. Walt Wilder in words signifies assent to it, and Hamersley, with, some reluctance, is at length constrained to do the same.

It is resolved to remain two hours longer in the valley, and then start for the upper plain. That will give time to recruit their horses on the nutritious gramma grass, as themselves on the game they have killed before entering the canon. This hangs plentifully over the horns of their saddles, in the shape of wild turkeys, haunches of venison, and pieces of bear meat.

The fire on the cabin hearth and those kindled by the soldiers outside are still smouldering. They are quickly replenished, and the abandoned cooking utensils once more called into use. But pointed saplings, and the iron ramrods of their rifles -- the Ranger's ordinary spit -- are in greater demand, and broiling is the style of cuisine most resorted to.

The turkeys are plucked and singed, the venison and bear meat cut into collops, and soon two score pieces are sputtering in the flames of half-a-dozen bivouac fires, while the horses, unbridled, are led out upon their lariats, and given to the grass.



Chapter Sixty.

Cross-Questioning.

While the Rangers are preparing for their Homeric repast, a group gathered in front of the jacal is occupied with an affair altogether different.

The individuals most conspicuous in it are the Texan captain, the guide Cully, Walt Wilder, and the young Kentuckian, though several besides take part in the conference.

Two others are concerned in it, though not forming figures in the group. They are some paces apart, lying on the grass, both bound. These are the traitor Manuel and the renegade Barbato.

Both Indian and Mexican appear terribly cowed and crestfallen, for both feel themselves in what Cully or Walt Wilder would call a "bad fix." They are, in truth, in a dangerous predicament; for, now that Walt and the Kentuckian have turned up alive, what with the story they have to tell, added to that already known to the Rangers -- comparing notes between the two parties -- new light is let in, floods of it, falling upon spots hitherto dark, and clearing up points confused and obscure. The two culprits are again cross-examined, and, with pistols held to their heads, forced to still further confession.

The peon repeats what he has already told, without adding much, not having much to add. With the renegade it is different. He has kept much back concerning the part played by Uraga and his lieutenant in the affair of the destroyed waggon train.

But with Hamersley, who speaks his own native tongue, now cross-questioning him, and Walt Wilder to extract his testimony by the persuasive influence of a knife-blade glistening in his eyes, he goes further, and admits the unnatural confederation that existed between the white and red robbers -- the Mexican colonel and Comanche chief. In short, to save his life, he makes a much cleaner breast of it than before, this time only keeping back his own special guiltiness in being their willing go-between.

While he is repeating his confession, all the other Rangers gather around the group to listen to him. They stand silent, with bated breath and brows contracted.

When at length they become possessed of the tale in all its diabolical atrocity, all its completeness, their anger, already excited, become almost ungovernable; and it is as much as their captain can do to restrain them from at once starting in pursuit. Some fling their spits in the fire with the meat upon them still untouched; others drop the pieces roasted and partly eaten; most demanding to be led on.

The counsels of the more prudent prevail; and again tranquillised, they recover the morsels of meat and continue their repast.

Not long, till they have reason to regret the delay and deem the prudence misplaced. Though this arises not from any mistake on the part of their counsellors, but from a circumstance entirely accidental.

While they are still in the midst of their meal, the sky, all day long of cerulean clearness, becomes suddenly clouded. Not as this term is understood in the ordinary sense, but absolutely black, as if the sun were instantly eclipsed, or had dropped altogether out of the firmament. Scarce ten minutes after its commencement the obscurity has reached completeness -- that of a total solar eclipse or as in a starless night.

Though troubled at the change, none of the Rangers are dismayed by it, or even surprised. The old prairie men are the least astonished, since they know what it means. At the first portentous sign Cully is heard crying out, -- 

"A hurricane! -- A norther!"

Wat Wilder has observed it at the same time, and confirms the prognostic. This is before any of the others have noticed aught peculiar in the aspect of the sky, and when there is just the selvedge of a cloud seen above the cliff.

All Texans understand the significance of the word "norther" -- a storm or tornado, usually preceded by a hot, stifling atmosphere, with drifting dust, accompanied by sheet or forked lightning and claps of terrific thunder, followed by wind and rain, sometimes hail or sleet, as if the sluices of heaven were drawn open, ending in a continued blast of more regular direction, but chill as though coming direct from the Arctic regions.

In less than ten minutes after its first sign, the tempest is around them. Down into the valley pours the dust, swept from the surface of the upper plain, along with it the leaves and stalks of the wild wormwood, with other weeds of the desert. Simultaneously the wind, at first in low sighs, like the sound of a distant sea; then roaring against the rocks, and swooping down among the trees, whose branches go crashing before its blast. Then succeed lightning, thunder, and rain --  the last falling, not in drops, but in sheets, as if spilled from a spout.

For shelter the Rangers rush inside the ranche, leaving their horses to take care of themselves. The latter stand cowering under the trees, neighing with affright -- the mules among them giving vent to their plaintive hinney. There are dogs, too, that howl and bark, with other sounds that come from farther off -- from the wild denizens of the wilderness; cries of the cougar in contralto, wolf-barkings in mezzo-soprano, screaming of eagles in shrill treble, snorting of bears in basso, and hooting of scared owls in lugubrious tone, to be likened only to the wailing of agonised spirits in Purgatory.

Crowded within the hut, so thickly as to have scarce standing room, the Rangers wait for the calming of the tempest. They submit with greater resignation, knowing it will not long continue. It is far from being their first experience of a "norther."

The only thought that troubles them is the delay -- being hindered from setting forth on the pursuit. True, the party to be pursued will be stayed by the same obstruction. The soldiers will have to halt during the continuance of the storm, so that the distance between will remain the same.

But then their tracks will be obliterated -- every vestige of them. The wind, the rain, and dust will do this. How is their trail to be taken up? "That will be easy enough," says one, whose self-esteem is greater than his prairie experience. He adds: "As they're going due west, we can't make any mistake by steering the same way."

"How little he knows about it!" is the muttered remark exchanged between Wilder and Cully. For they know that the deflection of a single point upon the prairies -- above all, upon the Staked Plain -- will leave the traveller, like a ship at sea without chart or compass, to steer by guesswork, or go drifting at sheer chance.

To most, the consoling thought is that the Mexicans will halt near, and stay till the storm is over. They have some baggage -- a tent or two, with other camp equipage. This is learnt from the Indian; and Hamersley, as also Wilder, have themselves made note of it.

To the returning soldiers there can be no great reason for haste, and they will not likely resume their march till the sky is quite clear. Therefore they will gain nothing in distance.

Satisfied by such assurance given by the sager ones of the party, the Rangers remain inside the hut, on the roof of which the rain dashes down, without experiencing any keen pangs of impatience. Some of them even jest -- their jokes having allusion to the close quarters in which they are packed, and other like trifles incidental to the situation.

Walt Wilder for a while gives way to this humour. Whatever may be the danger of Don Valerian and the others, he does not believe his sweetheart much exposed. The little brown-skinned damsel is not in the proscribed list; and the ex-Ranger, strong in the confidence of having her heart, with the promise of her hand, has less reason to be apprehensive about the consequences. Besides, he is now in the midst of his former associates, and the exchange of new histories and old reminiscences is sufficient to fill up the time, and keep him from yielding to impatient longing.

Of all Hamersley alone is unhappy. Despite the assurances spoken, the hopes felt, there is yet apprehension for the future. The position, however, is endurable, and only passes this point as a thought comes into his mind -- a memory that flashes across his brain, as if a bullet had struck him between the temples.

It causes him to spring suddenly to his feet, for he has been seated, at the same time wringing from him a cry of peculiar signification.

"What is it, Mr Hamersley?" asks the Ranger Captain, who is close by his side.

"My God!" exclaims the Kentuckian. "I'd forgotten. We must be off at once, or we shall be too late -- too late!"

Saying this, he makes a dash for the door, hurtling his way through the crowd close standing between.

The Rangers regard him with glances of astonishment, and doubts about his sanity. Some of them actually think he has gone mad!

One alone understands him -- Walt Wilder; though he, too, seems demented. With like incoherent speech and frantic gesture, he follows Hamersley to the door.

Both rush outside; as they do so calling back, "Come on! come on!"



Chapter Sixty One.

Into The Storm.

Lightning flashes, thunder rolls, wind bellows, and rain pours down in sheets, as if from sluices; for the storm is still raging as furiously as ever. Into it have rushed the two, regardless of all.

The Texans are astounded -- for a time some of them still believing both men mad. But soon it is seen they are acting with method, making straight for the horses, while shouting and gesticulating for the Rangers to come after.

These do not need either the shouts or signs to be repeated. Walt's old comrades know he must have reason, and, disregarding the tempest, they strike out after. Their example is electric, and in ten seconds the jacal is empty.

In ten more they are among their horses, drawing in the trail-ropes and bridling them.

Before they can get into their saddles they are made aware of what it is all about.

Hamersley and Walt, already mounted and waiting, make known to the Ranger captain the cause of their hurried action, apparently so eccentric. A few words suffice.

"The way out," says the Kentuckian, "is up yonder ravine, along the bed of the stream that runs through. When it rains as it's doing now, then the water suddenly rises and fills up the channel, leaving no room, no road. If we don't get out quick we may be kept here for days."

"Yis, boys!" adds Wilder, "we've got to climb the stairs right smart, rain or shine, storm or no storm. Hyar's one off for the upper storey, fast as his critter kin carry him."

While speaking, he jobs his heels against the ribs of his horse -- for he is now mounted on one, as also Hamersley -- supernumeraries of the Texan troop. Then, dashing off, with the Kentuckian by his side, they are soon under the trees and out of sight. Not of the Rangers, who, themselves now in the saddle, spur after in straggling line, riding at top speed.

Once again the place is deserted, for, despite their precipitate leave-taking, the Texans have carried the prisoners along with them. No living thing remains by the abandoned dwelling. The only sign of human occupation is the smoke that ascends through its kitchen chimney, and from the camp fires outside, these gradually getting extinguished by the downpour.

Still the lightning flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down as from dishes. But not to deter the Texans, who, drenched to their shirts, continue to ride rapidly on up the valley road. There is in reality no road, only a trail made by wild animals, occasionally trodden by the domesticated ones belonging to Colonel Miranda; later still by Uraga's lancers.

Soaked by the rain, it has become a bed of mud, into which the horses of the Rangers sink to their saddle girths, greatly impeding their progress. Whip and spur as they may, they make but slow time. The animals baulk, plunge, stumble, some going headforemost into the mire, others striking their shoulders against the thick-standing trees, doing damage to themselves and their riders. For with the norther still clouding the sky, it is almost dark as night.

Other dangers assail them from falling trees. Some go down bodily before the blast, while from others great branches are broken off by the wind, and strike crashing across the path. One comes near crushing half a dozen horsemen under its broad, spreading avalanche of boughs.

Notwithstanding all, they struggle on fearlessly, and fast as they can, Hamersley and Wilder at their head, Haynes, Cully, and the best mounted of the troop close following. Walt and the Kentuckian well know the way. Otherwise, in the buffeting of that terrible storm, they might fail to find it.

They succeed in keeping it, on to the head of the valley, where the stream comes in between the cliffs. A tiny runlet as they last looked upon it -- a mere brook, pellucid and sparkling as the sand on its bed. Now it is a torrent, deep, red and roaring; only white on its surface, where the froth sweeps on, clouting the cliffs on each side. Against these it has risen quite six feet, and still creeps upward. It has filled the channel from side to side, leaving not an inch of roadway between the river and rock.

To wade it would be impossible; to attempt swimming it destruction. The staunchest steed could not stem its surges. Even the huge river-horse of Africa would be swept off his feet and tossed to the surface like one of its froth-flakes.

Arriving on its edge, Hamersley sees this at a glance. As he checks up his horse, the exclamation that leaps from his lips more resembles the anguished cry of a man struggling in the torrent than one seated safely in a saddle on its bank.

After it, he gives utterance to two words in sad despairing tone, twice repeated, -- 

"Too late -- too late!"

Again repeated by Walt Wilder, and twenty times again by a score of the Rangers who have ridden up, and reined their horses crowdingly behind.

There is no response save echo from the rocks, scarce audible through the hoarse sough of the swollen surging stream, that rolls relentlessly by, seeming to say, as in scorn, "Ford me! swim across me if you can!"



Chapter Sixty Two.

A Short Shrift.

Difficult -- indeed, impossible -- for pen to describe the scene consequent upon the arrival of the Rangers by the banks of the swollen stream, and finding it unfordable.

Imagine a man who has secured passage by a ship bound for some far-off foreign land, and delayed by some trifling affair, comes upon the pier to see the hawser cast off, the plank drawn ashore, the sails spread, himself left hopelessly behind!

His chagrin might be equal to that felt by the Texans, but slight compared with what harrows the hearts of Hamersley and Walt Wilder. To symbolise theirs, it must be a man missing his ship homeward bound, with sweetheart, wife, child awaiting him at the end of the voyage, and in a port from which vessels take departure but "few and far between."

These two, better than any of the Texans, understand the obstruction that has arisen, in the same proportion as they are aggrieved by it. Too well do they comprehend its fatal import. Not hours, but whole days, may elapse before the flood subsides, the stream can be forded, the ravine ascended, and the pursuit continued.

Hours -- days! A single day -- an hour -- may seal the fate of those dear to them. The hearts of both are sad, their bosoms racked with anguish, as they sit in their saddles with eyes bent on the turbid stream, which cruelly forbids fording it.

In different degree and from a different cause the Texans also suffer. Some only disappointment, but others real chagrin. These last men, whose lives have been spent fighting their Mexican foemen, hating them from the bottom of their hearts. They are those who knew the unfortunate Fanning and the lamented Bowie, who gave his name to their knives; some of themselves having escaped from the red massacre of Goliad and the savage butchery of the Alamo.

Ever since they have been practising the lex talionis -- seeking retaliation, and oft-times finding it. Perhaps too often wreaking their vengeance on victims that might be innocent. Now that guilty ones -- real Mexican soldiers in uniform, such as ruthlessly speared and shot down their countrymen at Goliad and San Antonio -- now that a whole troop of these have but the hour before been within reach -- almost striking distance -- it is afflicting, maddening, to think they may escape.

And the more reflecting on the reason, so slight and accidental -- a shower of rain swelling a tiny stream. For all this, staying their pursuit as effectively as if a sea of fire separated them from the foe, so despised and detested.

The lightning still flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down.

No use staying any longer by the side of the swollen stream, to be tantalised by its rapid, rushing current, and mocked by its foam-flakes dancing merrily along.

Rather return to the forsaken ranche, and avail themselves of such shelter as it may afford.

In short, there seems no alternative; and, yielding to the necessity, they rein round, and commence the backward march, every eye glancing gloomily, every brow overcast.

They are all disappointed, most of them surly as bears that had been shot in the head, and have scratched the place to a sore. They are just in the humour to kill anyone, or anything, that should chance in their way.

But there is no one, and nothing; and, in the absence of an object to spend their spite upon, some counsel wreaking it on their captives -- the traitor and renegade.

Never during life were these two men nearer their end. To all appearance, in ten minutes more both will be dangling at the end of a rope suspended from a limb of a tree.

They are saved by a circumstance for them at least lucky, if unfortunate for some others.

Just as a half-score of the Rangers have clumped together under a spreading pecan-tree, intending to hang them upon one of its branches, a horse is heard to neigh. Not one of their own, but an animal some way off the track, amid the trees. The hail is at once responded to by the steeds they are bestriding; and is promptly re-answered, not by one horse, but three neighing simultaneously.

A strange thing this, that calls for explanation. What horses can be there, save their own? And none of the Rangers have ridden in the direction whence the "whighering" proceeds.

A dozen of them do so now; before they have gone far, finding three horses standing under the shadow of a large live oak, with three men mounted on their backs, who endeavour to keep concealed behind its broad buttressed trunk.

In vain. Guided by the repeated neighing and continuous tramp of their horses, the Rangers ride up, close around, and capture them.

Led out into the light, the Texans see before them three men in soldier garb -- the uniform of Mexican lancers. It is the corporal squad sent back by Uraga to bring on the truant traitor.

Of their errand the Rangers know nought, and nothing care. Enough that three of their hated foemen are in their hands, their hostility intensified by the events of the hour.

No more fuel is needed to fire them up. Their vengeance demands a victim, and three have offered ready to hand.

As they ride back to the road, they leave behind them a tableau, telling of a spectacle just passed -- one having a frightful finale. From a large limb of the live oak, extending horizontally, hang three men, the Mexican lancers. They are suspended by the neck, dangling, dead!



Chapter Sixty Three.

A Split Trail.

The Texans ride on to the ranche. They still chafe at being thwarted of a vengeance; by every man of them keenly felt, after learning the criminality of the Lancer Colonel. Such unheard of atrocity could not help kindling within their breasts indignation of the deepest kind.

The three soldiers strung up to the trees have been its victims.

But this episode, instead of appeasing the executioners, has only roused them, as tigers who have tasted blood hindered from banqueting on flesh.

They quite comprehend the position in which the norther has placed them. On the way Hamersley and Wilder, most discomforted of all, have made them aware of it. The swollen stream will prevent egress from the valley till it subsides.

There is no outlet save above and below, and both these are now effectually closed, shutting them up as in a strong-walled prison. On each side the precipice is unscalable. Even if men might ascend, horses could not be taken along; and on such a chase it would be hopeless for them to set out afoot.

But men could not go up the cliff.

"A cat kedn't climb it," says Walt, who during his sojourn in the valley has explored every inch of it. "We've got to stay hyar till the flood falls. I reckon no one kin be sorrier to say so than this chile. But thar's no help for 't."

"Till the flood falls? When will that be?"

No one can answer this, not even Wilder himself. And with clouded brows, sullen, dispirited, they return to the jacal.

Two days they stay there, chafing with angry impatience. In their anger they are ready for the most perilous enterprise. But, although bitterly cursing the sinister chance that hinders pursuit, deeming each hour a day, they can do nought save wait till the swollen stream subsides.

They watch it with eager solicitude, constantly going to the bank to examine it, as the captain of a ship consults his weather-glass to take steps for the safety of his vessel. All the time one or another is riding to, or returning from, the head of the valley, to bring back report of how the subsidence progresses.

And long ere the stream has returned to its regular channel, they plunge their horses into it, breasting a current that almost sweeps them off their feet. But the Texan horses are strong, as their riders are skilful; the obstacle is surmounted, and the Rangers at length escape from their prolonged and irksome imprisonment.

It is mid-day, as filing up the pass, they reach the higher level of the Llano. Not many moments do they remain there; only long enough for the rear files to get out of the gorge, when those in front move forward across the plain, guided by the two best trackers in Texas, Nat Cully and Walt Wilder.

At first there is no following of a trail, since there is none visible. Wind, rain, and drifted dust have obliterated every mark made by the returning soldiers. Not a sign is left to show the pursuers the path Uraga's troop has taken.

They know it should be westward, and strike out without waiting to look for tracks.

For the first ten or twelve miles they ride at a rapid rate, often going in a gallop. Their horses, rested and fresh, enable them to do so. They are only stayed in their pace by the necessity of keeping a straight course -- not so easy upon a treeless plain, when the sun is not visible in the sky. Unluckily for them, the day is cloudy, which renders it more difficult. Still, with the twin buttes behind -- so long as these are in sight they keep their course with certainty; then, as their summits sink below the level of the plain, another landmark looms up ahead, well known by Walt Wilder and Hamersley. It is the black-jack grove where, two days before, they made their midday meal.

The Rangers ride towards it, with the intention also to make a short halt there and snatch a scrap from their haversacks.

When upon its edge, before entering among the trees, they see that which decides them to stay even less time than intended -- the hoof-prints of half a hundred horses!

Going inside the copse, they observe other signs that speak of an encampment. Reading these with care, they can tell that it has not long been broken up. The ashes of the bivouac fires are scarce cold, while the hoof-marks of the horses show fresh on the desert dust, for the time converted into mud. Wilder and Cully declare that but one day can have passed since the lancers parted from the spot; for there is no question as to who have been bivouacking among the black-jacks.

A day -- only a day! It will take full five before the soldiers can cross the Sierras and enter the valley of the Del Norte. There may still be a chance of overtaking them. All the likelier, since, cumbered with their captives, and not knowing they are pursued, they may be proceeding at a leisurely pace.

Cheered by this hope, and freshly stimulated, the Texans do not even dismount, but, spurring forth upon the plain, again ride rapidly on, munching a mouthful as they go.

They are no longer delayed by any doubt as to course. The trail of the lancer troop is now easily discernible, made since the storm passed over. Any one of the Rangers could follow it in a fast gallop.

At this pace they all go, only at intervals drawing in to a walk, to breathe their blown steeds for a fresh spurt.

Even after night has descended they continue on, a clear moonlight enabling them to lift the trail.

As next morning's sun breaks over the Llano Estacado they descend its western slope into the valley of the Rio Pecos.

Traversing its bottom, of no great breadth, they reach the crossing of the old Spanish trail, from Santa Fe to San Antonio de Bejar.

Fording the stream, on its western bank, they discover signs which cause them to come to a halt, for some time perplexing them. Nothing more than the tracks of the troop they have been all the while pursuing, which entered the river on its left side. Now on its right they are seen the same, up the sloping causeway of the bank. But on reaching the bottom, a little aback from the water's edge, the trail splits into two distinct ramifications, one continuing westward towards the Sierras, the other turning north along the stream. The first shows the hoof-marks of nigh forty horses, the second only ten or twelve.

Unquestionably the Mexican colonel had here divided his troop, the main body proceeding due west, the detachment striking up stream.

The route taken by this last would be the old Spanish road for Santa Fe, the first party proceeding on to Albuquerque.

For a time the pursuing Texans are at fault, as foxhounds by a fence, over which Reynard has doubled back to mislead them. They have halted at the bifurcation of the trails, and sit in their saddles, considering which of the two they should take.

Not all remain mounted. Cully and Wilder have flung themselves to the ground, and, in bent attitudes, with eyes close to the surface, are scanning the hoof-marks of the Mexican horses.

The others debate which of the two troops they ought to take after, or whether they should themselves separate and pursue both. This course is opposed by a majority, and it is at length almost decided to continue on after the main body, which, naturally enough, they suppose to have Uraga at its head, with the captives in keeping.

In the midst of their deliberations a shout calls the attention of all, concentrating it on Walt Wilder. For it is he who has uttered the cry. The ex-Ranger is seen upon his knees, his great body bent forward, with his chin almost touching the ground. His eyes are upon the hoof-marks of a horse -- one of those that went off with the smaller detachment along the river's bank.

That he has identified the track is evident from the speech succeeding his ejaculation.

"Yur hoss, Hamersley! Hyar's his futprint, sure. An', as he's rud by Urager, the scoundrel's goed this way to a sartinty. Eqwally sartin, he's tuk the captives along wi' him."

On hearing their old comrade declare his prognosis, the Rangers wheel their horses and ride towards him.

Before reaching the spot where he is still prospecting, they see him give a sudden spring forward, like a frog leaping over meadow sward, then pause again, scrutinising a track.

A second examination, similar to the first, tells of another discovery. In like manner explained, by his speech close following, -- 

"An' hyar's the track o' the mare -- the yeller mustang as war rid by the saynorita. An', durn me, that's the hoof-mark o' the mule as carried my Concheter. Capting Haynes! Kumrades! No use botherin' 'bout hyar any longer. Them we want to kum up wi' are goed north 'long this trail as leads by the river bank."

Not another word is needed. The Rangers, keen of apprehension and quick to arrive at conclusions, at once perceive the justness of those come to by their old comrade. They make no opposition to his proposal to proceed after the smaller party.

Instead, all signify assent; and in ten seconds after they are strung out into a long line, going at a gallop, their horses' heads turned northward up the right bank of the Rio Pecos.



Chapter Sixty Four.

A Sylvan Scene.

Perhaps no river on all the North American continent is marked with interest more romantic than that which attaches to the Rio Grande of Mexico. On its banks has been enacted many a tragic scene -- many an episode of Indian and border war -- from the day when the companions of Cortez first unfurled Spain's pabellon till the Lone Star flag of Texas, and later still the banner of the Stars and Stripes, became mirrored on its waves.

Heading in the far-famed "parks" of the Rocky Mountains, under the name of Rio Bravo del Norte, it runs in a due southerly direction between the two main ranges of the Mexican "Sierre Madre;" then, breaking through the Eastern Cordillera, it bends abruptly, continuing on in a south-easterly course till it espouses ocean in the great Mexican Gulf.

Only its lower portion is known as the "Rio Grande;" above it is the "Bravo del Norte."

The Pecos is its principal tributary, which, after running through several degrees of latitude parallel to the main stream, at length unites with it below the great bend.

In many respects the Pecos is itself a peculiar river. For many hundred miles it courses through a wilderness rarely traversed by man, more rarely by men claiming to be civilised. Its banks are only trodden by the savage, and by him but when going to or returning from a raid. For this turbid stream is a true river of the desert, having on its left side the sterile tract of the Llano Estacado, on its right dry table plains that lead up to the Sierras, forming the "divide" between its waters and those of the Bravo del Norte.

On the side of the Staked Plain the Pecos receives but few affluents, and these of insignificant character. From the Sierras, however, several streams run into it through channels deeply cut into the plain, their beds being often hundreds of feet below its level. While the plateau above is often arid and treeless, the bottom lands of these tributaries show a rich luxuriant vegetation, here and there expanding into park-like meadows, with groves and copses interspersed.

On the edge of one of these affluents, known as the Arroyo Alamo (Anglice "Cottonwood Creek"), two tents are seen standing -- one a square marquee, the other a "single pole," of the ordinary conical shape.

Near by a half score of soldiers are grouped around a bivouac fire, some broiling bits of meat on sapling spits, others smoking corn-husk cigarettes, all gaily chatting. One is some fifty paces apart, under a spreading tree, keeping guard over two prisoners, who, with legs lashed and hands pinioned, lie prostrate upon the ground.

As the soldiers are in the uniform of Mexican lancers, it is needless to say they belong to the troop of Colonel Uraga. Superfluous to add that the two prisoners under the tree are Don Valerian Miranda and the doctor.

Uraga himself is not visible, nor his adjutant, Roblez. They are inside the conical hut, the square one being occupied by Adela and her maid.

After crossing the Pecos, Uraga separated his troop into two parties. For some time he has sent the main body, under command of his alferez, direct to Albuquerque, himself and the adjutant turning north with the captives and a few files as escort and guard. Having kept along the bank of the Pecos till reaching the Alamo, he turned up the creek, and is now en bivouac in its bottom, some ten miles above the confluence of the streams.

A pretty spot has he selected for the site of his encampment. A verdant mead, dotted with groves of leafy alamo trees, that reflect their shadows upon crystal runlets silently coursing beneath, suddenly flashing into the open light like a band of silver lace as it bisects a glade green with gramma grass. A landscape not all woodland or meadow, but having also a mountain aspect, for the basaltic cliffs that on both sides bound the valley bottom rise hundreds of feet high, standing scarce two hundred yards apart, grimly frowning at each other, like giant warriors about to begin battle, while the tall stems of the pitahaya projecting above might be likened to poised spears.

It is a scene at once soft and sublime -- an Eden of angels beset by a serried phalanx of fiends; below, sweetly smiling; above, darkly frowning and weirdly picturesque. A wilderness, with all its charms, uninhabited; no house in sight; no domestic hearth or chimney towering over it; no smoke, save that curling aloft from the fire lately kindled in the soldiers' camp. Beasts and birds are its only habitual denizens; its groves the chosen perching place of sweet songsters; its openings the range of the prong-horn antelope and black-tailed deer; while soaring above, or seated on prominent points of the precipice, may be seen the caracara, the buzzard, and bald-headed eagle.

Uraga has pitched his tents in an open glade of about ten acres in superficial extent, and nearly circular in shape, lying within the embrace of an umbrageous wood, the trees being mostly cotton woods of large dimensions. Through its midst the streamlet meanders above, issuing out of the timber, and below again entering it.

On one side the bluffs are visible, rising darkly above the tree-tops, and in the concavity underneath stand the tents, close to the timber edge, though a hundred paces apart from each other. The troop horses, secured by their trail-ropes, are browsing by the bank of the stream; and above, perched upon the summit of the cliff, a flock of black vultures sun themselves with out-spread wings, now and then uttering an ominous croak as they crane their necks to scan what is passing underneath.

Had Uraga been influenced by a sense of sylvan beauty, he could not have chosen a spot more suitable for his camping-place.

Scenic effect has nought to do with his halting there. On the contrary, he has turned up the Alamo, and is bivouacking on its bank, for a purpose so atrocious that no one would give credit to it unacquainted with the military life of Mexico in the days of the Dictator Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. This purpose is declared in a dialogue between the lancer colonel and his lieutenant, occurring inside the conical tent shortly after its being set up.

But before shadowing the bright scene we have painted by thoughts of the dark scheme so disclosed, let us seek society of a gentler kind. We shall find it in the marquee set apart for Adela Miranda and her maid.

It scarce needs to say that a change is observable in the appearance of the lady. Her dress is travel-stained, bedraggled by dust and rain; her hair, escaped from its coif, hangs dishevelled; her cheeks show the lily where but roses have hitherto bloomed. She is sad, drooping, despondent.

The Indian damsel seems to suffer less from her captivity, having less to afflict her -- no dread of that terrible calamity which, like an incubus, broods upon the mind of her mistress.

In the conversation passing between them Conchita is the comforter.

"Don't grieve so, senorita," she says, "I'm sure it will be all right yet. Something whispers me it will. It may be the good Virgin -- bless her! I heard one of the soldiers say they're taking us to Santa Fe, and that Don Valerian will be tried by a court martial -- I think that's what he called it. Well, what of it? You know well he hasn't done anything for which they can condemn him to death -- unless they downright assassinate him. They dare not do that, tyrants as they are."

At the words "assassinate him," the young lady gives a start. It is just that which is making her so sad. Too well she knows the man into whose hands they have unfortunately fallen. She remembers his design, once nigh succeeding, only frustrated by that hurried flight from their home. Is it likely the fiend will be contented to take her brother back and trust to the decision of a legal tribunal, civil or military? She cannot believe it; but shudders as she reflects upon what is before them.

"Besides," pursues Conchita, in her consolatory strain, "your gallant Francisco and my big, brave Gualtero have gone before us. They'll be in Albuquerque when we get there, and will be sure to hear of our arrival. Trust them for doing something to save Don Valerian."

"No, no," despondingly answers Adela, "they can do nothing for my brother. That is beyond their power, even if he should ever reach there. I fear he never will -- perhaps, none of us."

"Santissima! What do you mean, senorita? Surely these men will not murder us on the way?"

"They are capable of doing that -- anything. Ah! Conchita, you do not know them. I am in as much danger as my brother, for I shall choose death rather than -- "

She forbears speaking the word that would explain her terrible apprehension. Without waiting for it, Conchita rejoins -- 

"If they kill you, they may do the same with me. Dear duena, I'm ready to die with you."

The duena, deeply affected by this proffer of devotion, flings her white arms around the neck of her brown-skinned maid, and imprints upon her brow a kiss, speaking heartfelt gratitude.

For a time the two remain enlocked in each other's arms, murmuring words of mutual consolation. Love levels all ranks, but not more than misery -- perhaps not so much. In the hour of despair there is no difference between prince and peasant, between the high-born dame and the lowly damsel accustomed to serve her caprices and wait upon her wishes.

Adela Miranda has in her veins the purest sangre azul of Andalusia. Her ancestors came to New Spain among the proud conquistadores; while those of Conchita, at least on the mother's side, were of the race conquered, outraged, and humiliated.

No thought of ancestral hostility, no pride of high lineage on one side, or shame of low birth on the other, as the two girls stand inside the tent with arms entwined, endeavouring to cheer one another.

Under the dread of a common danger, the white doncella and the dusky damsel forget the difference in the colour of their skins; and for the first time feel themselves sisters in the true sisterhood of humanity.



Chapter Sixty Five.

Two Scoundrels In Council.

Simultaneous with the scene in the square marquee a dialogue is taking place within the conical tent, the speakers being Uraga and Roblez.

The colonel is reclining on a bearskin, spread over the thick sward of grass, which forms a soft couch underneath. The lieutenant sits on a camp-stool beside.

Both are smoking; while from a canteen and two cups, resting upon the top of a bullock trunk, comes a perfume which tells they have also been indulging in a drink.

Uraga is thoughtful and silent; Roblez patiently waiting for him to speak. The adjutant has but late entered the tent and delivered his report about the pitching of the camp, the arrangements of which he has been superintending.

"You've stationed a look-out as I directed?" the Colonel inquires, after a long silence.

"I have."

"I hope you've placed him so that he can command a good view of the valley below?"

"He's on a spur of the cliff, and can see full five miles down stream. May I ask, colonel, whom we may expect to come that way? Not pursuers, I take it?"

Uraga does not make immediate reply. There is evidently something in his thoughts he hesitates to communicate to his subordinate. The answer he at length vouchsafes is evasive.

"Whom may we expect? You forget those fellows left behind on the Llano. The corporal and two men, whether they've found the Indian or not, will make all haste after us. Fear of falling in with some party of Apaches will stimulate their speed. I wonder why they haven't got up long ago. Something strange about that."

"No doubt the storm has detained them."

"Do you think it's been that, ayadante?"

"I can't think of anything else, colonel. Anyhow, they wouldn't be likely to come here, but go on straight to Albuquerque. The corporal is a skilled rastrero, and, reaching the place where the troop separated, he'd be pretty sure to follow the trail of the larger party. All the more from his knowing it the safer one, so far as savages are concerned."

"I hope he has done so. We don't want him here."

Saying this, Uraga resumes his thoughtful attitude and silently puffs away at his cigar, apparently watching the smoke as it curls up and spreads against the canvas.

Roblez, who appeared anxious about something, after a time again essays speech. He puts the interrogatory, -- 

"How long are we to remain here?"

"That will depend on -- "

Uraga does not complete the response -- at least not till after taking several whiffs at his weed.

"On what?" asks the impatient subordinate.

"Many matters -- circumstances, events, coincidences."

"May I know what they are. You promised to tell me, colonel."

"I did -- in time. It has not yet come. One thing I may now make known. When we leave this camping-place we shall take no prisoners along with us."

"You intend setting them free?" The question is asked, not with any idea that this is Uraga's design, but to draw out the explanation.

"Free of all cares in this world, whatever may be their troubles in the next."

"They are to die, then?"

"They are to die."

"You mean only the men -- Don Valerian and the doctor?"

"What a ruffian you are, Roblez! By your question you must take me for the same -- a sanguinary savage. I'm not so bloodthirsty as to think of killing women, much less one so sweet as the Senorita Miranda. Men don't desire the deaths of their own wives -- at least, not till after the honeymoon. The Dona Adela is to be mine -- shall, and must!"

"I am aware that is your wish, and as things stand you have a fair chance of obtaining it. You can have her without spilling her brother's blood. Excuse me, colonel, but I can see no reason why he should not be let live, at least till we take him to Santa Fe, There a prison will hold him safe, and a court-martial can be called, which, with the spirit just now abroad, will condemn him in one day, and execute him on the morning of the next. That would keep you clear from all suspicion of over-haste, which may attach to you if you take the thing into your own hands here."

"Bah! you talk like a child, teniente! The security of a prison in New Mexico, or the chances of a prisoner being condemned, far less executed, are things merely imaginary. All the more now that there's some probability of a change in the political sky. Clouds have shown themselves on the horizon at the capital -- talk that our good friend Gameleg is going out again. Before the storm comes I for one intend making myself secure. As the husband of Adela Miranda, owning all that belongs to her brother, and which will be hers after his death, I shall care but little who presides in the Halls of the Moctezumas. Priest-party or patriots, 'twill be all the same to me."

"Why not become her husband and let the brother live?"

"Why? Because that cannot be."

"I don't see any reason against it. Both are in your power. You may easily make terms."

Uraga, impressed with the observation, remains for a while silent, considering. To aid reflection he smokes harder than ever.

Resuming speech, he asks, -- 

"How do you counsel?"

"As I've said, colonel. Make terms with Miranda. Knowing his life to be in your hands, he will listen to reason. Extract from him a promise -- an oath, if need be -- that he will consent to his sister becoming your wife; at the same time settling a portion of his property on the newly married pair. It's big enough to afford all of you a handsome income. That's what I would do."

"He might promise you here. What security against breaking his word when we get to Albuquerque?"

"No need waiting for Albuquerque to give him the chance. You seem to forget that there are churches between, and priests not over-scrupulous. For instance, the cure of Anton Chico, and his reverence who saves souls in the pueblita of La Mora. Either one will make man and wife of you and the Senorita Adela without asking question beyond whether you can produce coin sufficient to pay the marriage fees. Disbursing freely, you may ensure the ceremonial in spite of all protest, if any should arise. There can be none."

Uraga lights a fresh cigar, and continues smoking, reflecting. The counsel of his subaltern has made an impression on him -- put the thing in a new light. After all, what harm in letting Miranda live? Enough of revenge compelling him to consent that his sister shall be the wife of one she has scornfully rejected. If he refuse -- if both do so -- what then?

The interrogatory is addressed to Roblez.

"Your position," answers the adjutant, "will be no worse than now. You can still carry out the design you've hinted at without doing me the honour to entrust it to me. Certainly no harm can arise from trying my plan first. In ten minutes you may ascertain the result."

"I shall try it," exclaims Uraga, springing to his feet and facing towards the entrance of the tent. "You're right, Roblez. It's a second string to the bow I had a thought about. If it snap, let it. But if it do, before long -- aye, before to-morrow's sun shines into our camp -- the proud beauty may find herself brotherless, her sole chance of protection being the arms of Gil Uraga."

Saying this, he pitches away the stump of his cigar, and strides forth from the tent, determined to extract from Adela Miranda a promise of betrothal, or in lieu of it decree her brother's death.



Chapter Sixty Six.

A Brother Sorely Tempted.

After stepping forth from the tent Uraga pauses to reflect. The course counselled by Roblez seems reasonable enough. If he can but force the girl's consent, it will not be difficult to get it sealed. There are priests in the frontier pueblitas who will be obedient to a power superior to the Church -- even in Mexico, that Paradise of padres. Gold will outweigh any scruples about the performance of the marriage ceremony, however suspicion! the circumstances under which the intending bride and bridegroom may prevent themselves at the altar. The lancer colonel is well aware of this.

But there are other points to be considered before he can proceed farther with the affair. His escort must not know too much. There are ten of them, all thorough cut-throats, and, as such, having a fellow-feeling for their commanding officer. Not one of them but has committed crime, and more than one stained his soul with murder. Nothing strange for Mexican soldiers under the regime of Santa Anna. Not rare even among their officers.

On parting with the main body Uraga selected his escort with an eye to sinister contingencies. They are the sort to assist in any deed of blood. If ordered to shoot or hang the captives they would obey with the eagerness of bloodhounds let loose from the leash, rather relishing it as cruel sport.

For all, he does not desire to entrust them with the secret of his present scheme.

They must not overhear the conversation which he intends holding with his captives; and to prevent this a plan easily suggests itself.

"Holla!" he hails a trooper with chevroned sleeves, in authority over the others. "Step this way, sergente."

The sergeant advances, and saluting, awaits further speech from the colonel.

"Order boots and saddles!" directs the latter.

The order is issued; and the soldiers soon stand by their stirrups ready to mount, wondering what duty they are so unexpectedly to be sent upon.

"To horse!" commands the Colonel, vicariously through his non-commissioned officer. "Ride up the creek, and find if there is a pass leading out above. Take all the men with you; only leave Galvez to keep guard over the prisoners."

The sergeant, having received these instructions, once more salutes. Then, returning to the group of lancers, at some distance off, gives the word "Mount!" The troopers, vaulting into their saddles, ride away from the ground, Galvez alone staying behind, who, being a "familiar" with his colonel, and more than once his participator in crimes of deepest dye, can be trusted to overhear anything.

The movement has not escaped the observation of the two men lying tied under the tree. They cannot divine its meaning, but neither do they augur well of it. Still worse, when Uraga, calling to Galvez to come to him, mutters some words in his ear.

Their apprehensions are increased when the sentry returns to them, and, unfastening the cord from the doctor's ankles, raises him upon his feet, as if to remove him from the spot.

On being asked what it is for, Galvez does not condescend to give an answer, except to say in a gruff voice that he has orders to separate them.

Taking hold of the doctor's arm, he conducts him to a distance of several hundred yards, and, once more laying him along the ground, stands over him as before in the attitude of a sentry. The action is suspicious, awe-inspiring -- not more to Don Prospero than Miranda himself.

The latter is not left long to meditate upon it. Almost instantly he sees the place of his friend occupied by his enemy. Gil Uraga stands beside him.

There is an interval of silence, with only an interchange of glances; Don Valerian's defiant, Uraga's triumphant. But the expression of triumph on the part of the latter appears held in check, as if to wait some development that may either heighten or curb its display.

Uraga breaks silence -- the first speech vouchsafed to his former commanding officer since making him a prisoner.

"Senor Miranda," he says, "you will no doubt be wondering why I have ordered your fellow-captive to be taken apart from you. It will be explained by my saying that I have words for you I don't wish overheard by anyone -- not even by your dear friend, Don Prospero."

"What words, Gil Uraga?"

"A proposal I have to make."

Miranda remains silent, awaiting it.

"Let me first make known," continues the ruffian, "though doubtless you know it already, that your life is in my power. If I put a pistol to your head and blow out your brains there will be no calling me to account. If there was any danger of that, I could avoid it by giving you the benefit of a court-martial. Your life is forfeit to the state; and our military laws, as you are aware, can be stretched just now sufficiently to meet your case."

"I am aware of it," rejoins Miranda, his patriotic spirit roused by the reflection; "I know the despotism that now rules my unfortunate country. It can do anything, without respect for either laws or constitution."

"Just so," assents Uraga; "and for this reason I approach you with my proposal."

"Speak it, then. Proceed, sir, and don't multiply words. You need not fear of their effect. I am your prisoner, and powerless."

"Since you command me to avoid circumlocution, I shall obey you to the letter. My proposal is that, in exchange for your life -- which I have the power to take, as also to save -- you will give me your sister."

Miranda writhes till the cords fastening his wrists almost cut through the skin. Withal, he is silent; his passion too intense to permit of speech.

"Don't mistake me, Don Valerian Miranda," pursues his tormentor, in a tone intended to be soothing. "When I ask you to give me your sister I mean it in an honourable sense. I wish her for my wife; and to save your life she will consent to become so, if you only use your influence to that end. She will not be a faithful sister if she do not. I need not tell you that I love her; you know that already. Accept the conditions I offer, and all will be well. I can even promise you the clemency of the State; for my influence in high places is somewhat different from what it was when you knew me as your subordinate. It will enable me to obtain free pardon for you."

Miranda still remains silent -- long enough to rouse the impatience of him who dictates, and tempt the alternative threat already shaping itself on his tongue.

"Refuse," he continues, his brow suddenly clouding, while a light of sinister significance flashes from his eyes, "Refuse me, and you see not another sun. By that now shining you may take your last look of the earth; for this night will certainly be your last on it alive. Observe those vultures on the cliff! They are whetting their beaks, as if they expected a banquet. They shall have one, on your body, if you reject the terms I've offered. Accept them, Don Valerian Miranda; or before to-morrow's sun reaches meridian the birds will be feeding upon your flesh, and the wild beasts quarrelling over your bones. Answer me, and without prevarication. I demand plain speech, yes or no."

"No!" is the monosyllable shouted, almost shrieked, by him so menaced. "No!" he repeats; "never shall I consent to that. I am in your power, Gil Uraga. Put your pistol to my head, blow out my brains, as you say you can do with impunity. Kill me any way you wish, even torture. It could not be more painful than to see you the husband of my sister, either by my consent or her own. You cannot force mine upon such disgraceful conditions, nor yet gain her's. My noble Adela! She would rather see me die, and die along with me."

"Ha! ha!" responded Uraga, in a peal of mocking laughter, mingled with a whine of chagrin, "we shall see about that. Perhaps the senorita may not treat my offer quite so slightingly as yourself. Women are not so superbly stupid. They have a keener comprehension of their own interests. Your sister may better appreciate the honour I am intending her. If not, Heaven help her and you! She will soon be without a brother. Adios, Don Valerian! I go to pour speech into softer ears. For your own sake, hope -- pray -- that my proposal may be more favourably received."

Saying this, Uraga turns upon his heel and abruptly walks away, leaving behind his captive with hands tied and heart in a tumult of anguished emotion.



Chapter Sixty Seven.

A Sister Sorely Tried.

The marquee occupied by Adela Miranda and her maid is not visible from the spot where her brother lies bound. The other tent is between, with some shrubbery further concealing it.

But from the tenour of his last speech, Don Valerian knows that Uraga has gone thither, as also his object.

Chagrined by the denial he has received from the brother, roused to recklessness, he resolves on having an answer from the sister, point-blank, upon the instant.

With slight ceremony he enters her tent. Once inside, he mutters a request, more like a command, for Conchita to withdraw. He does this with as much grace as the excited state of his feelings permits, excusing himself on the plea that he wishes a word with the senorita --  one he is sure she would not wish to be heard by other ears than her own.

Aroused from a despondent attitude, the young lady looks up, her large round eyes expressing surprise, anger, apprehension, awe. The mestiza glances towards her mistress for instructions. The latter hesitates to give them. Only for an instant. It can serve no purpose to gainsay the wishes of one who has full power to enforce them, and whose demeanour shows him determined on doing so.

"You can go, Conchita," says her mistress; "I will call you when you are wanted."

The girl moves off with evident reluctance, but stops not far from the tent.

"Now, Don Gil Uraga," demands the lady, on being left alone with the intruder, "what have you to say to me that should not be overheard?"

"Come, senorita! I pray you will not commence so brusquely. I approach you as a friend, though for some time I may have appeared in the character of an enemy. I hope, however, you'll give me credit for good intentions. I'm sure you will when you know how much I'm distressed by the position I'm placed in. It grieves me that my instructions compel such harsh measures towards my two prisoners: but, in truth, I can say no discretion has been left me. I act under an order from headquarters."

"Senor," she rejoins, casting upon him a look of scornful incredulity, "you have said all this before. I suppose you had something else to speak of."

"And so I have, senorita. Something of a nature so unpleasant I hesitate to tell it, fearing it may sadly shock you."

"You need not. After what has passed I am not likely to be nervous."

Despite her natural courage, and an effort to appear calm, she trembles, as also her voice. There is an expression on the face of the man that bodes sinister risings -- some terrible disclosure.

The suspense is too painful to be borne; and in a tone more firm and defiant she demands the promised communication.

"Dona Adela Miranda," he rejoins, speaking in a grave, measured voice, like a doctor delivering a prognosis of death, "it has been my duty to make your brother a prisoner -- a painful one, as I have said. But, alas! the part I've already performed is nothing compared with that now required of me. You say you are prepared for a shock. What I'm going to say will cause you one."

She no longer attempts to conceal alarm. It is now discernible in her large, wondering eyes.

"Say it!"

The words drop mechanically from her lips, drawn forth by the intensity of her apprehension.

"You are soon to be without a brother!"

"What mean you, senor?"

"Don Valerian dies within the hour."

"You are jesting, sir. My brother has not been sick? He is not wounded? Why should he die?"

She speaks hurriedly, and with an incredulous stare at Uraga; while at the same time her heaving, palpitating bosom shows she too truly believes what he said.

"Don Valerian is not sick," continues the unfeeling wretch, "nor yet has he received any wound. For all this, in less than an hour he must die. It is decreed."

"Madre de Dios! You are mocking me. His death decreed! By whom?"

"Not by me, I assure you. The military authorities of the country have been his judges, and condemned him long ago, as also Don Prospero. It only needed their capture to have the sentence carried out. This disagreeable duty has been entrusted to me. My orders at starting were to have both shot on the instant of making them captives. For your sake, senorita, I've so far disobeyed the rigorous command -- an act which may cost me my commission. Yes, Dona Adela, for your sake."

The tale is preposterous, and might seem to her who hears it a lie, but for her knowledge of many similar occurrences in the history of her native land, "Cosas de Mexico." Besides, her own and her brother's experience render it but too probable.

"Dios de mi alma!" she cries out in the anguish of conviction, "can this be true?"

"It is true."

"Colonel Uraga, you will not carry out this cruel sentence! It is not an execution -- it is an assassination! You will not stain your soul with murder?"

"I must obey orders."

"My poor brother! Have mercy! You can save him?"

"I can."

"You will? You will?"

"I will!"

The emphasis with which these two words are pronounced brings a flush of gratefulness over her face, and she makes a forward movement as if to thank him by a pressure of the hand. She might have given it but for the cast upon his features, telling his consent not yet obtained, nor his speech finished. There is more to come -- two other words. They are -- 

"Upon conditions!"

They check her bursting gratitude. Conditions! She knows not what they may be. But she knows the character of Gil Uraga, and can predict they will be hard.

"Name them!" she demands. "If it be money, I'm ready to give it. Though my brother's property is taken from him, as we've heard, not so mine. I have wealth -- houses, lands. Take all, but save Valerian's life."

"You can save it without expending a single claco; only by giving a grace."

"What mean you, senor?"

"To explain my meaning I'll repeat what I've said. Your brother's head is forfeit. It can be saved by a hand."

"Still I do not understand you. A hand?"

"Yes, your hand."

"How?"

"Grasped in mine -- united with it in holy wedlock. That is all I ask."

She starts as if a serpent had stung her, for she now comprehends all.

"All I ask," he continues in a strain of fervid passion, "I who love you with my whole soul; who have loved you for long hopeless years -- aye, senorita, ever since you were a schoolgirl; myself a rough, wild youth, the son of a ranchero, who dared only gaze at you from a distance. I am a peasant no longer, but one who has wealth; upon whom the State has bestowed power to command; made me worthy to choose a wife from among the proudest in our land -- even to wed with the Dona Adela Miranda, who beholds him at her feet!"

While speaking he has knelt before her, and remains upon his knees awaiting her response.

She makes none. She stands as if petrified, deprived of the power of speech.

Her silence gives him hope.

"Dona Adela," he continues in an appealing tone, as if to strengthen the chances of an affirmative answer, "I will do everything to make you happy -- everything a husband can. And remember your brother's life! I am risking my own to save it. I have just spoken to him on the subject. He does not object; on the contrary, has given consent to you being mine."

"You say so?" she inquires, with a look of incredulity. "I do not believe it -- will not, without hearing it from his own lips."

While speaking, she springs past the kneeling suppliant, and, before he can get upon his legs or stretch forth a hand to detain her, she has glided out of the tent, and makes for the place where she supposes the prisoners to be kept.

Starting to his feet, Uraga rushes after. His intent is to overtake and bring her back, even if he have to carry her.

He is too late. Before he can come up with her she has reached the spot where her brother lies bound, and kneels beside him with arms embracing, her lips pressing his brow, his cheeks moistened by her tears.



Chapter Sixty Eight.

A Terrible Intention.

Not for long does the scene of agonised affection remain uninterrupted. In a few seconds it is intruded on by him who is causing its agony.

Uraga, hastening after, has reached the spot and stands contemplating it. A spectacle to melt a heart of stone, it has no softening effect on his. His brow his black with rage, his eyes shining like coals of fire.

His first impulse is to call Galvez and order him to drag brother and sister apart. His next to do this himself. He is about seizing Adela's wrist, when a thought restrains him. No melting or impulse of humanity. There is not a spark of it in his bosom. Only a hope, suddenly conceived, that with the two now together he may repeat his proposal with a better chance of its being entertained.

From the expression upon their countenances he can see that in the interval before his coming up words have passed between them -- few and hastily spoken, but enough for each to have been told what he has been saying to the other. It does not daunt; on the contrary, but determines him to renew his offer, and, if necessary, reiterate his threats.

There is no one within earshot for whom he need care. Galvez has taken Don Prospero far apart. Roblez is inside the tent, though he thinks not of him; while the Indian damsel, who stands trembling by, is not worth a thought. Besides, he is now more than ever regardless of the result.

"Don Valerian Miranda!" he exclaims, recovering breath after his chase across the camp-ground. "I take it your sister has told you what has passed between us. If not, I shall tell you myself."

"My sister has communicated all -- even the falsehood by which you've sought to fortify your infamous proposal."

"Carramba!" exclaims Uraga, upon whose cheeks there is no blush of shame for the deception practised. "Does the offer to save your life, at risk of my own -- to rescue you from a felon's death -- does that deserve the harsh epithet with which you are pleased to qualify it? Come, senor, you are wronging me while trifling with your own interests. I have been honest, and declared all. I love the Dona Adela, as you've known, long. What do I ask? Only that she shall become my wife, and, by so doing, save the life of her brother. As your brother-in-law it will be my duty, my interest, my pleasure, to protect you."

"That you shall never be!" firmly rejoins Miranda. "No, never!" he adds, with kindling fervour, "never, on such conditions!"

"Does the senorita pronounce with the same determination?" asks Uraga, riveting his eyes on Adela.

It is a terrible ordeal for the girl. Her brother lying bound by her side, his death about to be decreed, his end near as if the executioner were standing over him -- for in this light does Uraga appear. Called upon to save his life by promising to become the wife of this man --  hideous in her eyes as the hangman himself; knowing, or believing, that if she does not, in another hour she may be gazing upon a blood-stained corpse -- the dead body of her own brother! No wonder she trembles from head to foot, and hesitates to endorse the negative he has so emphatically pronounced.

Don Valerian notes her indecision, and, firmly as before, repeats the words, -- 

"No -- never!" adding, "Dear sister, think not of me. Do not fear or falter; I shall not. I would rather die a hundred deaths than see you the wife of such a ruffian. Let me die first!"

"Chingara!" hisses the man thus boldly defied, using the vilest exclamation known to the Spanish tongue. "Then you shall die first. And, after you're dead, she shall still be my wife, or something you may not like so well -- my Margarita!"

The infamous meaning conveyed by this word, well understood by Miranda, causes him to start half-upright, at the same time wrenching at the rope around his wrists. The perspiration forced from him by the agony of the hour has moistened the raw-hide thong to stretching. It yields to the convulsive effort, leaving his hands released.

With a quick lurch forward he clutches at the sword dangling by Uraga's side. Its hilt is in his grasp, and in an instant he has drawn the blade from its scabbard!

Seeing himself thus suddenly disarmed, the Lancer Colonel springs back shouting loudly for help. Miranda, his ankles bound, is at first unable to follow, but with the sword-blade he quickly cut the thongs, and is on his feet -- free!

In another instant he is chasing Uraga across the camp-ground, the latter running like a scared hound.

Before he can be overtaken, the trampling of hoofs resound upon the grassy turf, and the returned lancers, with Roblez and the sentry, close around the prisoner.

Don Valerian sees himself encircled by a chevaux de frise of lances, with cocked carbines behind. There is no chance of escape, no alternative but surrender. After that -- 

He does not stop to reflect. A wild thought flashes across his brain -- a terrible determination. To carry it out only needs the consent of his sister. She had rushed between their horses and stands by his side, with arms outstretched to protect him.

"Adela!" he says, looking intently into her eyes, "dear sister, let us die together!"

She sees the sword resolutely held in his grasp. She cannot mistake the appeal.

"Yes; let us, Valerian!" comes the quick response, with a look of despairing resignation, followed by the muttered speech of "Mother of God, take us both to thy bosom! To thee we commit our souls!"

He raises the blade, its point towards his sister -- in another moment to be buried in her bosom, and afterwards in his own!

The sacrifice is not permitted, though the soldiers have no hand in hindering it. Dismayed or careless, they sit in their saddles without thought of interfering. But between their files rushes a form in whose heart is more of humanity.

The intruder is Conchita -- opportune to an instant.

Two seconds more, and the fratricidal sword would have bereft her of a mistress and a master, both alike beloved.

Both are saved by her interference; for grasping the upraised arm, she restrains it from the thrust.

Roblez, close following, assists her, while several of the lancers, now dismounted, fling themselves upon Miranda and disarm him.

The intending sororicide and suicide is restored to his fastenings; his sister taken back to her tent; a trooper detailed to stand sentry beside and frustrate any attempt at a second escapade.



Chapter Sixty Nine.

An Intercepted Dispatch.

While the thrilling incident described is occurring in Uraga's camp, the Rangers, en route along the banks of the Pecos, are making all the haste in their power to reach it, Hamersley and Wilder every now and then saying some word to urge them on.

In pursuit of such an enemy the Texans need no pressing. 'Tis only the irrestrainable impatience of the two whose souls are tortured by the apprehension of danger hovering over the heads of those dear to them. There is no difficulty in lifting the trail of the soldiers. Their horses are shod, and the late storm, with its torrent of rain, has saturated the earth, obliterating all old hoof-marks, so that those later made are not only distinct but conspicuous. So clear, that the craft of Cully and Wilder is not called into requisition. Every Ranger riding along the trail can take it up as fast as his horse is able to carry him.

All see that Uraga has taken no pains to blind the track of his party. Why should he? He can have no suspicion of being pursued; certainly not by such pursuers.

Along the trail, then, they ride rapidly; gratified to observe that it grows fresher as they advance for they are travelling thrice as fast as the men who made it.

All at once they come to a halt -- summoned to this by a sight which never fails to bring the most hurried traveller to a stand. They see before them the dead body of a man!

It is lying on a sand-spit, which projects into the river. Upon this it has evidently been washed by the waters, now subsiding after the freshet, due to the late tornado. Beside it shows the carcase of a mule, deposited in similar manner. Both are conspicuous to the Rangers as they ride abreast of the spit; but their attention has been called to them long before by a flock of buzzards, some hovering above, others alighting upon the sandbank.

Six or seven of the Texans, heading their horses down the sloping bank, ride towards the "sign" -- so sad, yet terribly attractive. It would tempt scrutiny anywhere; but in the prairie wilderness, in that dangerous desert, it may be the means of guiding to a path of safety, or warding from one that is perilous.

While those who have detached themselves proceed out upon the sand-bar, the main body remains upon the high bank, awaiting their return.

The dead man proves to be an Indian, though not of the bravos, or savage tribes. Wearing a striped woollen talma, with coarse cotton shirt underneath, wide sheep-skin breeches, ex tending only a little below the knee, and rude raw-hide sandals upon his feet, he is evidently one of the Christianised aboriginals.

There are no marks of violence on his body, nor yet on the carcase of the mule. The case is clear at a glance. It is one of drowning; and the swollen stream, still foaming past, is evidence eloquent of how it happened. On the man's body there are no signs of rifling or robbery. His pockets, when turned inside out, yield such contents as might be expected on the person of an Indio manso.

Only one thing, which, in the eyes of the examinators, appears out of place; a sheet of paper folded in the form of a letter, and sealed as such. It is saturated with water, stained to the hue of the still turbid stream. But the superscription can be read, "Por Barbato."

So much Cully and Wilder, who assist at the examination, can make out for themselves. But on breaking open the seal, and endeavouring to decipher what is written inside, both are at fault, as also the others along with them. The letter is in a language that is a sealed book to all. It is in Spanish.

Without staying to attempt translating it, they return to the river's bank, taking the piece of paper along, for the superscription has touched a tender point, and given rise to strange suspicions.

Walt carries the wet letter, which, soon as rejoining their comrades, he places in the hands of Hamersley. The latter, translating, reads aloud:

"Senor Barbato, -- As soon as you receive this, communicate its contents to the chief. Tell him to meet me on the Arroyo de Alamo -- same place as before -- and that he is to bring with him twenty or thirty of his painted devils. The lesser number will be enough, as it's not an affair of fighting. Come yourself with them. You will find me encamped with a small party -- some female and two male captives. No matter about the women. It's the men you have to deal with; and this is what you are to do. Charge upon our camp the moment you get sight of it; make your redskins shout like fiends, and ride forward, brandishing their spears. You won't meet resistance, nor find any one on the ground when you've got there, only our two prisoners, who will be fast bound, and so cannot flee with us. What's to be done with them, amigo mio, is the important part -- in fact, the whole play. Tell the chief they are to be speared upon the spot, thrust through as soon as you get up to them. See to this yourself, lest there be any mischance; and I'll take care you shall have your reward."

Made acquainted with the contents of this vile epistle, the rage of the Rangers, already sufficiently aroused, breaks from all bounds, and, for a while, seeks vent in fearful curses and asseverations. Though there is no name appended to the diabolical chapter of instructions, they have no doubt as to who has dictated it. Circumstances, present and antecedent, point to the man of whom they are in pursuit -- Gil Uraga.

And he to whom the epistle is superscribed, "Por Barbato."

A wild cry ascends simultaneously from the whole troop as they face round towards the renegade, who is still with them, and their prisoner. The wretch turns pale, as if all the blood of his body were abruptly drawn out. Without comprehending the exact import of that cry, he can read in fifty pairs of eyes glaring angrily on him that his last hour has come.

The Rangers can have no doubt as to whom the letter has been addressed, as they can also tell why it has miscarried. For the renegade has already disclosed his name, not thinking it would thus strangely turn up to condemn him to death.

Yes -- to death; for, although promised life, with only the punishment of a prison, these conditions related to another criminality, and were granted without the full knowledge of his guilt -- of connivance at a crime unparalleled for atrocity. His judges feel absolved from every stipulation of pardon or mercy; and, summoning to the judgment seat the quick, stem decreer -- Lynch -- in less than five minutes after the trembling wretch is launched into eternity!

There is reason for this haste. They know that the letter has miscarried; but he who could dictate such a damnable epistle is a wild beast at large, who cannot be too soon destroyed.

Leaving the body of Barbato to be devoured by wolves and vultures, they spur on along the Pecos, only drawing bridle to breathe their horses as the trail turns up at the bottom of a confluent creek -- the Arroyo de Alamo.



Chapter Seventy.

A Scheme Of Atrocity.

Discomfited -- chagrined by his discomfiture -- burning with shame at the pitiful spectacle he has afforded to his followers -- Uraga returns within his tent like an enraged tiger. Not as one robbed of its prey -- he is still sure of this as ever; for he has other strings to his bow, and the weak one just snapped scarce signifies.

But for having employed it to no purpose he now turns upon Roblez, who counselled the course that has ended so disastrously.

The adjutant is a safe target on which to expend the arrows of his spleen, and to soothe his perturbed spirit he gives vent to it.

In time, however, he gets somewhat reconciled; the sooner by gulping down two or three glasses of Catalan brandy. Along with the liquor, smoking, as if angry at his cigar, and consuming it through sheer spite, Roblez endeavours to soothe him by consolative speech.

"What matters it, after all!" puts in the confederate. "It may be that everything has been for the best. I was wrong, no doubt, in advising as I did. Still, as you see, it's gained us some advantage."

"Advantage! To me the very reverse. Only to think of being chased about my own camp by a man who is my prisoner! And before the eyes of everybody! A pretty story for our troopers to tell when they get back to Albuquerque! I, Colonel commanding, will be the jest of the cuartel!"

"Nothing of the kind, colonel! There is nothing to jest about. Your prisoner chanced to possess himself of your sword -- a thing no one could have anticipated. He did it adroitly, but then you were at the time unsuspecting. Disarmed, what else could you do but retreat from a man, armed, desperate, determined on taking your life. I'd like to see anyone who'd have acted otherwise. Under the circumstances only an insane man would keep his ground. The episode has been awkward, I admit. But it's all nonsense -- excuse me for saying so -- your being sensitive about that part of it. And for the rest, I say again, it's given us an advantage; in short, the very one you wanted, if I understand your intentions aright."

"In what way?"

"Well, you desired a pretext, didn't you?"

"To do what?"

"Court-martial your prisoners, condemn, and execute them. The attempt on your life will cover all this, so that the keenest scandal-monger may not open his lips. It will be perfectly en regie for you to hang or shoot Don Valerian Miranda -- and, if you like, the doctor, too -- after ten minutes' deliberation over a drum's head. I'm ready to organise the court according to your directions."

To this proposal Uraga replies with a significant smile, saying:

"Your idea is not a bad one; but I chance to have a better. Much as I hate Miranda and wish him out of the way, I don't desire to imbrue my hands in his blood; don't intend to, as I've already hinted to you."

Roblez turns upon his superior officer a look of incredulous surprise, interrogating, -- 

"You mean to take him back, and let him be tried in the regular way?"

"I mean nothing of the kind."

"I thought it strange, after your telling me he would never leave this place alive."

"I tell you so still."

"Colonel! you take pleasure in mystifying me. If you're not going to try your prisoners by court-martial, in what way are your words to be made good? Surely you don't intend to have them shot without form of trial?"

"I've said I won't imbrue my hands in their blood."

"True, you've said that more than once, but without making things any clearer to me. You spoke of some plan. Perhaps I may now hear it?"

"You shall. But first fill me out another capita of the Catalan. That affair has made me thirsty as a sponge."

The adjutant, acting as Ganymede, pours out the liquor and hands the cup to his colonel, which the latter quaffs off. Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he proceeds with the promised explanation.

"I spoke of events, incidents, and coincidences -- didn't I, ayadante?"

"You did, Colonel."

"Well, suppose I clump them altogether, and give you the story in a simple narrative -- a monologue? I know, friend Roblez, you're not a man greatly given to speech; so it will save you the necessity of opening your lips till I've got through."

Roblez, usually taciturn, nods assent.

"Before coming out here," continues the Colonel, "I'd taken some steps. When you've heard what they are I fancy you'll give me credit for strategy, or cunning, if you prefer so calling it. I told you I should take no prisoners back, and that Don Valerian and the doctor are to die. They will go to their graves without causing scandal to any of us. To avoid it I've engaged an executioner, who will do the job without any direct orders from me."

"Who?" asks the adjutant, forgetting his promise to be silent.

"Don't interrupt!"

The subordinate resumes silence.

"I think," continues Uraga, in a tone of serio-comicality, "you have heard of a copper-coloured gentleman called 'Horned Lizard.' If I mistake not, you have the honour of his acquaintance. And, unless I'm astray in my reckoning, you'll have the pleasure of seeing him here this evening, or at an early hour to-morrow morning. He will make his appearance in somewhat eccentric fashion. No doubt, he'll come into our camp at a charging gallop, with some fifty or a hundred of his painted warriors behind him. And I shouldn't wonder if they should spit some of our gay lancers on the points of their spears. That will depend on whether these valientes be foolish enough to make resistance. I don't think they will. More likely we shall see them gallop off at the first whoop of the Indian assailants. You and I, Roblez, will have to do the same; but, as gallant gentlemen, we must take the women along with us. To abandon them to the mercy of the savages, without making an effort to save them, were absolute poltroonery, and would never bear reporting in the settlements. Therefore, we must do our best to take the ladies along. Of course, we can't be blamed for not being able to save our male prisoners. Their fate, I fear, will be for each to get half a dozen Comanche spears thrust through his body, or it may be a dozen. It's sad to think of it, but such misfortunes cannot always be avoided. They are but the ordinary incidents of frontier life. Now, senor ayadante, do you comprehend my scheme?"

"Since I am at length permitted to speak, I may say I do -- at least, I have an obscure comprehension of it. Fairly interpreted, I take it to mean this. You have arranged with the Horned Lizard to make a counterfeit attack upon our camp -- to shoot down or spear our poor devils of soldiers, if need be?"

"Not the slightest need of his doing that, nor any likelihood of his being able to do it. They'll run like good fellows at the first yell of the Indians. Have no apprehensions about them."

"In any case, the Horned Lizard is to settle the question with our captives, and take the responsibility off our hands. If I understand aright, that is the programme."

"It is."



Chapter Seventy One.

A Bootless Journey.

Having returned to his original design -- the scheme of atrocity so coolly and jestingly declared, Uraga takes steps towards its execution.

The first is, to order his own horse, or rather that of Hamersley, to be saddled, bridled, and tied behind his own tent. The same for that ridden by Roblez. Also the mustang mare which belongs to Adela Miranda -- her own "Lolita" -- and the mule set apart for the mestiza. The troop horses already caparisoned are to remain so.

Ignorant of their object, the troopers wonder at these precautions, though not so much as might be expected. They are accustomed to receive mysterious commands, and obey them without cavil or question.

Not one of the ten but would cut a throat at Gil Uraga's bidding, without asking the reason why.

The picket placed on a spin of the cliff has orders to signal if any one is seen coming up the creek. If Indians appear he is to gallop into the camp, and report in person.

The alarm thus started will easily be fostered into a stampede, and at the onslaught of the savages the lancers will rush to their horses and ride off without offering resistance. In the sauve qui peut none of them will give a thought to the two prisoners lying tied under the tree. These are to be left behind to the tender mercies of the Tenawa chief. It will be an act of gallantry to save the female captives by carrying them off. This Uraga reserves for himself, assisted by Roblez.

Such is his scheme of vicarious assassination; in the atrocity of conception unequalled, almost incredible. He has no anxiety as to its success. For himself he is more than ever determined; while Roblez, restrained by the fiasco following his advice, no longer offers opposition.

Uraga has no fear the Tenawa chief will fail him. He has never done so before, and will not now.

The new proposal, which the colonel supposes to have reached the hands of Horned Lizard in that letter carried by Pedrillo, will be eagerly accepted. Barbato will bring the chief with his cut-throats to the Arroyo de Alamo, sure as there is a sun in the sky.

It is but a question of time. They may come up at any hour -- any minute; and having arranged all preliminaries, Uraga remains in his tent to await the cue for action. He little dreams at the moment he is thus expecting his red-skinned confederate, that the latter, along with the best braves of his band, has gone to the happy hunting grounds, while his go-between, Barbato, is in safe keeping elsewhere.

As the hours pass, and no one is reported as approaching, he becomes impatient; for the time has long elapsed since the Tenawa chief should have been upon the spot.

Chafing, he strides forth from the tent, and proceeds towards the place where the look-out has been stationed. Reaching it, he reconnoitres for himself, with a telescope he has taken along, to get a better view down the valley.

At first, levelling the glass, no one can be seen. In the reach of open ground, dotted here and there with groves, there are deer browsing, and a grizzly bear is seen crossing between the cliffs, but no shape that resembles a human being.

He is about lowering the telescope when a new form comes into its field of view -- a horseman riding up the creek. No the animal is a mule. No matter the rider is a man.

Keenly scrutinising, he perceives it is an Indian, though not one of the wild sort. His garb betokens him of the tamed.

Another glance through the glass and his individuality declares itself, Uraga recognising him as one of the messengers sent to the Tenawas' town. Not the principal, Pedrillo, but he of secondary importance, Jose.

"Returning alone!" mutters the Mexican to himself. "What does that mean? Where can Pedrillo be? What keeps him behind, I wonder?"

He continues wondering and conjecturing till Jose has ridden up to the spot, when, perceiving his master, the latter dismounts and approaches him.

In the messenger's countenance there is an expression of disappointment, and something more. It tells a tale of woe, with reluctance to disclose it.

"Where is Pedrillo?" is the first question asked in anxious impatience.

"Oh, senor coronel!" replies Jose, hat in hand, and trembling in every joint. "Pedrillo! Pobre Pedrillito!"

"Well! Poor Pedrillito -- what of him? Has anything happened to him?"

"Yes, your excellency, a terrible mischance I fear to tell it you."

"Tell it, sirrah, and at once! Out with it, whatever it is!"

"Alas, Pedrillo is gone!"

"Gone -- whither?"

"Down the river."

"What river?"

"The Pecos."

"Gone down the Pecos? On what errand?" inquired the colonel, in surprise.

"On no errand, your excellency."

"Then what's taken him down the Pecos? Why went he?"

"Senor coronel, he has not gone of his own will. It is only his dead body that went; it was carried down by the flood."

"Drowned? Pedrillo drowned?"

"Ay de mi! 'Tis true, as I tell you -- too true, pobrecito."

"How did this happen, Jose?"

"We were crossing at the ford, senor. The waters were up from a norte that's just passed over the plains. The river was deep and running rapid, like a torrent, Pedrillo's macho stumbled, and was swept off. It was as much as mine could do to keep its legs. I think he must have got his feet stuck in the stirrups, for I could see him struggling alongside the mule till both went under. When they came to the surface both were drowned -- dead. They floated on without making a motion, except what the current gave them as their bodies were tossed about by it. As I could do nothing there, I hastened here to tell you what happened. Pobre Pedrillito!"

The cloud already darkening Uraga's brow grows darker as he listens to the explanation. It has nothing to do with the death of Pedrillo, or compassion for his fate -- upon which he scarce spends a thought -- but whether there has been a miscarriage of that message of which the drowned man was the bearer. His next interrogatory, quickly put, is to get satisfied on this head.

"You reached the Tenawa town?"

"We did, senor coronel."

"Pedrillo carried a message to the Horned Lizard, with a letter for Barbato. You know that, I suppose?"

"He told me so."

"Well, you saw him deliver the letter to Barbato?"

"He did not deliver it to Barbato."

"To the chief, then?"

"To neither, your Excellency. He could not."

"Could not! Why?"

"They ere not there to receive it. They are no longer in this world --  neither the Horned Lizard nor Barbato. Senor Coronel, the Tenawas have met with a great misfortune. They've had a fight with a party of Tejanos. The chief is killed, Barbato is killed, and nearly half of their braves. When Pedrillo and I reached the town we found the tribe in mourning, the women all painted black, with their hair cut off; the men who had escaped the slaughter cowed, and keeping concealed within their lodges."

A wild exclamation leaps from the lips of Uraga as he listens to these disclosures, his brow becoming blacker than ever.

"But, Pedrillo," he inquires, after a pause; "what did he say to them? You know the import of his message. Did he communicate it to the survivors?"

"He did, your Excellency. They could not read your letter, but he told them what it was about. They were to meet you here, he said. But they refused to come. They were in too great distress about the death of their chief, and the chastisement they had received. They were in fear that the Tejanos would pursue them to their town; and were making preparations to flee from it when Pedrillo and myself came away. Pobre Pedrillito!"

Uraga no longer stays listening to the mock humanity of his whining messenger. No more does he think of the drowned Pedrillo. His thoughts are now given to a new design. Murder by proxy has failed. For all that, it must still be done. To take counsel with his adjutant about the best mode of proceeding, he hastens back to the camp; plunges into his tent; and there becomes closeted -- the lieutenant along with him.



Chapter Seventy Two.

A Mock Court-Martial.

For the disaster that was overtaken the Tenawa chief and his warriors, Gil Uraga does not care a jot. True, by the death of Horned Lizard he has lost an ally who, on some future scheme of murder, might have been used to advantage; while Barbato, whose life he believes also taken, can no more do him service as agent in his intercourse with the red pirates of the prairie.

It matters not much now. As military commander of a district he has attained power, enabling him to dispense with any left-handed assistance; and of late more than once has wished himself rid of such suspicious auxiliaries. Therefore, but for the frustration of his present plans, he would rather rejoice than grieve over the tidings brought by the returned emissary.

His suit scorned, his scheme of assassination thwarted, he is as much as ever determined on the death of the two prisoners.

In the first moments of his anger, after hearing Jose's tale, he felt half inclined to rush upon Miranda, sword in hand, and settle the matter at once. But, while returning to the camp-ground, calmer reflections arose, restraining him from the dastardly act, and deciding him to carry out the other alternative, already conceived, but kept back as a dernier ressort.

"Sit down, camarado!" he says, addressing the adjutant on entering. "We must hold a court-martial, and that is too serious a ceremonial to be gone through without the customary forms. The members of the court should be seated."

The grim smile which accompanies his words shows that he means them in jest only as regards the manner of proceeding. For the earnestness of his intention there is that in his eyes -- a fierce, lurid light, which Roblez can read.

In rejoinder the adjutant asks, -- 

"You are still resolved upon the death of the prisoners?"

"Still resolved! Carramba! An idle question, after what has occurred! They die within the hour. We shall try, condemn, and then have them shot."

"I thought you had arranged it in a different way?"

"So I had. But circumstances alter cases. There's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip, and I've just heard of one. The Horned Lizard has failed me."

"How so, colonel?"

"You see that Indian outside. He's one of my muleteers I'd sent as a messenger to the Tenawa town. He returns to tell me there's no Horned Lizard in existence, and only a remnant of his tribe. Himself, with the best of his braves, has gone to the happy hunting grounds; not voluntarily, but sent thither by a party of Tejanos who fell foul of them on a foray."

"That's a strange tale," rejoins Roblez, adding, "And Barbato?"

"Dead, too -- gone with his red-skinned associates."

"Certainly a singular occurrence -- quite a coincidence."

"A coincidence that leaves me in an awkward predicament, without my expected executioners. Well, we must supply their places by substituting our own cut-throats."

"You'll find them willing, colonel. The little interlude of Miranda getting loose, and making to run you through, has been all in your favour. It affords sufficient pretext for court-martialling and condemning both prisoners to be shot I've heard the men say so, and they expect it."

"They shall not be disappointed, nor have long to wait. The court has finished its sitting, and given its verdict. Without dissenting voice, the prisoners are condemned to death. So much for the sentence. Now to carry it into execution."

"How is the thing to be done?"

"Call in the sergeant. With him I shall arrange that. And when you're out, go among the men and say a word to prepare them for the measure. You may tell them we've been trying the prisoners, and the result arrived at."

The adjutant steps out of the tent; and while Uraga is swallowing another cup of Catalan to fortify him for his fearful purpose, the sergeant enters.

"Sergente! there's some business to be done of a delicate nature, and you must take direction of it."

The Serjeant salutes, and stands awaiting the explanation. The colonel continues: -- 

"We intend taking our prisoners no farther -- the men, I mean. With the women we have nothing to do -- as prisoners. After what you saw, we deem it necessary that Don Valerian Miranda should die; and also the other, who is equally incriminated as a traitor to the State -- a rebel, an old conspirator, well known. Lieutenant Roblez and I have held a court, and decreed their death. So order the men to load their carbines, and make ready to carry out the sentence."

The sergeant simply nods assent, and, again saluting, is about to retire, when Uraga stays him with a second speech.

"Let all take part in the firing except Galvez. Post him as sentry over the square tent. Direct him to stand by its entrance and see that the flap is kept down. Under no circumstances is he to let either of its occupants out. It's not a spectacle for women -- above all, one of them. Never mind; we can't help that I'm sorry myself, but duty demands this rigorous measure. Now go. First give Galvez his orders; then to the men and get them ready. Make no more noise than is necessary. Let your lancers be drawn up in line; afoot, of course, and single file."

"Where am I to place the prisoners, colonel?"

"Ah! true; I did not think of that."

Uraga steps to the entrance of the tent, and, looking forth, takes a survey of the camp-ground. His eyes seek the spot occupied by the prisoners. They are both again together, under the same tree where first placed, a sentry keeping guard over them. The tree is a cottonwood, with smooth stem and large limbs extending horizontally. Another is near, so similar as to seem a twin; both being a little out from the thick timber, which forms a dark background behind them.

After regarding them a moment, scanning them as a lumberman would a log intended for a saw-mill, Uraga directs.

"Raise the prisoners upright, and tie one to each of those two trees. Set their backs to the trunk. They've both been army men, and we won't disgrace the cloth by shooting them from behind. That's grace enough for rebels."

The sergeant, saluting, is again about to go, only staying to catch some final words of direction. They are -- 

"In ten minutes I shall expect you to have everything ready. When you've got the stage set I shall myself appear upon it as an actor -- the Star of this pretty play!"

And with a hoarse laugh at his horrid jest, the ruffian retires within his tent.



Chapter Seventy Three.

The Hand Of God.

The sun is descending towards the crest of the Cordillera, his rays becoming encrimsoned as twilight approaches. They fall like streams of blood between the bluffs enclosing the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo, their tint in unison with a tragedy there about to be enacted -- in itself strangely out of correspondence with the soft, tranquil scene.

The stage is the encampment of Uraga and his detachment of lancers, now set for the terrible spectacle soon to take place.

The two tents are still standing as pitched, several paces apart. At the entrance of the square one, with its flap drawn close and tied, a soldier keeps sentry; that of conical shape being unguarded.

Rearward, by the wood edge, are three horses and a mule, all four under saddle, with bridles on; these attached to the branches of a tree. There is no providence in this, but rather neglect. Since the purpose for which they were caparisoned has proved abortive, they remain so only from having been forgotten.

The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead, are browsing at the length of their lariats.

It is in the positions and attitudes of the men that a spectator might read preparation; and of a kind from which he could not fail to deduce the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise, but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be more properly designated, a military murder.

The victims devoted are seen near the edge of the open ground -- its lower edge regarding the direction of the stream. They are in erect attitude, each with his back to the trunk of a tree, to which with raw-hide ropes they are securely lashed. No need telling who they are. The reader knows them to be the prisoners lately lying prostrate near the same place.

In their front, and scarce ten paces distant, the lancers are drawn up in line and single file. There are ten of them, the tenth a little retired to the right, showing chevrons on his sleeve. He is the sergeant in immediate command of the firing party. Farther rearward, and close by the conical tent, and two in the uniform of officers, Uraga and his adjutant. The former is himself about to pronounce the word of command, the relentless expression upon his face, blent with a grim smile that overspreads it, leading to believe that the act of diabolical cruelty gives him gratification. Above, upon the cliff's brow, the black vultures also show signs of satisfaction. With necks craned and awry, the better to look below, they see preparations which instinct or experience has taught them to understand. Blood is about to be spilled; there will be flesh to afford them a feast.

There is now perfect silence, after a scene which preceded; once more Uraga having made overtures to Miranda, with promise of life under the same scandalous conditions; as before, to receive the response, firmly spoken, -- 

"No -- never!"

The patriot soldier prefers death to dishonour.

His choice taken, he quails not. Tied to the trunk of the tree, he stands facing his executioners without show of fear. If his cheeks be blanched, and his bosom throbbing with tumultuous emotion, 'tis not at sight of the firing party, or the guns held loaded in their hands. Far other are his fears, none of them for himself, but all for his dear sister -- Adela. No need to dwell upon or describe them. They may be imagined.

And Don Prospero, brave and defiant too. He stands backed by the tree, his eyes showing calm courage, his long silvered beard touching his breast, not drooping or despairingly, but like one resigned to his fate, and still firm in the faith that has led to it -- a second Wickliffe at the stake.

The moment has arrived when the stillness becomes profound, like the calm which precedes the first burst of a thunderstorm. The vultures above, the horses and men below, are all alike silent.

The birds, gazing intently, have ceased their harsh croaking; the quadrupeds, as if startled by the very silence, forsaking the sweet grass, have tossed their heads aloft, and so hold them. While the men, hitherto speaking in whispers, no more converse, but stand mute and motionless. They are going to deal death to two of their fellow-creatures; and there is not one among them who does not know it is a death undeserved -- that he is about to commit murder!

For all this, not one has a thought of staying his hand. Along the whole line there is no heart amenable to mercy, no breast throbbing with humanity. All have been in a like position before -- drawn up to fire upon prisoners, their countrymen. The patriots of their country, too; for the followers of Gil Uraga are all of them picked adherents of the parti preter.

"Sergente!" asks Uraga, on coming forth from his tent, "is everything ready?"

"All ready," is the prompt reply.

"Attention!" commands the Colonel, stepping a pace or two forward, and speaking in a low tone, though loud enough to be heard by the lancers.

"Make ready!"

The carbines are raised to the ready.

"Take aim!"

The guns are brought to the level, their bronzed barrels glistening under the rays of the setting sun, with muzzles pointed at the prisoners. They who grasp them but wait for the word "Fire!"

It is forming itself on Gil Uraga's lips. But before he can speak there comes a volley, filling the valley with sound, and the space around the prisoners with smoke. The reports of more than forty pieces speak almost simultaneously, none of them with the dull detonation of cavalry carbines, but the sharper ring of the rifle!

While the last crack is still reverberating from the rocks, Uraga sees his line of lancers prostrate along the sward; their guns, escaped from their grasp, scattered beside them, still undischarged!



Chapter Seventy Four.

"Sauve Qui Peut."

At sight of his soldiers cut down like ripe corn before the reaper, Uraga stands in stupefied amaze; his adjutant the same. Both are alike under the spell of a superstitious terror. For the blow, so sudden and sweeping, seems given by God's own hand. They might fancy it a coup d'eclair. But the jets of fire shooting forth from the forest edge, through a cloud of sulphurous smoke, are not flashes of lightning; nor the rattle that accompanies them the rolling of thunder, but the reports of firearms discharged in rapid succession. While in shouts following the shots there is no accent of Heaven; on the contrary, the cries are human, in the voices of men intoned to a terrible vengeance.

Though every one of the firing party has fallen, sergeant as well as rank and file, the two officers are still untouched. So far they have been saved by the interposition of the formed line. But straggling shots succeed, and bullets are whizzing past their ears.

These, quickening their instincts, rouse them from their stupefaction; and both, turning from the direction of the danger, looked to the other side for safety.

At first wildly and uncertain, for they are still under a weird impression, with senses half bewildered.

Neither has a knowledge of the enemy that has made such havoc among their men; only an instinct or intuition that the blow has been struck by those terrible Tejanos, for the shots heard were the cracks of rifles, and the shouts, still continued, are not Indian yells nor Mexican vivas, but the rough hurrahs of the Anglo-Saxon.

While standing in hesitancy, they hear a voice raised above the rest --  one which both recognise. Well do they remember it, pealing among the waggons on that day of real ruthless carnage.

Glancing back over their shoulders, they see him who sends it forth -- the giant guide of the caravan. He has just broken from the timber's edge, and in vigorous bounds is advancing towards them. Another is by his side, also recognised. With trembling frame, and heart chilled by fear, Uraga identifies his adversary in the duel at Chihuahua.

Neither he nor his subordinate remains a moment longer on the ground. No thought now of carrying off their female captives, no time to think of them. Enough, and they will be fortunate, if they can themselves escape.

Better for both to perish there by the sides of their slain comrades. But they know not this, and only yield to the common instinct of cowardice, forcing them to flee.

Fortune seems to favour them. For animals fully caparisoned stand behind the conical tent. They are these that were in readiness for a flight of far different kind, since unthought of -- altogether forgotten.

Good luck their being saddled and bridled now. So think Uraga and Roblez as they rush towards them. So thinks Galvez, who is also making to mount one. The sentry has forsaken his post, leaving the marquee unguarded. When a lover no longer cares for his sweetheart, why should he for a captive.

And in the sauve-qui-peut scramble there is rarely a regard for rank, the colonel counting for no more than the corporal. Obedient to this levelling instinct, Galvez, who has arrived first on the ground, selects the best steed of the three -- this being the horse of Hamersley.

Grasping the bridle, and jerking it from the branch, he springs upon the animal's back and starts to ride off. Almost as soon the two officers get astride, Roblez on his own charger, the mustang mare being left to Uraga. From her mistress he must part thus unceremoniously, covered with ignominious shame!

The thought is torture, and for a time stays him.

A dire, damnable purpose flashes across his brain, and for an instant holds possession of his heart. It is to dismount, make for the marquee, enter it, and kill Adela Miranda -- thrust her through with his sword.

Fortunately for her, the coward's heart fails him.

He will not have time to do the murder and remount his horse. The Rangers are already in the open ground and rushing towards him, Wilder and Hamersley at their head. In a minute more they will be around him.

He hesitates no longer, but, smothering his chagrin and swallowing his unappeased vengeance, puts whip and spur to the mustang mare, going off as fast as she can carry him.



Chapter Seventy Five.

Divided By Duty.

But for a half-score men lying dead along the earth, their warm blood welling from wounds where bullets have passed through their bodies, the gory drops here and there like dew bedecking the blades of grass, or in fuller stream settling down into the sand -- but for this, the too real evidence of death, one who entered the camp of Uraga as the Mexican Colonel is riding out of it might fancy himself spectator of a pantomime during the scene of transformation. In the stage spectacle, not quicker or more contrasting could be the change.

The gaily-apparelled lancers, with their plumes, pennons, and tassels, representing the sprites and sylphides of the pantomime, are succeeded by men who look real life. Big bearded men, habited in homespun; some wearing buckskin, others blanket coats; all carrying guns, bowie-knives, and pistols; the first smoking at the muzzles, as freshly fired, the last held in hand, ready to be discharged as soon as somebody worth shooting at shows himself.

Entering the open ground ahead of the others, Hamersley and Wilder glance around in search of this somebody, both thinking of the same. They see stretched along the sward ten soldiers dead as herrings on a string, but among them no one wearing the uniform of an officer --  certainly not him they are after.

Their first glance is unrewarded, but their second gives all they seek. Behind a tent, and partially screened by the trees, three men are in the act of mounting three horses. One is already in the saddle and moving away, the other two have just set foot in the stirrup. The roan mounted is unknown to the pursuers; but his animal is recognised by them. It is Hamersley's own horse! Of the other two but one is identified, and him only by Hamersley. He sees Gil Uraga.

A cry from the Kentuckian expresses disappointment. For on the instant after sighting the Mexican officers the latter have leaped into their saddles and gone off at a full gallop. A rifle shet might yet reach them; but the guns of both Kentuckian and Texan are empty. Their revolvers are loaded to no purpose. The retreating horsemen are beyond pistol range!

Sure of this, they do not think of firing. And afoot, as all the Rangers are -- having left the horses behind to steal forward -- they feel helpless to pursue for the present. While hesitating, a circumstance occurs giving Hamersley a hope. The man who has mounted his horse finds a difficulty in managing him. As a Mexican he sits the saddle to perfection, but cannot make the animal go the way he wants.

From behind the horse has heard neighing, which he knows to come from the steeds of his own race, and, knowing this, has resolved to rub noses with them.

In vain Galvez kicks against his ribs, beats him about the head, and makes frantic efforts to urge him on. He but rears in the opposite direction, backing so far as to bring his rider within reach of the revolver held in the hands of Hamersley. Its crack rings clear -- not needing to be repeated or the cylinder turned. At the first explosion the soldier is seen to spring from the saddle, dropping dead without kick or cry, while the steed, disembarrassed, sheers round and comes trotting towards the place whence the shot proceeded.

In a moment more its real master has hold of the bridle-rein, his shout of joy answered by a whimper of recognition.

Seeing how matters stand, the Rangers hasten back to get possession of their horses; others make for those of the fallen lancers, that now in affright are rearing and straining at the end of their trail-ropes in a vain endeavour to break loose.

For neither can Hamersley wait. It will take time, which his impatience -- his burning thirst for vengeance -- cannot brook. He is thinking of his slain comrades, whose bones lie unburied on the sands of the Canadian; also of the outrage so near being perpetrated, so opportunely interrupted.

But one thought stays him -- Adela. Where is she? Is she safe? He turns towards the marquee late guarded by Galvez. A very different individual is now seen at its entrance. Walt Wilder, with bowie-knife bared, its blade cutting the cords that kept the tent closed. In an instant they are severed, the flap flies open, and two female forms rush forth. In another instant one of them is lying along Hamersley's breast, the other in the embrace of Wilder. Kisses and words are exchanged. Only a few of the latter, till Hamersley, withdrawing himself from the arms that softly entwine him, tells of his intention to part.

"For what purpose?" is the interrogatory, asked in tremulous accents, and with eyes that speak painful surprise.

"To redress my wrongs and yours, Adela," is the response firmly spoken.

"Santissima!" she exclaims, seeing her lover prepare to spring into the saddle. "Francisco! Stay with me. Do not again seek danger. The wretch is not worthy of your vengeance."

"'Tis not vengeance, but justice. 'Tis my duty to chastise this crime --  the greatest on earth. Something whispers me 'tis a destiny, and I shall succeed. Dearest Adela, do not stay me. There is no danger. I shall be back soon, bringing Uraga's sword, perhaps himself, along with me."

"Thar's odds again ye, Frank," interposes Wilder. "Two to one. If I foller afoot I mayn't be up in time. An' the boys that's gone arter thar critters, they'll be too late."

"Never mind the odds! I'll make it up with the five shots still in my revolver. See, dearest, your brother is coming this way. Go meet and tell him I shall soon return with a prisoner to be exchanged for him. Another kiss! Adios! hasta luego!"

Tearing himself from arms so reluctant to release him, he bounds upon the back of his horse and spurs off, soon disappearing among the trees.

Scarce is he out of sight when another quadruped is seen galloping after -- not a horse, but a hybrid.

Walt Wilder has espied the saddled mule hitched up behind the tent -- that intended for Conchita. It is now ridden by the ex-Ranger, who, prodding it with the point of his bowie, puts it to its best speed.

And soon after go other horsemen -- the Texans who have recovered their steeds, with some who have caught those of the troopers, rapidly bridled and mounted them bare-back.

They who stay behind become spectators of a scene strange and tender. Two male prisoners unexpectedly rescued -- snatched, as it were, from the jaws of death -- two female captives alike saved from dishonour. A brother embracing his sister, whose noble affection but the moment before prompted her to share with him the first sooner than submit to the last.



Chapter Seventy Six.

The Chase.

Hamersley has his horse fairly astretch ere the fugitives, though out of sight, are many hundred yards ahead; for the scenes and speeches recorded occupied but a few seconds of time.

He is confident of being able to overtake them. He knows his Kentucky charger is more than a match for any Mexican horse, and will soon bring him up with Uraga and the other officer. If they should separate he will follow the former.

As he rides on he sees they cannot go far apart. There is a sheer precipice on each side -- the bluffs that bound the creek bottom. These will keep the pursued men together, and he will have both to deal with.

The ground is such that they cannot possibly escape him except by superior speed. He can see the cliffs on each side to their bases. There is not enough underwood for a horseman to hide in.

He hastens on, therefore, supposing them still before him.

In ten minutes more he is sure of it -- they are in sight!

The timber through which the chase has hitherto led abruptly terminates, a long grassy mead of over a mile in length lying beyond; and beyond it the trees again obstruct the vista up the valley. The retreating horsemen have entered upon this open tract, but not got far over it, when Hamersley spurs his horse out of the timber tract, and pursuer and pursued are in sight of other.

It is now a tail-on-end chase, all three horses going at the greatest speed to which their riders can press them. It is evident that the large American horse is rapidly gaining upon the Mexican mustangs, and, if no accident occur, will soon be alongside them.

Hamersley perceives this, and, casting a glance ahead, calculates the distance to where the timber again commences. To overtake them before they can reach it is the thought uppermost in his mind. Once among the tree-trunks they can go as fast as he, for there the superior fleetness of his horse will not avail. Besides, there may be a thick underwood, giving them a chance of concealment.

He must come up with them before they can reach the cover, and to this end he once more urges his animal both with spur and speech.

At this moment Roblez looking back, perceives there is but one man in chase of them. A long stretch of open plain in his rear, and no other pursuer upon it. Brigand though he be, the adjutant possesses real courage. And there are two of them, in full health and strength, both armed with sabres, himself carrying a pair of dragoon pistols in his holsters. Those belonging to Uraga are nearer to the hand of Hamersley -- having been left upon the saddle which the colonel, in his hasty retreat, had been hindered from occupying.

"Carajo!" exclaims Roblez, "there's but one of them after us. The others haven't had time to get mounted, and won't be up for a while. It's some rash fool who's got your horse under him. Let's turn upon him, colonel."

The coward thus appealed to cannot refuse compliance. In an instant the two wheel round, and, with blades bared, await the approach of the pursuer.

In a dozen more strides of his horse Hamersley is on the ground. Uraga now recognises his antagonist in the Chihuahua duel -- the man he hates above all others on earth.

This, hatred, intense as it is, does not supply him with courage. In the eye of the pursuer coming on, when close up, Uraga reads a terrible expression -- that of the avenger!

Something whispers him his hour has come, and with shrinking heart and palsied arm he awaits the encounter.

As said, the two Mexican officers carry swords, cavalry sabres. Against these the Kentuckian has no weapon for parrying or defence. He is but ill-armed for the unequal strife, having only a Colt's revolver with one chamber empty, and, as a dernier ressort, the single-barrelled pistols in the holsters.

Quickly perceiving his disadvantage, he checks up before coming too close, and with his revolver takes aim, and fires at the nearest of his antagonists, who is Roblez.

The shot tells, tumbling the lancer lieutenant out of his saddle, and making more equal the chances of the strife.

But there is no more fighting, nor the show of it, for Uraga, on seeing his comrade fall, and once more catching sight of that avenging glance that glares at him as if from the eyes of Nemesis, wrenches the mustang round, and rides off in wild retreat; his sword, held loosely, likely to drop from his grasp.

Soon it does drop, for Hamersley, following in close pursuit, delivers a second shot from the revolver. The bullet hits the extended sword arm; the naked blade whirls out, and falls with a ring upon the meadow turf.

Uraga rides on without looking back. He has not even courage to turn his face towards his antagonist. He thinks only of reaching the timber, in a despairing hope he may there find shelter and safety.

It is not his destiny to reach it; the pursuer is too close upon his heels. The head of Hamersley's horse is swept by the mustang's tail, its long, white hair spread comet-like behind.

Once more the revolver is raised, its muzzle pointed at the retreating coward. The pressing of its trigger would send a bullet into his back. It is not pressed.

As if from mercy or mere caprice Hamersley suddenly transfers the pistol to his left hand. Then, forcing his horse to a long leap forward, he lays hold of Uraga with his right.

Grasping the Mexican by the sword-belt and jerking him out of the saddle, he dashes him down to the earth. Then reining up, with the revolver once more in his right hand, he cries out -- 

"Lie still, you ruffian! Don't move an inch! I have four shots to spare, and if you attempt to stir, one of them will quiet you."

The admonition is not needed. Uraga, stunned by the shock for a time, makes no movement. He is insensible.

Before he comes to himself the Rangers have ridden up, with Walt Wilder at their head. They proceed to make prisoners of the two men, neither of whom has been killed in the encounter.

Better for both if they had. For they are now in the hands of men who will surely doom them to a death less easy thar that they had escaped.

Their fate is inevitable.



Chapter Seventy Seven.

The Camp Transformed.

Another sun rises over the Llano Estacado, his beams gilding with ruddy glow the brown basaltic cliffs that enclose the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo.

On projecting points of these, above the spot chosen by Uraga for his camp, the black vultures are still perched. Though 'tis not their usual roosting-place, they have remained there all night, now and then giving utterance to their hoarse, guttural croaks, when some howling, predatory quadruped -- coyote or puma -- approaching too near, has startled them from their dozing slumbers. As the first rays of the sun rouse them to activity, their movements tell why they have stayed. No longer at rest, or only at intervals, they flit from rock to rock, and across the valley from cliff to cliff, at times swooping so low that their wings almost touch the topmost twigs of the trees growing upon the banks of the stream. All the while with necks astretch, and eyes glaring in hungry concupiscence. For below they perceive the materials of a repast -- a grand, gluttonous feast -- no longer in doubtful expectation, but now surely provided for them.

Ten men lie prostrate upon the sward; not asleep, as the vultures well know -- nor yet reclining to rest themselves. Their attitudes are evidence against this. They lie with bodies bent and limbs stiff, some of them contorted to unnatural postures. Besides, on the grass-blades around are drops and gouts of blood, grown black during the night, looking as if it had rained ink; while little pools of the same are here and there seen, dull crimson and coagulated.

From these sanguinary symbols the vultures are well aware that the recumbent forms are neither asleep nor reposing. Every bird knows that every man of them is dead; and, though still clad in the uniform of soldiers, with all the gay insignia of lancers, they are but clay-cold corpses.

It is the firing party, still lying as it fell; not a figure disturbed, not a coat stripped off nor pocket rifled; no strap, plume, or pennon displaced since the moment when all dropped dead almost simultaneously at the detonation of the Rangers' rifles.

Except the tents, which are still set as before, this cluster of corpses is the only thing seeming unchanged since yesterday's sun went down. For it was after sunset when the pursuers returned, bringing their prisoners along with them. As on yesterday, two captives are seen under the same tree, where late lay Don Valerian and the doctor. But different men, with quite another style of sentry standing over them. The latter, a rough-garbed, big-bearded Texan, full six feet in height, shouldering a gun whose butt, when rested on the ground, places the muzzle within an inch of his chin. No need to say who are the two he is guarding. At his feet Uraga lies, crestfallen, with a craven look upon his face, like a fox in the trap; his splendid habiliments torn, mud-bedaubed, bedraggled. Besides him his adjutant, Roblez -- his confederate in many a crime -- also showing signs of having received rough treatment, but not without resenting it. His aspect is that of a tiger encaged, chafing at the torture, regardless of what may be the end. On the camp ground are seen some sixty horses with half-a-dozen mules. About fifty of the former are under saddle and bridle, as if soon to be mounted. The others have lariats around their necks, intended to be led.

A few men -- those of inferior standing -- look after the animals; while the larger number is gathered into a group near the centre of the camp ground. Their air, attitudes, earnest speech, and excited gesticulations tell they are taking counsel on some matter of serious import.

Walt Wilder is among them, Hamersley being absent. The latter is inside the square tent, in pleasanter companionship.

He is seated upon a catre, Adela by his side, her hand clasping his. This without any bashfulness or reserve at her brother being present. Which he is, along with the dear old doctor, both now released from their bonds. It is a tableau of true love, wreathed with fraternal affection.

With devotion also, of an humbler kind, Conchita is passing out and in, rejoicing in a general way. She pays no attention to a peon who lies tied behind the tent -- Jose; and gives only scorn to another seen fast bound beside him -- Manuel.

Notwithstanding her knowledge that this man is madly in love with her --  for she now also knows how much he has been a traitor -- her thoughts, as her eyes, are upon one more true -- on her grand, gallant Tejano! She is proud to observe the distinguished part he plays among his compaisanos. For, in truth, Walt is doing this. Standing a half head taller than any of the Rangers around him, he is alike leader in their deliberations, those the most serious in which men can be engaged.

No question of life and death. It has been, but is no longer. The latter has been unanimously decreed, the verdict declared, the sentence pronounced. Their talk now only relates to the manner of execution.

The Ranger Captain, who presides, puts the interrogatory thus:

"Well, boys, what are we to do with them? Shoot or hang?"

"Hang!" is the response from more than a majority of voices.

"Shootin' is too clean a death for scoundrels sech as them," is the commentary of a voice recognisable as that of Nat Cully.

"They ought to be scalped, skinned, an' quartered," adds a man disposed to severer punishment.

"Yes!" affirms another of the like inclining. "A bit of torture wouldn't be more than the rascals deserve."

"Come, comrades!" cries the Ranger Captain. "Remember, we are Texans, and not savages like those we're about to punish. Sufficient to send them out of the world without acting inhumanly. You all declare for hanging?"

"All!"

"Enough! Where shall we string them up?"

"Yonner's a pick spot," responds Wilder, pointing out the two trees to which Don Valerian and the doctor had been lately lashed. "They kin each hev a branch separate, so's not to crowd one the t'other in makin' tracks to etarnity."

"Jest the place!" endorses Cully. "Kedn't be a better gallis if the sheriff o' Pike County, Massoury, had rigged it up hisself. We'll gie 'em a tree apiece, as they war about to do wi' thar innocent prisoners. Takin' their places'll be turn an' turn about. That's fair, I reckin."

"Boys!" cries Walt, "look out a cupple o' layvettes, an' fetch 'em this way."

Several start towards the horse-drove, and soon return with the trail-ropes. Then all proceed towards the two trees. Each chances to have a large limb extending horizontally outward from the trunk. Over each a tazo is flung, one end left loose, the other remaining in the hand of him who pitched it. Before flinging them the rope has been passed through the iron ring with which all lariats are provided, thus furnishing a ready-made running noose.

"Who's to haul up?" asks the Ranger Captain; adding, "Boys! 'Taint a nice business, I know; but I suppose there's some of you willing to undertake it."

Some of them!

Forty voices, nearly all present, are heard crying out with one accord -- 

"I'm willing!"

In fact, every man upon the ground seems eager to take part in a duty which, under other circumstances, would be not only disagreeable, but disgusting to them. Rough, rude men as most of the Rangers are, little prone to delicate sentimentalism, they are, nevertheless, true to the ordinary instincts of humanity. Accustomed to seeing blood spilled, and not squeamish about spilling it if it be that of a red-skinned foe, it is different when the complexion is white.

In the present case they have no scruples on the score of colour. What has been told them about their two prisoners -- the atrocities these have committed -- puts all this aside. The tale has made a profound impression upon their minds; and, beyond any motive of mere revenge, they are stirred by a sense of just retribution. Every man of them feels as if it were his sacred duty to deal out justice, and administer the punishment of death to criminals so surely deserving it.



Chapter Seventy Eight.

A Living Scaffold.

Captain Haynes, seeing there will be no difficulty in obtaining executioners, deems everything settled, and is about ordering the prisoners to be brought up. Being a man of humane feelings, with susceptibilities that make him somewhat averse to performing the part of sheriff, it occurs to him that he can avoid the disagreeable duty by appointing a deputy.

For this he selects Walt Wilder, who in turn chooses Nat Cully to assist him. The two assume superintendence of the ceremony, and the Ranger Captain retires from the ground.

After communing for some seconds between themselves, and in sotto voce, as if arranging the mode of execution, Walt faces round to the assembled Texans, saying -- 

"Wal, boys, thar 'pears to be no stint o' hangmen among ye. This chile niver seed so many o' the Jack Ketch kind since he fust set foot on the soil o' Texas. Maybe it's the smell o' these Mexikins makes ye so savagerous."

Walt's quaint speech elicits a general laugh, but suppressed. The scene is too solemn for an ebullition of boisterous mirth. The ex-Ranger continues -- 

"I see you'll want to have a pull at these ropes. But I reckon we'll have to disapp'int ye. The things we're agoin' to swing up don't desarve hoistin' to etarnity by free-born citizens o' the Lone Star State. 'Twould be a burnin' shame for any Texan to do the hangin' o' sech skunks as they."

"What do you mean, Walt?" one asks. "Somebody must hoist them up!"

"'Taint at all necessary. They kin be strung 'ithout e'er a hand techin' trail-rope."

"How?" inquire several voices.

"Wal, thar's a way Nat Cully an' me hev been speaking o'. I've heern o' them Mexikins practisin' themselves on thar Injun prisoners for sport. We'll gie' 'em a dose o' their own medicine. Some o' you fellows go an' fetch a kupple o' pack mules. Ye may take the saddles off -- they won't be needed."

Half-a-dozen of the Rangers rush out, and return leading two mules, having hastily stripped off their alparejas.

"Now!" cries Walt, "conduct hyar the kriminals!"

A party proceeds to the spot where the two prisoners lie; and taking hold, raise them to an erect attitude. Then, half carrying, half dragging, bring them under the branches designed for their gallows-tree.

With their splendid uniforms torn, mud-bedaubed, and stained with spots of blood, they present a sorry spectacle. They resemble wounded wolves, taken in a trap; nevertheless, bearing their misfortune in a far different manner. Roblez looks the large, grey wolf -- savage, reckless, unyielding; Uraga, the coyote -- cowed, crestfallen, shivering; in fear of what may follow.

For a time neither speaks a word nor makes an appeal for mercy. They seem to know it would be idle. Regarding the faces around, they may well think so. There is not one but has "death" plainly stamped upon it, as if the word itself were upon every lip.

There is an interval of profound silence, only broken by the croak of the buzzards and the swish of their spread wings. The bodies of the dead lancers lie neglected; and, the Rangers now further off, the birds go nearer them. Wolves, too, begin to show themselves by the edge of the underwood -- from the stillness thinking the time arrived to commence their ravenous repast. It has but come to increase the quantity of food soon to be spread before them.

"Take off thar leg fastenin's!" commands Wilder, pointing to the prisoners.

In a trice the lashings are loosed from their ankles, and only the ropes remain confining their wrists -- these drawn behind their backs, and there made fast.

"Mount 'em on the mules!"

As the other order, this is instantly executed; and the two prisoners are set astride on the hybrids, each held by a man at its head.

"Now fix the snares roun' thar thrapples. Make the other eends fast by giein' them a wheen o' turn over them branches above. See as ye draw 'em tight 'ithout streetchin'."

Walt's orders are carried out quickly, and to the letter, for the men executing them now comprehend what is meant. They also, too well, who are seated upon the backs of the mules. It is an old trick of their own. They know they are upon a scaffold -- a living scaffold -- with a halter and running noose around their necks.

"Now, Nat!" says Walt, in undertone to Cully. "I guess we may spring the trap? Git your knife riddy."

"It's hyar."

"You take the critter to the left. I'll look arter that on the right."

The latter is bestridden by Uraga. With Walt's ideas of duty are mingled memories that prompt to revenge. He remembers his comrades slaughtered upon the sands of the Canadian, himself left buried alive. With a feeling almost jubilant -- natural, considering the circumstances, scarce reprehensible -- he takes his stand by the side of the mule which carries Colonel Uraga. At the same time Cully places himself beside that bestridden by Roblez.

Both have their bowie-knives in hand, the blades bare. One regarding them, a stranger to their intent, might think they meant slaughtering either the mules or the men on their backs.

They have no such thought, but a design altogether different, as declared by Wilder's words -- the last spoken by him before the act of execution.

"When I gie the signal, Nat, prod yur critter sharp, an' sweep the support from unner them. They've been thegither in this world in the doin' o' many a rascally deed. Let's send 'em thegither inter the next."

"All right, ole hoss! I'll be riddy," is the laconic rejoinder of Cully.

After it another interval of silence, resembling that which usually precedes the falling of the gallows drop. So profound, that the chirp of a tree cricket, even the rustling of a leaf, would seem a loud noise. So ominous, that the vultures perched upon the summit of the cliff crane out their necks to inquire the cause.

The stillness is interrupted by a shout; not the signal promised by Wilder, but a cry coming from the lips of Uraga.

In the last hour of anguish his craven heart has given way, and he makes a piteous appeal for mercy. Not to those near him, knowing it would scarce be listened to; but to the man he has much wronged, calling out his name, "Colonel Miranda."

On hearing it Don Valerian rushes forth from the tent, his sister by his side, Hamersley with the doctor behind. All stand in front regarding the strange spectacle, of which they have been unconscious, seemingly prepared for them. There can be no mistaking its import. The mise en scene explains it, showing the stage set for an execution.

If they have a thought of interfering it is too late. While they stand in suspense, a shout reaches them, followed by explanatory words.

They are in the voice of Walt Wilder, who has said -- 

"Death to the scoundrels! Now, Nat, move your mule forrard!"

At the same instant he and Cully are seen leaning towards the two mules, which bound simultaneously forward, as if stung by hornets or bitten by gadflys.

But neither brings its rider along. The latter -- both of them -- stay behind; not naturally, as dismounted and thrown to the earth; but, like the cradle of Mahomet, suspended between earth and heaven.



Chapter Seventy Nine.

After The Execution.

It is mid-day over the Arroyo de Alamo.

The same sun whose early morning rays fell around the deliberating lynchers, at a later hour lighting up a spectacle of execution, has mounted to the meridian, and now glares down upon a spectacle still sanguinary, though with tableaux changed.

The camp is deserted. There are no tents, no Texans, no horses, nor yet any mules. All have disappeared from the place.

True, Uraga and his lancers are still there -- in body, not in spirit. Their souls have gone, no one may know whither. Only their clay-cold forms remain, us left by the Rangers -- the common soldiers lying upon the grass, the two officers swinging side by side, from the trees, with broken necks, drooping heads, and limbs dangling down -- all alike corpses.

Not for long do they stay unchanged -- untouched.

Scarce has the last hoof-stroke of the Texan horses died away down the valley, when the buzzards forsake their perch upon the bluff, and swoop down to the creek bottom.

Simultaneously the wolves -- grand grey and coyote -- come sneaking out from the thicket's edge; at first cautiously, soon with bolder front, approaching the abandoned bodies.

To the bark of the coyote, the bay of the bigger wolf, and the buzzard's hoarse croak, a caracara adds its shrill note; the fiend-like chorus further strengthened by the scream of the white-headed eagle -- for all the world like the filing of a frame saw, and not unlike the wild, unmeaning laughter of a madman.

Both the predatory birds and the ravening beasts, with instincts in accord, gather around the quarry killed for them. There is a grand feast -- a banquet for all; and they have no need to quarrel over it. But they do -- the birds having to stand back till the beasts have eaten their fill.

The puma, or panther, takes precedence -- the so-called lion of America. A sorry brute to bear the name belonging to the king of quadrupeds. Still, on the Llano Estacado, lord of all, save when confronted by the grizzly bear -- then he becomes a cat.

As no grizzly has yet come upon the ground, and only two panthers, the wolves have it almost their own way, and only the vultures and eagles have to hold back. But for the birds there is a side dish on which they may whet their appetites, beyond reach of the beasts. To their share fall the two suspended from the trees; and, driven off from the others, they attack these with beak and talon, flapping around, settling upon the branches above, on the shoulders of the corpses, thick as honey-bees upon a branch, pecking out eyes, tearing at flesh, mutilating man -- God's image -- in every conceivable mode.

No; there is one left, peculiar to man himself. Strange, at this crisis, he should appear to give exhibition of it. By pure chance -- a sheer contingency -- though not less deserving record.

The beasts and birds while engaged in devouring the dead bodies are interrupted and scared away from their filthy repast, retreating suddenly from the ground at sight of their masters -- men, who unexpectedly appear upon it.

These are not the Rangers returning, but a band of Jicarilla Apaches --  young braves out on a roving excursion. They have come down the creek, making for the Pecos, and so chanced to stray into the deserted camp.

Surprised at the spectacle there presented to their eyes, they are not the less delighted. More than a dozen dead men, with scalps untaken! They can see there has been a fight, but do not stay to think who have been the victors. Their thoughts are turned towards the vanquished, their eyes resting on heads that still carry their covering of hair. In a trice their blades are bare, and it is cut off -- the skin along with it -- to the skull of the last lancer!

Neither does Uraga nor his lieutenant escape the scalping-knife. Before the savages part from the spot, the crowns of both show crimson, while the scalps stripped off appear as trophies on the points of two Apache spears.

Not long do the Indians dally on the ghastly ground. Soon forsaking it, they continue on down the creek. Not in pursuit of the party which has so opportunely furnished them with spear-pennons and fringes for their leggings. The testimony of so many dead men, with the tracks of so many horses -- horses with large hoofs, evidently not ridden by Mexicans, whom they contemn, but Texans they terribly fear; these evidences make the Apaches cautious, and, keeping on towards the Pecos, they go not as pursuers, but men trying to shun the party that has passed before.

In this they are successful. They never sight the returning Texans, nor these them. The Rangers go down the river; the savages up stream. Of all Apaches, of all Indians, the Jicarillas are the most contemptible cowards. Dastards to the last degree, the young "braves" who mutilated the slain lancers will return to their tribe to tell of scalps fairly taken in fight!

And while they are boasting, the wolves, eagles, and vultures will be back among the dead bodies, strip them of their flesh, and leave nought but their bones to bleach white; in time to become dust, and mingle with the earth on which they once moved in all the pride of manhood and panoply of war!



Chapter Eighty.

Tranquil Scenes.

The last act of our drama is recorded, the last sanguinary scene. All red enough, the reader will say, while the keenly susceptible one may deem them too red. Alas! the writer is not answerable for this. He but depicts life as it exists on the borderland between Mexico and Texas. Those who doubt its reality, and would deem him drawing upon imagination, should read the Texan newspapers of that time, or those of this very day. In either he will find recorded occurrences as strange, incidents as improbable, episodes as romantic, and tragedies of hue sanguinary as any recorded in this mere romance.

Not always with such a satisfactory termination. Fortunately for our tale and its readers, Nemesis, in dealing out death and meting vengeance, has necessarily allied herself with Justice. The fallen deserved their fate -- all, save the teamsters of the caravan, and those Texans who on Pecan Creek succumbed to the Comanche spears.

These victims, like stage supernumeraries, living nameless and dying unknown, though their fate may stir our sympathy it does not appeal to the painful depths of sorrow. More easily can it be borne, reflecting on the brighter fate of the survivors.

It can give no painful sensation to tell that Colonel Miranda and his sister accompanied Frank Hamersley on his return to the States, Don Prospero and the New Mexican damsel, Conchita, being of the party, which had for escort across the plains Captain Haynes and his company of Texan Rangers, their old comrade, Walt Wilder, travelling along, and, with Nat Cully, narrating around their nightly camp fires many a strange "scrape" of the mountains and prairies. Two subsequent scenes alone seem worthy of record, both fairly deserving it.

The first occurs in a little country church in the celebrated "Blue Grass district" of Kentucky. Within its walls have assembled some scores of the very bluest blood of this blue grass country -- stalwart, handsome men, alongside a like number of lovely women. They are assisting at a marriage ceremony, not an uncommon occurrence in a church. But in the Kentuckian place of worship -- a little rural edifice, far away from any town -- it is something unusual to see three couples standing before the altar. In the present case there is this number, none of the pairs strangers to the other two, but all three, by mutual agreement and understanding, to take Hymen's oath at the same time.

Foremost and first to put the ring on his bride's finger is Frank Hamersley. She who holds out her hand to receive it is Adela Miranda.

Of the couple coming next, the bridegroom is known to the reader. A handsome man, of dark complexion and pure Spanish features, remarked by the spectators as having resemblance to those of Hamersley's new-made bride. Not strange, he being her brother.

But who is the lady, the tall, fair girl consenting to make Don Valerian happy, so like Hamersley himself.

No one asks this question, all present knowing she is his sister.

A fair exchange between the brothers of the bride; each equally quick to fall in love with the sister of the other. On the sterile Llano Estacado it took scarce a minute for the dark Mexican maiden to subdue the heart of Hamersley. Almost as soon, in the fertile State of Kentucky, has his bright-skinned, blonde-haired sister made conquest of the Mexican Colonel.

The third pair that presents itself to be made man and wife -- who are they? The bridegroom stands six feet two in his boots; the bride, in her satin slippers, far under five. Without thinking of the disproportion in their stature, the reader will recognise Walt Wilder and Conchita.

As the ex-Ranger puts the ring on the finger of his blushing bride, he accompanies the act with certain ludicrous protestations of fidelity not to be found in the printed ritual of the Church.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

Another scene ends our tale; a simple episode of every-day life; but life in a strange land, remote from the ordinary centres of civilisation.

It occurs in New Mexico, in itself a sort of oasis in the great middle desert of North America. Locally, the scene takes place near Albuquerque, on the azotea of a handsome house, which commands a view of the town.

It is the mansion once belonging to Don Valerian Miranda.

That its former master has retained possession of it is evident from the fact of his being again on its roof, tranquilly smoking a cigaretto; while near by him is his sister. Though one dearer stands between -- his wife. Adela is not distressed by her brother's preference for the new mistress of the mansion. She has a mansion of her own, independent. Though far off, its master, Frank Hamersley, is near.

Near, also, in the court-yard below is Walt Wilder, in his grotesque way playing Benedict to Conchita. While up and down moves the doctor, sharing the general joy.

Outside, upon the plain, the white tilts of twenty waggons, with the smoke of camp-fires rising over them, tell of a trader's caravan. It is Hamersley's -- late arrived -- en route for the Rio Abajo and El Paso del Norte.

Its teamsters take their siesta, reposing in full confidence. No fear of Indian attacks now, nor impost exactions from the tyrant Governor of New Mexico, Don Manuel Armijo!

A war has swept the land; a new flag floats over it. Seen streaming above the towers of Albuquerque, it promises security to all. For it is the banner of the "Stars and Stripes!"

<eob>

The Wonder Island Boys: Exploring The Island

By

Roger T. Finlay



Chapter I

The Fourth Voyage Of Discovery


"I wonder why the yaks are so wild and difficult to handle this morning?" said George, as he stopped the wagon and tried to calm them by soothing words.

At that moment Harry, who was in the lead, sprang back with a cry of alarm, and quietly, but with-evident excitement, whispered: "There are some big animals over to the right!"

The Professor was out of the wagon in an instant and moved forward with Harry. "You would better remain with the team, George," was the Professor's suggestion.

George Mayfield and Harry Crandall, two American boys, attached to a ship training school, had been shipwrecked, in company with an aged professor, on an unknown island, somewhere in the Pacific, over four months prior to the opening of this chapter; and, after a series of adventures, had been able, by ingenious means, to devise many of the necessaries of life from the crude materials which nature furnished them; and they were now on their third voyage of discovery into the unknown land.

For your information, a brief outline is given of a few of the things they had discovered, of some of their adventures, and of what they had made, and why they were now far out in the wilderness.

When they landed they had absolutely nothing, in the way of tools or implements. Neither possessed even a knife, so they had to get food and clothing and prepare shelter with the crudest sort of appliances.

By degrees they began to make various articles, found copper, iron and various ores, as well as lime-rock and grindstone formations. With these, and the knowledge of the Professor, they finally succeeded in making iron and copper tools and implements, built a water wheel, erected a sawmill, and eventually turned out a primitive pistol or gun.

During this time, however, they were interested in discovering what the island contained. The first voyage was on foot through a forest, where they saw an exciting combat between bears for the possession of a honey tree, and witnessed the death of one of them. By the accidental discovery of the honey tree they were supplied with an excellent substitute for sugar.

In the next voyage a large river was discovered to the south, which they named the South River. The second voyage was along that stream, until they reached a falls, where they were compelled to leave the crude boat which was made before starting on this voyage, and they proceeded on foot.

After a week's adventure in the forest they found a fire plot, which was the first indication that the island was inhabited. As up to this time they had no weapons but bows and arrows, which they had made, they returned home hurriedly. On the journey they had the fortune to capture a yak and her calf, and subsequently became possessors of a small herd, two of which they trained. A wagon was built and a store of provisions gathered in. A crude machine was constructed to weave the ramie fiber, the plant of which they found growing on the banks; in addition they had success in making felt cloth from the hair of the yak.

After providing many of the things which were necessaries, and several samples of firearms, as stated, they determined to go on their third voyage of discovery. During the various trips several mysterious and inexplainable things occurred. First, the fire on the banks of the Cataract River, about fifty miles from their home. Second, the disappearance of their boat, which had been left below the falls in South River; and, third, the removal of their flag and pole at Observation Hill, a half mile from their home, during the time they were absent on the third voyage.

They were now on their fourth voyage, and the incident mentioned on the opening page of this chapter related to the first large animal they had discovered.

In a short time Harry and the Professor returned from the search. "We have lost them, but shall undoubtedly find them later on," was all he said.

The forest was still to the south of them, and to the north the sea was now distant fully three or four miles, as the coast seemed to trend to the northwest, after passing the wild barley fields. The ground appeared to be more open and level, so a more southerly course was taken in that direction. Before night they emerged from the dense forest, which still continued to the right.

No stirring incidents occurred during the day, until night was approaching, when, on entering a straggling forest of detached trees and thick underbrush, George, who was in the lead, and acting the part of the scout, rushed back and held up a warning hand. The team stopped while Harry and the Professor quickly moved toward George.

"I have seen some orang-outans; come quickly."

Moving forwardly they could hear a plaintive cry, not unlike the wail of an infant. All stopped in surprise. The Professor was the first to speak: "That is a young orang. See if you can locate him."

As they moved still nearer the sound, there was a scampering of several orangs, and not fifty feet away was a pair of babies, struggling to reach the most convenient tree.

Harry pounced on the pair and caught one of them, which set up a vigorous shriek. The other, in the excitement, got too far beyond the reach of George, who, in his eagerness, was too busy watching Harry's captive to notice the other animal, and before he could reach the tree one of the grown orangs had reached the ground, gathered up the infant and again sprang up the tree.

"Give it some honey," said the Professor, laughing.

"What are the things good for, anyway?" asked Harry.

Fig 1. THE ORANG-OUTAN

"Of course, you are not compelled to keep it, but while you have it feed and treat it well."

"What does it eat?"

"Principally nuts and fruit, as well as vegetables. If properly prepared they will eat almost everything man eats, except meats."

At first, as a matter of curiosity, they restrained him, and as it was near camping time for the night, the Professor suggested that it would be well to make camp close to the tree which had harbored the orang family.

After a good supper the Baby nestled up in the mattress, and was sound asleep in fifteen minutes. When the boys arranged the mattresses for the night, Baby did not seem at all disturbed, and he slept peacefully until morning.

After breakfast no effort was made to deprive the Baby of its liberty, but no attempt was made on his part to leave the wagon. He relished the honey and the other delicacies, all of which were undoubtedly, a surprise to him.

The parent orangs were in sight on the trees beyond, but made no demonstrations, although they saw the young one crawling and swinging on and around the wagon.

You may be sure that the petting Baby got was enough to spoil any infant. Probably, the parents saw the affection lavished on it, or knew that it was not curtailed of its liberty.

When they again set out on the march Baby kept a firm hold on the mattress, or lazily swung from the cross bars of the wagon top. It was having the time of its life.

Before noon of the next day, Baby began to act strangely. It would jump first to one side, then to the other. Harry, who was in the lead, was called up, and the wagon stopped. The antics of Baby looked like fear. Before Harry reached the wagon the Professor and George heard a shot, and the next moment something struck the canvas top and rolled to the ground. It was up in an instant and sprang to the back of one of the yaks, before the Professor, who was driving, could realize what was happening.

George was off the wagon in an instant, and seeing the strange animal on the back of the yak, drew his gun, and two shots rang out almost at the same instant.

When Harry turned back, at the call of the Professor, he saw the animal in the tree, which was then alongside of the wagon, and without waiting to give a warning, had shot at it, the bullet going through its forelegs. The result was it fell, striking the wagon, rolled over, and then sprang to the back of the yak. George's nimbleness in jumping from the wagon, and running around, enabled him to get in a shot at the same time the Professor fired. Both of their shots took effect, and it rolled to the ground.

"What is it?" asked George.

"A wildcat; no wonder the poor Baby was frightened!"

"How did Baby, inside of the wagon, know of the cat?"

"The wildcat is the mortal enemy of the orang-outan. While they fear to encounter the grown animals, they will attack the young, and the orangs seem to have the instinct of danger from that source born in them."

The Baby's nerves were unstrung with the din of the guns, and it was an hour before he could be calmed down. The wildcat was skinned, and it was days before the orang could be reconciled to the sight of the pelt or the smell of the animal.

"That is an instinct in certain animals. Nature has provided them with warnings of danger when their enemies are near."

"What a short tail the cat has," remarked George; "so unlike the tame cat."

"That, and the head, which is much larger and flatter than the common cat, as well as the shorter legs, show the distinguishing differences. Its color, as this one is, uniformly grayish-brown, with stripes running around the body, is a peculiarity found in the tame species, known as the 'tiger-cat,' to which they are the most closely allied."

Before nightfall fairly level ground was reached, and this being the third day, they judged their location was fully sixty miles due west of the Cataract. Far to the south and southeast the mountains could be distinctly seen, but the Professor did not think the ranges were very high.

In the far west the cloudy aspect of the sky prevented them from judging of the character of the land, but it had the appearance of mountains, as well.

"How far away are the mountains in the south, do you think?" asked the Professor.

"I estimate them at about five miles," was George's response.

"What is your idea, Harry?"

"I don't think George is far out of the way."

"Would you be surprised if I should put it at twenty-five miles, or more?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Appearances are always deceptive when you have nothing intervening to measure by."

"Is that the reason distances on water are always so deceptive?"

"Yes; have you ever noticed that you can judge distances better if the intervening landscape is rolling?"

"I think that is true in my case. But there is another thing I have noticed: When I am standing on the ground and looking up at an object, it never seems as far as when I am up there looking down: Why is that so?"

"That is simply the effect of habit, or familiarity. You are accustomed to look up at objects. The perspective, the altitude, and the appearance of the heights are natural things to you; but, when you are above, things below you have an entirely different perspective outline. Their arrangement is unfamiliar. Probably that is one of the reasons why we should always look upwardly in life, and not downwardly."

"But," inquired Harry, "is that the reason why some people, when at an elevation, like a tall building, or on a high precipice, say they feel like jumping down?"

"That is a species of paralysis, growing out of a sense of insecurity. It is purely an unnatural sensation, that temporarily disorganizes the nervous system. I knew a man who, whenever placed in such a position, could not speak."

They were now on what might be called the table land of the island. A broad plateau, with frequent groves, and any quantity of young trees scattered about everywhere, gave a most pleasing view. During the fourth day of the journey occasional little streams, flowing to the north, were crossed, and in the forenoon they had to halt for two hours and camp during the heaviest rainstorm which had fallen since they came to the island.

On the fifth day a broad river was sighted, flowing to the north, and before noon the banks were reached. Its width barred their further progress, unless a raft could be made large enough to take the team across. This was considered a hazardous task, and the distance from home was too great to take the risk. It was a larger stream than South River.



Chapter II

The Mysterious Lights


The usual rate of travel did not average two and a half miles an hour, and while the first and second days were vigorous ones, they were not so much disposed to hurry up now, and were taking the trip more leisurely, thus giving more time to the examination of trees and plants and flowers, and to investigating the geological formation of the country. The new river was not, in all probability, more than seventy miles from the Cataract home.

Beyond, fully a day's march, was the mountain chain -- not a high range, but an elevation which showed a broken skyline. The mountains below the South River did not now seem so formidable; and directly to the south they could see no ranges or hill elevations. To the north the sea might be ten or fifty miles away. The river flowed past them at the rate of about two miles an hour.

That evening, while sitting on the bank, Harry had an idea. "We made a mistake in calling our home river the West River. Let us call this the West, and rename our stream the Cataract River."

"Very well; as George does not object, the Geographical Society will please take notice, and make the change."

George was of the impression that to settle the question of the direction they should take in their future explorations, was the most important thing to determine.

An entire day was spent in and about the vicinity of the river. New plants and shrubbery of various kinds were constantly sought for and examined -- they fished and hunted; and on the morning of the third day it was decided to move on.

"We have not yet sighted any original inhabitants, and have found no signs of people living here; nevertheless, we had traces of a fire thirty or forty miles east of here. That is what puzzles me."

"I am in favor of following this stream to the north," was Harry's conclusion, "unless we make a raft and cross the river."

Harry's view finally prevailed, and at noon of that day they camped at the mouth of a little stream which flowed into the West River. Beyond was a forest, and on the opposite side of the West River the wood had all along been dense. At that point the trees did not come down to the stream, and there was considerable lowland between the river and the forest.

The Professor and George wandered up the banks of the little stream on a prospecting tour, as had been their constant practice. When they returned Harry knew something unusual had occurred from the excited appearance of George.

"What is it? Any animals?"

"No; only this." And George held up an arrow made of flint. The wooden portion of the arrow was really of good workmanship, and of hard, stiff wood.

"Where did you find this?"

"Not more than five hundred feet from here."

Harry looked at the Professor for an explanation, but he was silent. By common consent they now agreed upon making a more extended investigation of the vicinity for other traces, if possible. Within an hour Harry stumbled across the skull of an animal. This was not an unusual sight, as bones had been found at various places in their travels, but here was a specimen, lying on a rocky slope, with but little vegetation about it.

Fig. 2 Types of Arrow-Heads.

"I should like to know what animal this belonged to?"

The Professor examined the bones critically, without venturing an opinion. "What is this?" were his first words. Directly behind the ear cavity was a split or broken cleavage in which they found a round piece of dark wood.

"Get the bolo, George; we may find something interesting here." With a few strokes the skull was opened, and embedded within the brain receptacle was an arrow.

"This animal was, as you see, killed by the inhabitants of the island. I infer that there are several tribes living here."

The boys looked at each other in astonishment.

"Why do you think so?"

"This arrow is different in shape and in structure from the sample we found this morning."

The boys now noticed the difference.

"Do different tribes make their implements differently?"

"There is just as much difference among savages in the way they make their weapons and different implements, as among civilized people. Our customs differ; our manufactured articles are not the same; and sometimes the manner of using the tools is unlike; and the divergence is frequently so wide that it has been difficult in many cases to trace the causes and explain the reasons. Such an instance may be found in the Chinese way of holding a saw, with the teeth projecting from the sawyer. For years all tools and machinery made in England could be instantly recognized by those versed in manufacturing, on account of the bulk, as their tools were uniformly made larger and heavy, as compared with the French and American manufacture."

This conclusion verified the Professor's observation, and you may be sure that the new discovery gave an air of gravity to the camp which it did not have before.

"I also wanted to say to-day," was the Professor's last remark that night, "I am satisfied that there is no intimate intercourse between the different tribes on the island." The boys looked at each other without questioning, as usual; but the next morning, as soon as George awoke, his first observation was: "I can't understand what makes you think that the natives of the different tribes do not associate with each other."

"Simply for the reason that the styles of the arrows differ so greatly. With them, as with civilized people, the intermingling of the races should tend to make their tools and implements alike."

The next night, after the evening meal, they sat in the wagon until late, discussing their future course. It was now fully nine months since they left home. The thought that their parents and friends would consider them lost was the hardest thing to bear. Did the boys ever get homesick? I need not suggest such an idea to make it more real than it was to them. With beautiful home surroundings, loving parents and brothers and sisters, absence, uncertainty; the fear that they would never again be able to return; danger all about them; the belief that perils still awaited them, which fears were now, in all probability, to be realized, all these things did not tend to produce a pleasant perspective to the mind.

But the Professor was a philosopher. He knew that the human mind craved activity. If it could not be exercised in a useful direction it would invariably spend its energies in dangerous channels. He knew this to be particularly true of young people.

Boys are naturally inquisitive. Their minds are active, like their bodies. They must have exercise; why not direct it into paths of usefulness, where their accomplishments could be seen and understood by the boys themselves.

That thought is the parent of the manual training system, where the education imparted comes through the joint exercise of brain and muscle. Boys resent all work which comes to them under the guise of play; and all play which is labeled "work." But when there is a need for a thing, and the inquisitive nature of the boy, or his mental side, starts an inquiry, the manual, or the muscular part of him, is stimulated to the production of the article needed to fill that want.

The Professor did not force any information upon the boys, as will be noticed. It was his constant aim to let inquiry and performance come from them.

Could anything have been more stimulating or encouraging than the building of the water wheel, the sawmill, or the wagon? See what enjoyment and profit they derived from it. Thus far they had not given their time and the great enthusiasm to their various enterprises because of the money returns. Do you think it would have made their labors lighter, or the knowledge of their success any sweeter if they had been paid for their work?

The "Baby" went to sleep early, as was his custom now, and the boys and the Professor sat up later that night than usual, talking over their condition, and the situation as it appeared to them. The day had been exceedingly warm, following the rains.

Harry, who was seated facing the river, suddenly sprang up and excitedly grasped the Professor's arm, as he pointed across the river: "Look at that light!"

There, plainly in the distance, was a light, not stationary, but flickering, and, apparently, moving slightly to and fro.

"It seems as though it is at the edge of the woods," remarked George. The distance was fully a half mile away.

"It can't be possible that people are over there," said Harry, not so much in a tone of inquiry as of surprise. "How far do you think it is from here?"

"Probably one-half mile, or more. We might be able to learn something if we should fire a gun," was the Professor's reply.

The boys were naturally astonished at the boldness of this remark. Other lights now appeared, some dim, others brighter. The firing of a gun seemed to them a most hazardous thing to do, but no doubt the Professor had a reason for making the suggestion.

It was quite a time before either of the boys responded to this proposal. In their minds it was a daring enterprise.

"If we should fire a gun the noise would likely startle them, and the first impulse of the savages would be to extinguish the lights."

George, who had the spirit of adventure more strikingly developed than Harry, was the first to concur.

"I am going to try it at any rate; we might just as well know what we have to face now, as later on."

"So you are really going to shoot?" said the Professor.

"If you so urge it, yes."

"Then let me suggest what to do. All savages have a keen sense of direction. It is one of their chief accomplishments. You and Harry go back, up the river, a quarter of a mile, or so, and take with you one of our coverings. Then shoot behind the blanket, so the flash will not be seen, and I will remain here and watch the effect."

There was no delay in their preparations. Within fifteen minutes the shot rang out, and almost immediately thereafter every light had disappeared. The boys were also keen enough to note the extinguished lights, and returned to the Professor in a hurry.

"The disappearance of the lights is not conclusive evidence that human beings were there. It might have been a mere coincidence."

"Coincidence! What do you mean by that?"

"Did it not occur to you that the lights might be natural phenomena?"

"Of what?"

"Of phosphorescence."

"Do you mean 'will-o'-the-wisp'?"

"It is sometimes called by that name. It is caused by decaying vegetable matter, and exhibits itself in the form of gases of phosphorus, which appears to burn, but does not, like the vapor which is produced by rubbing certain matches in the dark."

"But how do you account for the disappearance after we shot?"

"I thought they might have disappeared naturally, after you fired, and, therefore, said it might have been a mere coincidence."

This explanation was not a satisfying one for the boys, and the Professor did not place much faith in it, for the following reasons:

"I believe it is our duty now to keep watches during the night, which we can do by turns, so that the sentinel will quietly awaken the next one in his turn, or both in the event of any unusual happening; and furthermore, we should make an early start in the morning."

George was the first watch, and, by agreement, Harry was to be the next, in two hours, for the second period. Before that time passed Baby was very restless, and George tried to soothe him; but before long he began crying. A lusty orang, however small, in a still night, makes an awfully loud noise. The boys never heard anything as loud and as frightful as that cry appeared to them.

All were awake, of course, but the Baby refused to be quieted for fully a quarter of an hour.

"Don't you think Baby's cries will direct the savages to us?"

"It is not at all likely. The savages have no doubt heard the cries many times. It is your imagination which is playing you tricks. Do you suppose the savages know we are here and have a captive orang?"

During the rest of the night they took sleep in snatches, and morning was long in coming. Harry had busied himself in getting a hasty breakfast while the others slept, and Baby was up leaping around nervously, and springing from branch to branch on the adjacent trees.

Having finished breakfast, the yaks were yoked, and before the sun was visible they were on their way to the north, as fast as the yaks could travel.

The whole camp partook of watchfulness now. Every hour and every mile they scanned the landscape, and, for further precaution, kept away from close proximity to the river bed. That was not a safe route, as enemies on the other side of the river would have an unobstructed view, whereas by traveling inland, but within sight of the river, they could still view the banks of the stream.

"The scout who leads the way must go a certain distance, then make observations in all quarters. He must take particular note of objects which afford places of concealment, and the eye must be alert enough to observe every undue movement in limb or leaf. Sound is one of the things he must cultivate. A noise of any kind should be analyzed. A scout once told me that on one occasion during the war, his life was saved because he saw one limb of a tree move more than an adjoining one. At another time, in trailing through a forest, he saw a leaf on the ground, differing in color from those around it. In walking along he had noticed that some of the leaves he overturned had the same color, and inferred that as no wind had been blowing, and all the trees were bare, something must have turned the leaf, and subsequent events confirmed his reasonings."

The boys quickly learned their lessons. Each knew that every step forward meant an entrance to an unknown world.



Chapter III

The Bear Fight


During the day, following the night when the mysterious lights appeared in the lowland directly to the west and beyond the river, they passed through several dense forests. George, who was in the lead at this time, emerged from the thickest wood into a rather open plain. He saw the river make a long circular sweep, and directly ahead noticed a coast line of steep hills which marked the shore of the river on the opposite side.

Harry and the Professor, who were behind with the team, had not yet reached the clearing. As George passed into the open space he saw an animal cross his path, and without waiting to inform the others, he shot. This alarmed Harry, who was out of the wagon without waiting for any word from the Professor. Immediately after George's shot was heard, they plainly heard another from the direction of the river ahead of them. The Professor, too, jumped from the wagon and followed Harry. George fired a second time, and another shot came from the river. Harry turned and looked back at the Professor in amazement.

"What can that mean? Did you hear four shots?"

"Yes; run ahead, and find George."

In a brief time both boys returned. "George says he did not hear the shots from the river."

"They were as plain as your own."

George did not know how to explain it. The Professor moved forward. "Let us get out into the opening."

As they reached the clearing beyond the wood, and the Professor saw the steep bluffs beyond, he laughed, and looking at the hills, said:

"That is where the shots came from."

His amusing smile was reassuring, although his words were not.

"That bluff over there is about 2,000 feet from here. We had better find out what he is doing there."

"Two thousand feet; and somebody there!"

"I did not say somebody was there, but that the noise of the shot came from that place."

"Do you think it was simply an echo?"

"Undoubtedly; didn't you hear Baby's cries repeated?"

"But how do you know that the hills are 2,000 feet away?"

"Sound travels at the rate of 1,040 feet per second, and I made a mental calculation that it took four seconds for Baby's cries to come back from the hills. In that case the sound had to go to the hills and back again, and it would, therefore, take two seconds to travel one way. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes; that is perfectly clear."

The land now became more rolling, and was occasionally broken by ravines; and sometimes they had difficulty in getting their yaks and wagon across and over the rough ground.

Fallen trees were numerous; there were little mounds here and there, made by the remains of uprooted trees, which had long ago decayed, all of which made their traveling laborious and slow.

Here wild animals became more abundant, and wild game was found on every side. Several good shots by the boys replenished their larder with bird meat.

"See that bear!" cried Harry in great excitement.

The boys, as well as the Professor, were out with their guns at once. "Follow him up quickly now," and the Professor could hardly keep pace with them. The bear did not seem to be greatly frightened, and when Harry, who was ahead, stopped and aimed his gun for a shot, he was less than a hundred feet away. The shots from the two boys came close together, and bruin stopped in surprise, then, with a snarl, turned around and in a lumbering, shuffling movement started for the boys.

If either shot had taken effect it was not noticeable. The boys turned to run, one going to the right and the other to the left. This did not seem to disconcert him in the least, as he went right on. He had seen the Professor, who stopped and sprang to one side and bringing up his gun awaited the charge of the bear.

The boys, encouraged by the tactics of the bear in avoiding them, turned again, because they now appreciated that the Professor was in the bear's path.

"Don't shoot, boys; let him come nearer."

When he came within fifteen feet the Professor fired, and the boys also shot. The bear reared up, gave a terrific growl and again shambled forward, this time making a beeline for the wagon. This was too much for the yaks; they turned, almost upsetting the wagon, and Baby commenced to shriek in the most approved fashion.

Fig 3. THE BEAR

Neither George nor Harry could wait any longer. They followed and rushed past the Professor, who now had the only loaded gun.

"Take this, Harry; your guns are not loaded."

Harry turned and grasped it and without stopping went in pursuit. Before he had reached the former location of the wagon the animal ran into a tree, which threw him back on his haunches, and after several efforts to raise himself, fell over on his side.

The Professor's shot had entered his left eye, but the vitality of the animal was such that he ran nearly a hundred feet before it took effect.

The yaks were soon rounded up. It is a wonder that more damage was not done. Aside from the displacement of their bedding, and the ditching of some of the cooking utensils, everything was found intact.

"That was a rather ill-advised adventure on our part. We should have guarded our supplies; but I was as much to blame as you were. We must be more careful in the future."

On every side the rough character of the land was more apparent, and it was becoming more and more difficult to find tracks which were suitable for the team.

"This matter of going further with our wagon is now getting to be a serious problem. I think we should turn to the right and move in the direction of home, or direct our course southeast toward the mountains on the other side of South River."

"I think we have discovered enough on this trip," was Harry's conclusion.

George assented, so that on the twelfth day of their journey the yaks were directed towards home. For two days the travel was southeasterly, through the most broken and tortuous paths, crossing innumerable small streams and rivulets on their course. During this troublesome part of their journey the weather was stormy, with numerous rains, some of them so prolonged as to prevent traveling for hours, so that they made less than twenty miles during that time.

Fig. 4. DIAGRAM OF THEIR TRIP

On the third day, however, the ground became more level and less broken, the sun appeared, and they felt happy at the thought of getting back again.

Thus far in their wanderings they had kept their reckonings, as well as they could without instruments, and that evening the chart was again consulted, as usual. The drawing (Figure 4) shows how it looked with the course of their journey.

When they started from the Cataract home at nine o'clock in the morning, they made an observation of the sun, using a vertical pole so as to get the exact direction of the falling shadow. A distant object was then selected, a prominent tree, as far off as possible. The Professor had prepared an adjustable bevel square, which was simply two legs hinged together at one end, by means of a set screw, like a compass.

Fig. 5. BEVEL SQUARE

"Now, boys, I want to show you how we can make a fairly good chart simply by the use of this adjustable square, and this will also be of service to us in measuring heights of objects, as well as directing our course. It is now nine o'clock, and you will see that our pole (A) throws a shadow to the southwest. Supposing now, we direct the first leg of our journey to that large tree (C), to the west of us. If, now, we put one leg (D) of our rule along the shadow line, and the other leg (E) along the sight of the line (F), which goes to the tree, we shall find that the distance across between the ends of the bevel square is just two feet. It happens in this case that the tree (C) is due west from our observation point; so we have at nine o'clock each morning a means whereby we can always determine the true east and west."

"But supposing we lose our reckoning during the day, on account of cloudy weather, or by going through the forest, where we cannot make observations?"

Fig. 6. SIGHTING THE DIRECTION

"We could, probably, travel an entire day in one general direction, without being more than a few miles out of our course, north or south, and our direction immediately made out the next day."

"Wouldn't it be a good idea to prepare angles at different times of the day, in the forenoon and in the afternoon?"

"That is the proper thing to do, so as to enable you to make observations from the angles at all times. A chart could then be made from that which would show at a glance what the value of each angle is."

"We shall certainly have to do that; but what interests me as much is, to know how far we have traveled. Can we also tell that by the sun?"

"Yes; but to do so will depend on the accuracy of the observation. For the present, with only a single instrument, the bevel square, we must be content to make our calculations exactly at midday, when the shadow points due south. Or, in the northern hemisphere, when the shadow points due north. I want you, in the meantime, to think over that problem, as it is a very interesting one, and we will take it up when we are not so tired."



Chapter IV

The Disappearance Of The Yaks


It was a relief to get on fairly even ground again, where it would not be necessary to make turns and twists around all sorts of obstructions, to say nothing of ravines and water courses. On the evening of the fifteenth day, calculations showed that they were halfway back from the point farthest west, but they still had no knowledge of their distance from the sea, which undoubtedly was to the east, or, possibly, northeast. West River flowed to the north, and all the streams crossed flowed north or northeasterly, how far, it was impossible to say.

Two days afterward the scene changed somewhat. There had been little wind during the journey thus far; but now breezes sprang up for two successive days, at about four in the afternoon, which came from the north.

"I think the sea is not far away."

"Why do you think so, Professor?"

"Did you notice the warm breezes this evening, and also last night at about the same time?"

"Why should the breezes from the ocean blow warm winds to us at this time of the year when it ought to be cold?"

"It is not at all likely that the breezes are any warmer than at other times of the year. Heat is merely a relative matter. We feel the difference of the wind temperatures principally for the reason that when the vast body of water in moving ocean streams is giving off its heat, it imparts it to the atmosphere and modifies it, so that as it sweeps over the land it is warmer than the natural temperature."

The following day, late in the afternoon, they caught the first glimpse of the sea, and it was welcomed. A camp was made for the night in the open, and with an early start next morning the explorers reached the last hill to the west of the cataract.

When they arrived home, which was not without considerable misgiving, owing to their long absence, they were overjoyed at finding everything at the house in perfect order, but their yaks were missing.

This was, at first, a sore grief to them, especially to George, who considered it to be a personal loss. Milk was a luxury, as well as a necessity, to him. The team was now all that remained of their herd.

"It is strange we did not see any of them on our journey."

It was a surprising thing to see their water wheel in motion, although they had taken considerable pains to push the wheel back so the blades would not be in contact with the water. It was found that the Cataract River was much swollen with the rains, so that the water had come into contact with the wheel.

As the team was now the sole reliance, so far as the herd was concerned, the Professor suggested that they should thereafter keep the team within the enclosure, so as to prevent their straying, as they might, in the absence of their fellows, try to escape.

The present house, which had been built since coming to the Cataract, had originally only one room, and two of the sides were formed, as stated, by the walls of the right-angled rocks, the room being about ten feet square.

After the water wheel was built and put in and the sawmill erected, they were enabled to get lumber, and an extension twelve by fifteen feet was put up, to be used as a sleeping and living room.

A small addition was also added, which was converted into a kitchen, so that the original enclosure could be used as a storeroom.

A sort of roadway passed the new addition, and beyond was the Cataract, not fifty feet away. Directly below the Cataract another building was put up, in one end of which was the sawmill, and at the other end was a sort of shed in which they had put up a furnace, blacksmith shop, and a kind of primitive foundry.

Within the workshop work was done during the rainy weather, and it was made as comfortable as possible.

They were now back, ready to take up active life again. Not that the past nineteen days were inactive ones. By no means; but they loved the work which every day had brought to them in the past, and were happy in the thought that they were accomplishing things of the greatest value to themselves. They were really tired, and for a few days did little active work.

"Do you think we have accomplished very much on our trip?" was George's inquiry the evening of their arrival.

"We saw a light, didn't we?"

The boys laughed, when they saw that the Professor said it with a broad smile. They had no doubt, but he wished to convey the impression that they had seen a light, just as many others had, without being able to understand it. George saw the point at once. "I hope we may be able to profit by it. But, really, how much more do we know than we knew a month ago?"

"The West River, the bear, the wildcat, the Baby; why, you had entirely forgotten him and his cute ways. We learned that there are, without doubt, savage tribes on the island. I am inclined to think the trip has taught us something."

The Baby was an interesting little chap. He would sit up at the table with innocent blinking eyes, and gravely imitate the motions of eating, especially if there was something sweet in sight.

That night a startling noise was heard, made by the unmistakable tramp of animals passing their home. Harry was the first to open the small port, which served as a window.

"Hurrah for our yaks!" There they were, back again, with two additional calves. The next morning they were contentedly lying down outside of the enclosure which held their team.

Didn't "Baby" enjoy the milk! So did the boys. The cattle had not strayed away far, but merely found a better feeding ground. The barley field had been exhausted.

"If there is anything I missed on the journey, it was the clock. I don't like guessing at time," was George's comment, after they had fully gone over their experiences on the trip.

"I suppose," said Harry, "we can make watches, but they will be rather cumbersome, because our tools are not very delicate. What do you think, Professor?"

"That is for you to decide. I am of the opinion that as we have a pretty good clock, and as it is susceptible of being nicely regulated, we could put in our time more profitably in doing some other much needed work."

"What is that? I am willing to do anything?"

"We have some hides that need tanning, and the fresh bear pelt must be cured. As our herd of cattle has increased we might slaughter several of them, so that we can dehair the pelts and tan them all at the same time; then we need some contrivances to enable us to determine the location of our island; and also to afford a means to measure distances in traveling, because, I presume, you are just as anxious as ever to know what we have on the island."

There was a hearty assent to this view of the situation.

"I want to do everything we can to learn about our surroundings," was George's response; "and I would like to have the fire, and the mystery of the boat, and the flagpole cleared up."

The thing which most interested Harry after their return, was the disposition of the barley which they had harvested before the last journey was undertaken. This was welcomed by the Professor as a necessity. Accordingly a level floor was provided, on which was spread a thick layer of barley stalks, and this was beaten with flails. A flail is simply a piece of wood about the thickness and length of a broom handle. To this was attached, by means of leather strips, a club, not unlike a baseball bat, so the bat portion swung on the end of the handle, and in this manner the barley was threshed out.

Fig. 7. Threshing Flail.

Before the invention of the threshing machine this was the universal method of threshing, although it was also customary to tramp it out with horses, which were driven over a thick layer of the straw hour after hour.

In one day they threshed out five bushels; beautiful golden grain. The boys who had often seen wheat and oats threshed out, never appreciated grain as they did their own, acquired in the manner this was.

The grinding-stones, which they had previously made, were then set to work, making the meal, or flour, as they preferred to call it. Heretofore flour had been a luxury, and there was a longing for it, so it was decided to make up the first batch of bread.

You may be sure that the Professor did not object to activities in this direction; and they had long ago learned his peculiarities, particularly not to venture any information voluntarily, so the boys concluded to make bread on their own knowledge. They had often seen bread made.

"All you have to do is to mix up the flour with a little water, put some rising in it and let it stand until it raises and then bake it."

"That's all well enough, Harry, I suppose we can do all that, but where shall we get the yeast?"

"That's so; yeast is necessary; I suppose we shall have to see the Professor, after all; but hold on; I have seen sour milk used, George."

"So have I; but I think mother used something else with it."

"Well, there we are; who would think we could have trouble with such a simple thing as making bread?"

The Professor came smiling. "You want to make bread, and the only thing that troubles you is to raise it so it will be light?"

"Wouldn't it be bread if you didn't raise it? You know the Jews used unleavened, or unraised, bread."

"But we want regular bread, of course, and we want to know what to use to raise it with."

"I don't see that you particularly need anything."

"Why not?"

"If you let the dough stand in a temperature of between 90 and 120 degrees for a certain time, fermentation will take place, and it can then be baked."

"But why should it ferment?"

"Bread raising is merely fermentation. All flour is largely composed of starch. The high temperature, of 100 degrees or over, causes the starch to turn first into sugar, then into alcohol and carbonic acid, and the gases thus formed force their way up through the dough, causing it to swell, as you have often noticed."

Fig. 8. Imperfectly leavened. Perfectly Leavened. SAMPLES OF BREAD

Without further instructions the boys began the making of bread. Shortly afterwards the Professor appeared laughing immoderately.

"Come and see the Baby."

The boys were out in an instant. The Baby was in the storeroom adjoining, and discovered the honey pot. It was a "sight." He sat there, both hands and arms covered with honey, blinking innocently, and licking his fingers and arms with the greatest joy imaginable.

"You little rascal, you are getting too fat now," was George's greeting; but Baby didn't mind. He knew George by this time.

The bread raised, but it, too, was a "sight." It was full of holes and at some places the bread had no appearance of having "come up," which is kitchen parlance for unraised bread.

"What is the matter with it, Harry?"

"Did you work it before you put it into the oven?"

"I forgot that."

When the Professor saw the sample he divined the trouble at once.

"Of course, you have to work it, for the reason that 'working' distributes the gases through the mass. I think you made the mistake in working it and then putting it into the oven immediately."

"How long should it stand after working?"

"That depends on the amount of carbonic gas which is developed. When it first raises the gas forces its way through the dough irregularly, and by then working it the gas is broken up and distributed evenly, so that if the mass is allowed to stand after the second working every part of it will be leavened. When it is then put into the oven, the heat at first causes a more rapid expansion, or raising, of the dough, and as the heat increases, fermentation is stopped, and the baking process sets the dough. The result is tiny little holes throughout the bread, where the gases were."

"But why do they use yeast if it can be done without?"

"Because it makes the raising process easier, and more positive."

"Is it the carbonic acid which makes some bread sour?"

"Yes; sour bread results if the fermentation is continued too long."

Fig. 9. Air Pocket.

It was George's custom each day to watch the movements of the yaks, because it was through them that they learned of the barley field which was such a source of usefulness to them. One day while out on an expedition of this kind, he wandered down to the rock cliffs, probably five hundred feet west of Observation Hill, this hill, it will be remembered, being close to the landing place when they were cast on the island. The sea was heavy and the tide coming in. He could not help reflecting, and his home, his parents, and his beautiful life there came up to his inward vision. The dreary pounding sea made him homesick, and for the first time he burst into tears. But George was a brave boy. He knew that crying was useless, and felt a little ashamed of himself.

His reflections were not long, however. To his left he saw a peculiar sight. At every inrushing wave there was a report like a cannon shot, followed by a tremendous stream and spray of water, which was shot out to sea high up above the waves.

This was an extraordinary sight to him, and unexplainable. The story was related to the Professor that evening.

"That was an air pocket in the rocks."

"What is an air pocket?"

"From your description it is probably a large cave, so situated in the wall of the cliff, that at a certain period the waves will entirely close the mouth. When the wave dashes up against the cliff and closes the mouth of the cave, the water tries to enter the cave. In doing so air is compressed in the pocket, and when the wave again starts to go out to sea, and the pressure is partly taken away, the compressed air explodes, so to say, and shoots out the water into a spray, and also causes the noise you heard."

"How much can air be compressed?"

"It is not known definitely how far. It has been compressed to less than one-eight-hundredth of its bulk. It is the most elastic substance known."

"Isn't water compressible?"

"No; if it had been compressible you would not have had that exhibition at the air pocket."



Chapter V

An Exciting Hunt


"What is that rocking?" cried Harry, jumping out of his couch, one night.

The Professor was awake and had noticed it.

"Probably an earthquake."

The rocking continued for several minutes, and then gradually subsided. They boys were so excited that sleep was out of the question, for the time, besides the shaking might again recur at any moment.

"Do you think there is any danger, Professor?"

"It is impossible to say what will happen when these symptoms in the earth's crust take place."

"Are there not some instruments which indicate the extent and possible dangers of the quakes?"

"There is an instrument called the seismograph, which records the vibratory movements of the earth, and also locates the distances at which the shocks are from the observer, but there is nothing to indicate what the extent and probable dangers are."

"Is it true that the interior of the earth is in a liquid state?"

"Such has been the theory for many years; but it is now believed to be a solid -- a body with a density five and a half times greater than water."

"If that is the case, why is it that the molten metal flows out of the volcanoes?"

"There may be fissures in the earth, or portions less dense than others which, by the general disarrangements of the adjacent parts, and by the enormous pressure exerted by the force of gravity, are contracted, and the movement causes such friction and intense heat as to liquefy the rock. In doing so a large amount of gas is evolved, the movement of which causes the disturbance of the earth's crust, which manifests itself to us in the form of earthquakes. At the same time the confined gases seek an outlet, which they find at the weakest part, and the volcanoes spout forth the lava, flame, and gases. There is an undoubted connection between earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. Earthquakes usually precede volcanic action. This internal combustion is going on at all times, and is only more violent at some period than at others. The lava in the Crater of Stromboli has been in a liquid state for more than two thousand years."

"Before we left home I saw in a paper that some scientist described the kind of rock and other matter which was seven miles down in the earth."

"Was anyone ever down as far as that?"

"No; a little over a mile is as far as man has actually penetrated the earth."

"Then, I should like to know how geologists can tell with any certainty what the rock is like several miles down?"

"That is known just as positively as though a hole had been dug down that distance."

"I don't see how that is possible."

"I am going to make you a sketch which you can examine at leisure, that will show how he knows. Assuming that the earth has a crust -- that is, the outside or cooled part, let the first sketch (Figure 10) represent this crust, before the mountains and valleys were formed. The slightly curved horizontal lines merely represent the different layers of the crust, such as rock, clay, coal, slate, and the like. When the cooling process took place the earth grew smaller within, so that the crust was forced together.

Fig. 10. NORMAL CRUST OF THE EARTH

"The second sketch (Figure 11) shows this crust forced together, so that when the upheaval took place, two mountain ranges, A and B, were formed, with a valley (C) between them, and the broken lines (D), where the crust separated, were exposed, and by that means examinations can be readily made way down into the crust, without ever leaving the surface of the earth."

As it was understood that the boys should take at least a day each week for hunting, particularly since such sport would develop expertness in the use of their weapons, an early start was made on the day selected, which was within a week of the time they returned home.

Ever since the disappearance of the boat left at the falls in South River, there was some anxiety on that score. It was a frequent topic of conversation, and after they left home it was by a mutual impulse that they wended their way south, taking a trail which was now familiar to them.

"See here, Harry, I should like to go to the place where I discovered South River, and where I had the experience with the snake and the strange animal, which frightened me so."

Fig. 11. MOUNTAIN UPHEAVAL

"Then we must go to the left, because, you remember, you came up between these hills, and crossed the stream where I found you."

It was about three miles across from the Cataract house, but less from their original home. When they reached the river the surroundings were very much unlike anything George had seen before, and he could not identify the place where the ramie plant had been found.

The ocean could be seen plainly from their position, and George thought they were too far east, which proved to be the case.

"Here it is, Harry; here is a low place, and you can see the ramie plant all about here. I am sure of it."

"Is this the place you lost the hatchet?"

"So I did: I'll show you the place." But he failed to find the hatchet. Subsequently Harry stumbled across it, but it was found some distance from the place where George declared he lost it.

"Let us try to cross the river. We can do it if we find a couple of logs."

At a bend of the river they found a lot of driftwood caught in the roots of a tree, and after some work a number of pieces were cut and laid crosswise on each other.

After the experiences of several expeditions of this kind, to say nothing of the exploring trips, the need of the bolo and ropes impressed itself on their minds. They were never without them.

The river at this point was fully one hundred feet wide, but by the aid of long poles the raft was not long in making the trip. After properly securing it they took up their weapons and at once made a dive for the interior.

The trees were fairly thick, and before going very far Harry checked George with the statement that there was game ahead, as he had heard rustling sounds in the leaves.

Both were now looking forward intently, expecting and hoping that some game worthy of attention would appear. Whenever they stopped, the animal, or what it was, would stop, to resume its motion whenever they moved. This was getting to be decidedly interesting, and at the same time trying to the hunters. The distance was fully a mile from the river. The noise which came from the slight rustling of the leaves and the occasional breaking of a twig was growing acute.

"Are we hunting or being hunted?" said George, under breath.

Not forgetting the Professor's story of the hunter's careful scrutiny of leaves, they adopted that plan, but it gave them no clue. Whatever it was, it was in front of them, but they were unable to get a glimpse of it.

Once, by agreement, they stopped and were silent for several minutes. The silence was just as profound and continued as their own. It was getting tense, when George hit upon a plan.

"Let us be quiet for a minute or so, and then suddenly bound forward and give a whoop. I think that will frighten him, and enable us to sight him."

"Before doing that get the guns ready for a shot, and don't fire too soon. Don't get excited. Remember the Professor's warning; a shot close at hand, deliberately aimed, is more positive than a dozen shots excitedly fired at a distance."

When all was ready Harry whispered, "Now!"

With a whoop both started forwardly on a run as fast as the dense underbrush would permit. Before they had gone twenty feet a large leopard-like animal sprang transversely across their path, then, seeing the boys, crouched for a spring. The guns were cocked and ready, and it is a wonder that in the excitement there was not a premature shot.

"Now, steady," said Harry. "Aim, fire!" and the moment both shots rang out. Harry cried excitedly, "Now for the other guns!"

The other guns were not necessary then. The animal gave a savage growl and bounded to the left, and after they had time to recover, both moved toward the spot.

"We have hit him, sure," was George's exultant shout. "See the blood on the leaves. My! he was as big as a lion!"

"Let's follow him," was Harry's determination. And off they started, the blood tracks plainly showing the way. Not a further view was obtainable of the animal, and in less than a quarter of a mile all blood traces disappeared, to the chagrin of both.

They directed their steps toward the river, but within two hundred feet of the spot where they had last stopped, George stepped back and cried: "There he is now, right ahead of us."

"Let us be careful now; he may be angry." There was no alternative but to fire. The shots were almost at the same instant, and to their great relief the animal, after a single leap, fell down without a groan.

The approach was cautious, because experience had not taught them whether it was safe immediately to make an examination of the body. After some hesitation they went up closer, and when all doubts as to his death had been dispelled a careful examination was made.

They found only a single shot wound between the shoulders.

Here was a dilemma, surely enough. The river fully a half mile away, if not more, and the brute too large to carry, made them hesitate about attempting to skin it in the absence of the Professor.

"I wish we knew what kind of an animal it is. We had better go home and bring the Professor back with us in the morning."

So taking note of the surroundings, to familiarize themselves with the location, they hurried back to the river, and rafted themselves over. The Cataract home was reached about four o'clock, after one of the most adventurous days spent on the island, although, in some respects, not as exciting as their earlier experiences. They had begun to be veterans. They were not merely boys.

Naturally, the Professor heard a stirring tale, and when it was all told over and over again, he told them he thought that undoubtedly the region beyond the river would turn out to be their hunting preserves, a statement which the boys did not forget to profit by, as we shall see later on.

"I wonder why we haven't seen more animals north of the South River? There have been very few in this section," was George's observation.

"Undoubtedly the mountain region affords them safer retreats, and it is one of the things which indicate to me that we shall find that section very wild, and when we are in shape to do so may be able to have some interesting and exciting times in that part of our domain," was the Professor's response.

"But in South Africa wild animals are found in abundance on the plains."

"True; but they have very thick brush, or cover, owing to the luxurious growth of vegetation. That affords them means for covering their retreat when attacked."

Following out the usual custom while on expeditions of this kind, they constantly, while on the way, stopped to examine specimens of plants and trees.

Fig. 12. Branch of the Camphor Tree.

"Here is a branch, with the flower, of a tree, and the smell is very familiar."

"That is from a camphor tree; do you not recognize it?"

"So it is; I know camphor is good for a great many things."

"It would take some time to enumerate the things camphor is used for. Indeed, there are so many that Raspail, a French chemist, years ago found a system of medicine largely on the camphor plant, claiming that it was nature's universal remedy."

"Here is a sample of plant which we found growing in bushes; there were also a few trees with the flowers. It is bitter to the taste."

"This is the Calisaya, one of the varieties of the plant from which the well-known quinine is made. There are at least forty varieties of the plant. This is indeed a valuable find. But I see you have some beans there?"

"Yes; are they good to eat?"

"In South America, particularly in the Argentine Republic, it is eaten as a fruit, and the seeds are fed to cattle. Our yaks would relish them."

"We saw them everywhere on the other side of the river."

"The dry pulp of the seed is very nutritious, and is supposed to have been the food of St. John while in the wilderness, as it is the same kind of locust bean that grows in Palestine, and in various parts of Asia Minor. The Spanish name is Algoraba, or Carob-tree."

"We have brought only one more sample, and it looks very familiar, but I never saw any beans or pods on it like this."

"Don't you recognize Smilax? Of course, it is somewhat different from the kind you know. The root of this kind of Smilax is called Sarsaparilla, and the bean is good to eat."

"Well, I am going to lay in a supply."

The boys could not forget the animal they had shot when morning came, so at the Professor's suggestion, they improvised a raft, which was loaded on the wagon, and a start made for the river.

Tethering the team the raft was launched, and the Professor accompanied them across. A light skid had been made for use in transporting the hide, so they would not be compelled to carry it the entire distance. Before they had reached the spot pointed out by the boys, they stumbled on the animal.

"Why," said the Professor, "this is an Ocelot, very dangerous when attacked, and just the kind of beast to elude you. I commend you for the good judgment in adopting the course you did."

"See here, Harry; I don't understand this. You will remember when we examined him, just before leaving him here, that we found only one bullet hole between the shoulders; this has two bullet wounds, one in the head and the other in the neck."

"Why this is not the place we shot him. This must have been shot by some one else."

"Do you remember what you selected as your marking for the spot?"

Harry looked about, and finally said: "I remember two trees, standing about ten feet apart, east and west of each other."

"That is the place, I am sure," was George's conclusion, after they had made a circuit around the spot; "yes, I am sure those are the trees."

"There it is; I see it."

Surely enough, close to the two trees an animal was found, larger than the one they had just left.

"So it seems you killed two of them," and the Professor was so much amused he could not help laughing as he saw the amazement on the boys' countenances. "You are certainly fine hunters."

"I think -- yes; here is the shot in the shoulder -- this is the last one we shot. The other one, over there, was the one we followed so long and took our first shot at."

Within two hours the skins were ready, packed on the skid, and delivered at the raft, and after a hard forenoon's work the Cataract was reached shortly after noon.



Chapter VI

Hunting Vegetables And Plants


One night, while engaged in the usual evening discussion, many topics were mentioned, things connected with the day's adventures talked over, and plans for the following day considered.

As usual, George was the persistent questioner, but Harry was the one to utilize the meaning, and generally the first to take advantage in a practical way of the information thus obtained.

We have stated heretofore that George was the theorist and Harry the practical one. George delighted to delve down into mysteries; but Harry utilized the knowledge in constructing and building articles. Both, therefore, had useful accomplishments. To learn and to do are the great things in life.

During the day the boys had turned out a nice sample of bread, and George, as usual, began the questioning:

"Professor, you said the other day, that fermentation caused a change in the dough, and that it was due to heat. I am curious to know why heat should cause it to ferment?"

"Heat develops bacteria, a tiny germ, which grows so rapidly in a short time, that millions are produced. These living organisms cause gases to form, and they continue to breed and grow and multiply so long as they have anything to feed on."

"And we eat all that stuff and call it good?"

"Yes; and why not? Every part of your body contains the little creatures, and they really keep you alive, and preserve your health, as well as prevent diseases."

"Why so?"

"Most germs are of the harmless type, and it is because of the vast numbers of the harmless ones that the few poisonous or disease germs are killed. Water has millions of them in every cubic inch. Professor Dewar, a great English chemist, calls them nature's policemen. If a typhoid fever germ, for example, should be introduced among so many germs, as is the case every day, a fight at once takes place, and where a person is finally attacked with the fever, it is because the germs escaped the policemen who were on duty."

"That sounds like a romance."

"Yes; the life history of those germs is really a wonderful thing, and books have been written about them. They exist in tribes, as it were; some of them can live only where oxygen is present, and some live on nitrogen only; others on carbon. But that is not all. Man has learned to use them, so they will work just as surely as our yaks work for us under our direction."

"How interesting! In what way do we use them?"

"In what is called the septic system of treating sewage. You know that sewage from the kitchen contains all kinds of meat and vegetables, and the more it has fermented the stronger becomes the odor and the greater are the number of bacteria in the sewage. The sewage in the liquid state is first placed in a reservoir, and at a certain temperature the germs grow very rapidly, and, of course, eat up the vegetable and animal matter until it is nearly all consumed. Then it is run off into another reservoir which has another tribe of germs in it, those that live on carbon, and which are not harmful to man, and when these two tribes meet war is declared, and they fight to the death. The harmless germs are victorious in every battle, and when the sewage is discharged into a stream, or used for irrigating purposes, few, if any, of the harmful germs remain."

"So in using germs the object is to cultivate one kind to kill another kind?"

"Not always; chemists have found out that man and animals absorb oxygen and expel nitrogen, in order to live; and that plants take in and live on nitrogen, and give out oxygen. They further learned that certain germs make nitrogen, just the same as we found that certain germs made carbonic gas in the dough; so that the United States Department of Agriculture, through its chemical division, concluded to set the germs to work, and the department will now send a box containing millions of the tiny creatures to any farmer who applies for them."

"When they get them, how do they set them to work?"

"The germs are thrown into a tub of water, and the seed, like corn, is put into the water and allowed to remain for a certain length of time. When the seed is taken out, more or less of the germs remains on each kernel, and when it is put into the ground the germs keep on working, making nitrogen which the growing plant absorbs. It is wonderful to see the effect in a field where one row has these germ-infected seeds, and the other rows are not so treated."

It was now May, and the weather was slightly cooler, but there was neither snow nor frost. North of the equator it was growing warmer, because the winter had passed. Here the summer had gone, and winter was coming on. From every indication they were not in a cold climate.

"Why do you think we shall not have any snow?" was Harry's inquiry.

"I notice too many trees, as well as shrubs and flowers, which could not live if we had frosts or freezing weather. Many of the trees about here do not shed their leaves, and the kind of animals which we now know exist here are sufficient evidence that we need not fear cold weather."

For more than a week the boys and the Professor put in their time prospecting in the hills and in carting various ores and mineralogical samples to their workshop.

The pelts which were on hand needed curing and besides there were also four yak pelts which had to be tanned, as shoe leather was badly needed. The hide originally dehaired was long ago ready for tanning, as well as the later ones.

"What shall we use for the tanning process?"

"The bark of certain trees must be procured, so if you can find either oak, hemlock, birch or beech trees, we can probably make a tanning compound which will serve our purpose."

"In what way will the bark of those trees tan the leather?"

"All the barks named contain what is called tannic acid. Other elements also are used, such as gallic acid, alum, sulphate of iron, and copper, salt, and other agents."

"What are the chemicals for?"

Fig. 13. Tanning Vat.

"The tannic acid or the chemicals act on the skins, or, rather on the gelatin, glutin and albumen in the skins, and thus harden the texture and preserve it. Where tannin is not used and only the chemicals are employed, it is called 'tawing' the leather, instead of 'tanning.'"

"Well, we can get the bark; I know where there are several oak trees, and also a number of beech trees."

"Then gather the bark by all means, and by the way, if you can find gall nuts we could use them to advantage."

"We don't know what they are."

"Then, if you can get some sumac, we can use that."

"Yes, I know; the kind with the long, red leaves."

"That is what I mean."

"Do the gall nuts have tannic acid?"

"Yes; but principally gallic acid, but gallic acid will also tan the skins so as to make leather. The principal use of the gall nut is for making ink."

"What kind of tree does the gall nut grow on?"

"On any kind of tree or bush."

"That is rather odd."

"It is not the fruit of any tree, but is produced by the gall fly, which punctures almost any kind of tree or shrub. In this puncture the insect lays its eggs, and the tree in trying to treat the wound covers up the egg, and the sap, flowing from the tree, forms a sort of nut which finally hardens and produces a most bitter substance deposited by the fly. The nut is about the size of a marble, and must be gathered before the larva is hatched out. It is the most valuable nut in the world."

The necessary bark for the tanning process was ready within the next two days, and a tank prepared in which the hides were laid spread out, with the bark between them and covered with water.

"In our conversations, Professor, you have the habit in describing plants, and especially the leaves to call them by certain names. It would help us if we knew just what you meant by the different names you give them."

"That is a wise suggestion, because it has been said that the basis of knowledge, or of true science, is correct definitions.[1] What is meant by that is this: We should both have an understanding of the term used to describe a thing. In our talks I have tried to avoid the use of what is called technical terms, but it is difficult to describe some things without using such terms, and I have for some time thought of making a list of the things we are talking about, and defining them, so you can at any time go there and look up the definition."

[Footnote 1: Each of these books has the Professor's definitions on the last pages.]

Fig. 14. Serrate. Fig. 15. Bi-serrate.

"If you would make drawings of the different kinds of leaves and give their names we could hang them up and could look at them any time."

"The leaf is the proper part to commence on, because it is the most important thing of every plant, or tree, or shrub."

"What, more important than the fruit or the flower, or the nut that grows on the tree?"

"That is just what I mean. When you smell the rich red flower of the rose, or look at the pure white petals of the lily, or the sweet-smelling blossoms of the orange or the jasmine, you are simply seeing or smelling leaves. The fruit itself, whether in the form of an apple, or a berry or a nut, is simply a form of leaf, a perfected form of the plant, or bush, or tree. Originally all these fruits, flowers and nuts were but leaves in an undeveloped state."

"I never heard of such a thing before."

"It is a subject treated of in botanical knowledge which is called Morphology, and the object is to show that every fruit and flower was developed, in accordance with a well-known law, from the particular shape or form of the leaf. We can go into that branch of the subject later on. What we now want is to know something about the shape of the leaf, so we can have a starting point. There are two particular things about leaves; one has reference to the shape of the leaf, and the other to the way in which the edges are formed. To simplify the explanation, the drawings which I make pertain only to the edges. That will be sufficient for one time.

"Look at Fig. 14. The edges are like the teeth of a saw. This is called the serrate leaf. The rose and the common nettle have such leaves.

"Fig. 15 shows a leaf with a saw tooth edge wherein the teeth themselves have a lot of little saw teeth, as in the nettle-leaved bell-flower, and this is called bi-serrate.

"Fig. 16 has very large, sharp teeth, not pointing in any particular direction, like the oak leaf. This is called the dentate, or tooth.

"Fig. 17 has rounded projections instead of angular teeth, and is called crenate. Ground ivy and horseradish have such leaves.

"When we make drawings of the shapes of the leaves that will take us along another step, and thus enable us to find out just what kind of tree or plant we are talking about."

Fig. 16. Dentate. Fig. 17. Crenate.

The following day Harry proposed a trip over to the cave which George had discovered at the time he found the big air pocket that shot water and spray out into the ocean.

"I am interested," he said, "in seeing the air pocket George spoke about, and we might as well take our vacation to-day."

"As the distance is not great we need not bother about taking our luncheon along." And off they started, with the Professor bringing up the rear.

The course was first to Observation Hill, where they had erected a new and a larger pole than the one which had so mysteriously disappeared two months before. On every such visit it was the duty of the one who made the trip to scan the horizon in every direction.

It must not be inferred that because the boys were engaged in work which was all-absorbing that they had no thoughts of home, and had given up all hopes of a final rescue. If they could only let the people at home know they were alive and happy -- that is, in learning the secrets of nature and in the exciting exploring trips, they would be satisfied.

They had no time to think of these things when they were at work, but in the night their thoughts often wandered back again to their homes and friends. Could they be blamed for that homesick feeling which came over them?

"Now lead the way, George; we want to see some more of your mysteries. Isn't it fortunate that the tide is out? It will give us a good chance to investigate."

The path which George had taken was farther to the right, but as he was in a hurry to get down as quickly as possible he followed a course, which was much steeper, with Harry and the Professor close on his heels.

When the bottom was reached there was no sign of a pocket, or a cave, or anything of that kind. George was very much annoyed. He could not be mistaken in the position, as it was directly to the right of Observation Hill, and not three hundred feet from the spot where Harry had landed on his first trip to the island.

"It seems to me, George, we are too low down. At high tide this place is all covered with water. It must he higher up in the cliff sides."

Harry scrambled up again part way, and shortly afterwards cried out: "I have found something here; come up at once."

He was distant not more than twenty feet above them, but so rugged were the cliffs that the opening was entirely hidden from below.

Fig. 18. Cave Entrance.

"This is an example of the corrosive effects of the sea, and of the elements in the water and in the rock. As these rocks are limestone formations, we may be able to see some beautiful decorations within, if the cave is of any extent."

"It is awful dark in there. I wish we hadn't forgotten the candles," he said, as he glanced at the Professor, who seemed to be quite absorbed in examining the rocks.

"Don't you think we had better go in?"

"I should like to do so, but we haven't any candles."

"I thought you came here for the purpose of examining the cave?"

"So we did."

"And came without making any preparations for it?" As he said this he drew out one of the small candles which they had been making and using for their evening work and recreation.

George and Harry were both very much ashamed of their carelessness. The Professor, on the other hand, did not make another remark on the subject. No doubt the silent rebuke was a lesson they would retain much better than if it should be more forcibly presented.

The boys, be it said to their credit, never resented any word or action on the part of the Professor. They had only love and veneration for him; and the Professor, by his constant attitude toward them, showed that even these careless actions or any other examples of thoughtlessness on the part of the boys, were part of the training that would teach lessons of value.

Below the mouth of the cave were little streams of water which looked like springs, and the Professor was of the opinion that the floor or interior of the cave must be lower than the entrance.

"Why do you think so?" was the inquiry.

"The springs below seem to indicate that when the high tide fills the cave, the bottom of the cave leaks enough to let out the water. The height of the mouth from the normal level of the water is much above the usual high tide level of the water, and it is only when there is an abnormally high tide, as on the day that George saw it, when the cave could be filled with water."

"Who will go in first?" said George. "I have no objection to taking the lead; so here goes."

George moved forward cautiously, holding the candle, and Harry followed with another. The opening was fully ten feet high, and at least that much in width, but irregularly formed. They went in straight for twenty feet or more, when George announced that he had reached a wall. The Professor, who was in the rear, called out: "Look to the right, there is a turn here."

Such was the case, but the broken up character of the sides and floor prevented them from readily grasping the formation. After making a jog the cave again turned into the cliff, practically on a line with the opening section or mouth of the cave. It was dark at first, but now, for some peculiar reason, it grew lighter as they advanced, and finally George stopped.

"What makes that peculiar light?"

"It is not a light; it is merely white walls and ceilings."

"What causes it?"

"Carbonate of lime, or chalk, which is caused by lime water coming from above and trickling down through to openings or crevices, and leaving the deposits there. It is not an uncommon thing in caves, and I foreshadowed it in the cave when I stated that the rocks were of limestone formation. You will remember we made lime from this kind of rock."

A loud splash and a groan-like noise put further conversation at an end. "What was that?" asked George, as he retreated. In doing so he tripped, and, in falling, the light he carried was extinguished as it flew from his hand.

Clearly there was water ahead. "Let us go forward, a little closer," said the Professor. "You might get your guns ready, in case of necessity."

Within thirty feet of them was the edge of water, and the light threw a beam beyond for a hundred feet or more.

"It seems as though we have reached the end of our explorations here." As they looked, the water was agitated, and it was plain that some aquatic animal was within the cave.

To return was the only thing to do, and as they went back the sides of the cavern were examined, and the Professor took a number of samples, as he said: "Don't lose the candle until we get where we can see daylight. Although we are not more than two hundred feet from the mouth of the cave, the remarkable bend or jog near the mouth of the cave makes it as dark as though we were in a thousand feet."

"What sort of animal do you suppose that was?"

"Possibly a sea lion, or a seal."

After the open air was reached the Professor said: "I do not see how this cave would account for the phenomena that George saw the other day."

"Why not?"

"The cave is too deep. It is not a true air pocket, and --  -- "

"What is this? Here is another one, still larger, and lower down. Here, hold the candle." Harry was down in an instant.

"Probably this is what George saw."

True enough; it was an air pocket which extended in about fifty feet, and had no passageway beyond.



Chapter VII

Investigating The Prospector's Hole


The knowledge that some marine animal inhabited the cave was now a constant topic, particularly with George, who was determined, sooner or later, to find out something more about it. With this end in view he made secret preparations, particularly in constructing a lamp which would not be liable to overturn or be put out by wind or in falling.

Thus far the only light available was obtained from candles made from the fat of the animals, and it was not the kind of illuminating material they had been used to. When people knew nothing better than tallow candles, that light was satisfactory, but when petroleum was once used tallow candles were entirely unsuitable and too primitive.

The statement by the Professor that the hole into which George fell, some months before, contained asphaltum, hinted at a possible source of petroleum, and through the persistent efforts of George, the Professor agreed to accompany him to the place to make an investigation.

The yaks were yoked, and a good luncheon put up, prepared for a day's jaunt, the trip being planned for the day of the week which had been set apart for exploration purposes. Within an hour the team was tethered at the spot where Harry and George put up the team when they started out on their former tour of investigation.

"Now, George, we shall have to depend on you to lead the way."

"When I left Harry we were on the little hill beyond that clump of bushes."

"We must have been much farther away," was Harry's opinion.

"Let us go over at any rate, and we can probably get our bearings from there."

The spot pointed out was just as much a mystery after reaching it as before. It was suggested that, as neither knew how to determine the direction of the "hole" from that point, time might be saved by each taking a different direction, with the understanding that if anything was discovered a shot should be fired as a signal.

After carefully noting the two large trees where the team was located, they separated, Harry going to the north, George to the northwest and the Professor directly west. The ridge on which they were ran north and south, and to the west was a decline. It was considerably south of the trail taken on their former trips, so it was really undiscovered territory.

The Professor passed down the long incline, carefully noting every set of bush, such as George declared he had passed through at the time he was deposited in the "hole." When the bottom of the ravine was reached he turned to the right, working his way diagonally up the hill.

George, on the other hand, made for some bush ahead of him, which looked familiar, but in this he was disappointed, and going to the left, considerably farther down the hill, was rewarded by the rediscovery of the "hole." Without waiting he fired a shot, and to his surprise found the Professor within a hundred feet.

"I have found it. See, that is the place I went through."

Harry was not far away, and he rushed up out of breath. The bushes were swept aside and George went in, followed by the Professor and Harry. He had not gone five feet when he stopped.

Fig. 19. Fig. 20. Luxurious vegetation around stone and hole.

"This isn't the place. There is a big rock here; not a hole."

This was indeed the case.

George's countenance was a study. The Professor and Harry had a good laugh at the discomfiture of George.

"So you think you fell into a hole? It must have been a pretty solid hole." The rock was about ten feet across, and flat on top, and the bush grew all around it, thus entirely screening it from observation.

"Well, we must try again."

"I would like to know why vegetation accumulates around a stone, or around a hole, and gets so much larger than at other places?"

"It is accounted for by the little germs we talked about the other day. Did you ever notice the musty smell that comes up from an overturned stone?"

"Yes, and I have often wondered what it was."

"There is always more or less moisture under the stone, so that the germs are readily bred, and as they form carbonic and nitrogenous gases, which the plant must have, you can readily see why vegetation thrives around the stones."

"But where there is a hole it is drier, and the same thing occurs there?"

"That is a good observation. Two things are required to cultivate the germs, aside from the food. One is moisture and the other is heat. The earth is full of bacteria from which plants get their food; some places the bacteria go down only one or two feet; at other places, where it is warm, as in the tropics, they have been found five or six feet below the surface. When a hole is made, and the sun strikes it, the bottom of the hole gets warm, and thus facilitates the growth of the germs around the hole, so that the plants in the immediate vicinity get an extra supply of nitrogen."

"But where do they get the moisture?"

"That is another one of nature's great surprises, and shows how every contingency seems to be provided for. I suppose you have both cultivated corn -- that is, have gone between the rows with a cultivator, and stirred up the earth. You did this, as you were told, to keep down the weeds. That was one reason, but it is not the principal one. A dry crust forms over the surface of the ground, owing to the heat of the sun. When the cultivator breaks up the crust the heat from the sun draws up the moisture from below, and you are therefore watering your corn, and what is more, you are breeding bacteria so as to supply food for the plants."

"After learning this I am glad we discovered the stone."

A more persistent search was now made, and George's "hole" was really found to exist. It was just as he described it. Everywhere along the hillside were rocks projecting out from the surface, but here was a depression, or hole, fully fifteen feet square, with rocky sides, the wall on the upper side of the hill being fully fifteen feet high, whereas the lower margin of the hole had a wall not over four feet high, so that it will be seen George had no difficulty in getting out after he had recovered from his fall.

The Professor was in the hole in an instant. The growth about the depression was so dense that it made the hole dark, but there was an unmistakable odor of asphaltum. Some of the overhanging branches were trimmed off, and every portion of the walls examined.

"What do you think made this? Was it washed out?"

"Some one dug this hole," was the Professor's response.

"What makes you think it was dug out?"

"There is plenty of evidence to show that. Look at the marks of tools on the walls all about you."

"Do you suppose it was made to get oil?"

"No; but to get metals."

"What kinds, do you think?"

"Gold or silver; most likely silver."

"Do you think we have silver here?"

"Unquestionably; we have some samples of it at the Cataract now."

"When did you get it?"

"At the time we found the lead ore. Silver is usually a partner of lead, and from my examination of the samples we have it is rich in silver. It is likely that the indications of lead and silver all along this ridge attracted the attention of a mining engineer, and this was a test hole in prospecting for the ore."

"But if this hole was dug out, as you say, where did they put the dirt and rock which came out of it?"

"Examine below and you will see."

Below the hole the side was rather steep, but when the surface of the hill was examined there was no longer any doubt of the human agency which made it.

It was with a certain sense of joy that the boys heard this news. The island had been explored by white people; it might again be visited by some wanderers on the sea. This was a comforting assurance. It had the effect of giving new courage, as no other event had, since they reached the rocky shore during that tempestuous night, nearly eight months before.

"Don't you think we can get kerosene here?" was George's inquiry.

"I do not think it is likely. What we see here is a mere trace of surface oozing, found in many places, and it generally indicates petroleum at some depth, but whether in sufficient quantities to pay cannot be determined without boring."

George's hope of a better light faded.

Under the direction of the Professor the balance of the day was spent in gathering samples of minerals, and George, in one of his searches, brought a sample of very peculiar greenish ore, interlaid with patches of brown substance. The Professor was much delighted with this.

"You have found a fine sample of zinc, and if you direct us to the place we must take a quantity of it. I have been specially looking out for samples of this."

The ore was readily found, and a sufficient amount uncovered to complete their load, and late that evening they reached home very tired, but happy.

"Let us do some preliminary work with the furnaces to-day," was the Professor's first observation. "The ore we found yesterday is too good a thing to lie idle. You will remember I told you some time ago that we want some of these metals to be working for us?"

"Just like the germs do?"

"Not just in that way, but nevertheless they must serve us."

"If people get to know so much and have the different things do all the work there will not be much left for us to do?"

"Do you think so?"

"If one thing after the other is discovered, and it is found that one or two elements can be made to do our work, the time may come when everybody will know so much that man will do nothing but --  -- "

"But direct?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that something? Working with the hands or thinking are not the only things which man can do, in order to go forward and to advance."

"What I mean is this: We are told that idleness is wrong, and that people are happier when they are busy at some useful occupation."

"If that is a good definition of happiness, then we should make everything we use as crude and primitive as the people used to make them a thousand years ago. There would be no object in learning, because learning makes people discontented."

"I heard a story once about some wise man who offered his fortune to the man who could prove he was contented. The first applicant wanted the fortune, because he said he was contented. The wise man answered by saying, that if he was contented he would not want the fortune."

"Quite true; the contented man does not exist, because it is not human nature to be so. That is one of the qualities which distinguishes man from the rest of the animal creation."

"But is it true that the invention of labor-saving tools has caused a lot of misery to working people?"

"Do you know of any tools that are not labor-saving? The mason's trowel is a labor-saving tool, invented to prevent him from using his hands to put on the mortar; the bolo or the knife is just as much a labor-saving tool as the planing machine; the sickle saves labor and so does the reaper. The difficulty is that some people do not stop to think that the saving of labor applies just as forcibly to a simple tool as to a complicated one."

"What shall we try in our furnace to start with?"

"The ore you found yesterday. The first thing to do is to crush it up as fine as possible. When that is done we can put it in the round furnace."

"You mean in the firebrick furnace?"

"Yes; although we do not need such a high heat. Almost any furnace would do, as the roasting of the ore does not require a high heat."

"What is the best way to roast it?"

"It will be necessary to put it on one of the iron plates, and great care must be taken to keep it a uniform heat, but not too intense."

The process of roasting is a very particular one and requires quite a time to get the best results. When this was done the next step was to take the roasted ore, and mix it with half its weight of powdered coke. They had a good quantity of the coke on hand, which was also crushed.

"You remember, George, we had a crucible made with a hole at the bottom. Get that and also some fire clay dust, and moisten the dust so we can make a stiff mortar from it. We must make a tubular connection with the hole in the bottom of the crucible."

When this was done the crucible was put into the furnace, after it had been charged with the coke dust and crushed zinc ore.

"Why is it necessary first to crush the ore and roast it, and then afterwards put it in the crucible with the crushed coke?"

"Zinc is not found in a native state. This ore is in the form of an oxide, as it is called. In roasting, certain of the impurities are driven off in gases, and mixing it with charcoal or coke and then applying heat to the confined mass, causes the zinc to melt and finally go off into a gas, as we shall presently see."

After the heat had been applied for some time a white smoke began to appear at the mouth of the clay tube, and a little later a blue vapor appeared.

"Now bring that pan here, so we can catch it."

Soon the dripping commenced, and as it ran out and came into contact with the air, it turned into a solid, greyish color.

"This is what is called spelter, or the pig of zinc, and this is what is sold to refiners, who take out all the dross or impurities so it can be rolled or used for galvanizing iron, or for other purposes."

"I do not see how we can use this metal, now that we have it."

"You said the other night that you wished we had a better light."

"That was the reason I was so anxious to see whether we couldn't get some kerosene at the 'hole.'"

"As we didn't succeed in finding petroleum we shall have to depend on our zinc, I suppose."

"What, light out of zinc?"

"No; but by the zinc route."

That was another new development to the boys.

"Harry made a sage remark some months ago. It was to the effect that in order to start to make anything we had to make something that made something to make something with. In order to make electricity by means of a battery, we had to go through all this process of turning out the zinc, which we have just completed; then, if you have not forgotten it, we had quite a time in converting our copper ore into a copper which we could use. We were compelled to make charcoal, and then coke, with the aid of the charcoal; and now that we have coke, we must again grind it up and make a mortar, so we can form it into little plates or slabs. From the copper we got a liquid, which I asked you to save, and that is vitriol, or sulphate of copper. You see, all these things are necessary before we could possibly attempt to set up a primary battery, and start the first lighting plant."

Not an hour was lost at the Cataract home and factory. All took the keenest delight in forwarding any new enterprise and in looking out for new things to do which would contribute to their pleasure and comfort. The boys now learned what they had never dreamed of before; that life is a most complex problem; that to secure pleasures toil is necessary, and that the greatest happiness comes from knowing you have succeeded. Pursuit, not possession, is man's greatest joy. To the brute the reverse is true.

"Where is the Professor? I have been bitten by a cat."

"A cat, Harry? Where did you find the cat?"

"Across the river, where I was cutting the oak log."

The Professor was soon at hand. "What is this? A cat, you say?"

"It looked just like a big cat, about two feet long?"

"Did it have a pointed nose?"

"Then it must have been a Zibet, a specie not unlike the American civet. It is a cat, but not what is known as the 'wildcat,' and can be tamed."

"Do you think there is any danger from the bite?"

"Some animals have a species of rabies, like those possessed by mad dogs, and cats have been known to be infected. I do not think we need to have any fear from that source. The wound should, however, be cleansed."



Chapter VIII

The Bull Fight


As the boys grew more and more familiar with the island the greater was its store of abundance shown to them. Each journey to the interior brought some surprise in the way of fruit, flower or vegetable. Some were of species well known to them; others unknown, and most of such came to them under names of chemicals only.

"There is one plant, at any rate," said Harry, "that makes this seem like home, and that is the thistle."

"Yes, and it is the one common enemy of man in every part of the world. It is the most successful business plant, in this particular, that it is equipped to resist attacks from other plants and from animals as well."

"But donkeys and some cattle will eat them."

"For the reason that nature has given such animals the proper coating and linings of mouth and stomach that the thorns do not affect them. There is hardly a plant which is as nutritious as the thistle. In England, the thistle leaves, in early days, were used as salads."

Harry was an ardent admirer of flowers, and was constantly bringing in some specimen for examination. "Here is a very pretty flower which is differently colored from any that I have seen before. It looks like the wood sorrel."

"It is the sorrel, but if you should be in Ireland, the people there would call it the shamrock. St. Patrick taught the people that it typifies the trinity with its three leaves. The plant has some very peculiar qualities. It actually goes to sleep at night. It folds up its leaves. It is so sensitive to light that it has at least four different methods by which it can adjust itself with the greatest nicety to the amount of light which it receives."

Fig. 21. Fruit and Flower of Vanilla.

"I think I have found vanilla; or it is something that smells like it, but I did not know that the vanilla was a climber."

"You have found the wild vanilla, the flowers of which have, as you see, disappeared and the bean is the product."

"I have often wondered why it is that we are able to smell or to recognize different odors."

"Smell, like everything else in nature, is produced by vibrations. So is sound, and light, and taste. Each odor has its particular rate of vibration. They resemble very much the notes of a musical instrument, and, as in music, odors can be harmonized, or they may be so mixed together as to produce discord. Some perfumes, when used on the handkerchief, and are about to fade away, have a sickly and disagreeable odor. This is due to the admixture of the wrong or discordant tones. Thus, heliotrope, vanilla, orange blossom and almond blend together; citron, lemon, vervain and orange peel belong together, but they produce a stronger impression on the sense of smell, and are of a higher octave; and so with a still higher class, as patchouly, sandal-wood and vitavert."

"But what is it in the flowers or essences which make them smell as they do?"

"Carbon, hydrogen and oxygen. It is one of the most remarkable things in nature that many of the odors in plants are formed by the combination of only carbon and hydrogen, and the wonderful thing about it is, that while turpentine is composed of 88 parts of carbon and 12 parts of hydrogen, the odors of oils of lemon, orange and juniper and rosemary have the exact proportions of those elements."

It was one of the duties of the colony to preserve the seeds of different vegetables and grain, because the Professor intended to put out for their use, as soon as spring came, a garden, which would avoid the necessity of constantly putting them on the alert to hunt the different foods. Sometimes it was necessary to go considerable distances to get the various foods. As long as they were on the island it was the part of prudence to act like sensible business men, and prepare for the future.

"We haven't a very big variety of vegetables, and I wish we could find some real good sweet potatoes and peas; and tomatoes would come in handy."

"Of course, variety, or the wish for different kinds, is largely a matter of desire. It is not a necessity."

"But does not the desire for different kinds grow out of the need of man to get the different substances which vegetables have?"

"To a certain extent, yes; but it is a singular thing that the world over there seems to be a natural instinct to combine two or three vegetables, and those vegetables, although they may be different in different countries, make chemical combinations, when eaten, which are almost identically similar. Thus, the Irishman mixes cabbages with his potatoes; the Englishman bacon with his beans, and the Italian rich cheese with macaroni."

One morning the boys were surprised to find a startling increase in their herd of yaks. When the Professor arose and went out for his regular morning stroll he noticed the unusual number, and was not slow in informing the boys.

"I suppose," said the Professor, "that they are coming to board with us for the season."

"Well, I am going to inform them, in a not very polite way, that we don't need company."

He was off with a club, Harry following.

"Look at that immense fellow. Wouldn't he make good sole leather? What is that on his side; that funny patch?"

Harry called to the Professor. "Did you see the peculiar mark on the side of the big bull?"

The Professor was on hand at once. "That is certainly a mark of some kind. See if you can get near enough to ascertain just what it is."

George, who had been so anxious to get rid of them, was now just as eager to hold them. The bull was a magnificent specimen. Like all this species he was a dark red, and had immense horns. All yaks, male and female, have horns, and the Texas steer has no horns to compare with the yaks in size and gracefulness of curve.

As George advanced there was no action on the part of the herd to scatter. Their own stock took no notice as he walked among them, and this, in all probability, gave the wild herd confidence. The bull paid no attention, until George was within twenty-five feet, when, with a deep-voiced roar and an ominous lowering and shaking of his shaggy head, made a beeline for him. The Professor called out, and he and Harry both sprang forward to aid him, but the bull's rush was a fierce one, and as we have previously stated, they are very active creatures. George saw his peril, and now realized that he could not possibly reach a place of safety, so he sprang behind one of the cows, and from that point sought to find a way through the herd. The warning voice of the bull, and his mad rush, excited the entire herd, which started a stampede.

"George saw his peril and now realized that he could not possibly reach a place of safety"

In the meantime they had not noticed the presence of their own bull, which was a fine animal, and was now thoroughly domesticated. The Professor was the first to notice the appearance of their bull, who, it seems, had been relegated to the background when their neighbors came to town for their holiday.

Apollo was Harry's name for the bull, and when George got mixed up in the herd, the strange bull made his charge and emitted the challenging bellow, the scene was a truly terrific one. George was carried along with the rush, and his only danger now was to escape being trampled under foot.

Harry stopped suddenly: "Look at Apollo!" He was making a charge down into the herd, and headed straight for the big bull.

"I thought it strange that we didn't hear our herd give them a welcome during the night."

"Welcome! what do you mean?"

"It is singular that Apollo didn't dispute the governorship of the herd when the new arrivals came, as that is one of the customs. One of them must be master."

"Just look at him! Good old Apollo!"

At that moment Apollo was within ten feet of the wild bull. He did not cease his onslaught. The wild animal saw his enemy attacking him from the right quarter, but his rush had been so impetuous that when Apollo struck him he rolled over, one of his large horns striking the earth and serving as a fulcrumed lever to turn him around in his path. He was up in an instant, and now began the battle for mastery.

"Get the guns, Harry; get the guns," and this was a sufficient reminder that neither of them had a weapon.

Harry bounded over to the house, and within a minute was back with them. In the meantime, where was George? He did not need to be told that he must run for his life, and was wise enough to seek the security among the cows, but he could not foresee a stampede. It was fortunate that the big bull was behind the herd when the stampede began, and it was lucky that there was plenty of room for the animals, or he surely would have been trampled to death. Naturally, the noise of the rushing animals drowned the roar of the fighting bulls, but the stampeded yaks gradually checked themselves, and George was the most surprised individual imaginable when he found the bull was not behind them.

And now another curious thing happened. They had run fully a quarter of a mile, and when the running stopped, the yaks leisurely turned around and slowly walked back. The movement seemed to be a concerted one. George accompanied them. He didn't know what else to do.

When Apollo and the bull locked horns, after the latter had again gained his feet, his tremendous bulk pushed Apollo back, at the first onset; but they noticed a peculiar tactic on the part of Apollo. The latter at each forward plunge twisted his head, first to the right, and then to the left, as though he was boring his way in. This was an astonishing thing to the stranger. This was done by Apollo over and over again, and now, every time they met, and the twisting motion was repeated, his enemy would be thrown back on his haunches.

For a period of twenty minutes the combat continued. Back and forth they ranged. Harry, although intensely excited, wanted to give the bull a shot, but the Professor restrained him. He felt that the youth of Apollo was enough to overbalance the strength of his enemy.

"No, Harry, when they get through with this battle the big fellow will not cause us any more trouble, and we need him."

The herd of cows came up and remained standing at a respectable distance. They seemed instinctively to know that the question of kingship was being decided. It was entirely immaterial to them who won. George did not wait with the herd. He saw the combat, and beyond the Professor and Harry.

"Well, you did kick up a fuss, didn't you?" said Harry.

"Apollo's got him; he'll lick him sure. See that lunge? My, what a shaking he gave him that time!" George was a dancing Dervish by this time. Then noticing the guns for the first time, seized one of them. "I'll finish him."

"No, no, George," was Harry's reply, as he grasped the gun. "The Professor is right; Apollo will finish him."

There was now no question of the fighting ability of Apollo, and of his youth and vigor, and he knew it. His antagonist did not rush any more. Apollo did that; the bull's main business now was to keep out of Apollo's way.

He had been whipped, and he knew it. He turned and fled. Did he go toward the cows? Not at all; but in the opposite direction. Instinct told him that if he had gone toward the cows it would have meant another fight. To leave them was the bovine manner of saying, "Well, then, take them."

The big bull did not go far. His head hung low, and the heaving flanks showed he was tired. But Apollo's head was high in the air. Dejection on one side and absolute mastery on the other were as plainly exhibited in the manners of the animals as though it had been written out and proclaimed.

"What will he do if I go up to him now?"

"The fight is all out of him."

This was true. He exhibited no alarm when they approached, and when they walked around to get a view of his other side, the mark plainly showed the following brand: "M -- V."

"That is undoubtedly the brand of some person who captured the animal when young."

"How old do you suppose he is?"

"It is difficult to fix his age with any certainty, but I do not think he is over ten."

"What do you suppose the brand means!"

"It is some arbitrary term, the initials of a person, or it may be intended to designate something. Branding is a very common way of marking cattle, so as to indicate ownership; nearly all savage tribes have a habit of branding, or tattooing; and sailors also. Various civilized countries in the past have branded criminals as a means of identifying them."

Fig. 22. The Mysterious Brand on the Yak.

They now had an opportunity of taking an inventory of their stock. The original herd comprised Apollo, six cows and four calves, or half-grown cattle. The new acquisition brought the count up to twenty-six cows and twenty young animals. The vanquished bull was very meek from that time forward, and the surprising thing was that Apollo was thereafter the same quiet, unobtrusive animal he had been before.

But there was work to do in the factory. Harry was now engaged in building an iron lathe for their further work. A drilling machine was his next tool, and as the weeks passed the boys devoted much of their time to making such articles of machinery as could be used advantageously to turn out the simple products which future needs might demand.

The leather vats were examined and the skins found in excellent condition. These were then taken out, and grease and oil worked into them until they were pliable. The thick parts of the hides had been previously cut out, so that they could be used for the soles of contemplated boots and shoes, which they soon hoped to turn out.

Every morning the yaks would leave the enclosure and start out on trips to the feeding grounds, and sometimes Harry or George would follow them and hunt for game. On one occasion, while Harry was on the opposite hill, George saw the flash of Harry's gun, and almost immediately thereafter heard the report. This was the first time the difference between the flash and the noise attracted his attention.

"Will you tell me why I saw Harry's fire before the sound reached me?"

"Did you say 'sound' or 'noise'?"

George looked at the Professor quizzically. "Is there any difference between sound and noise?"

"Technically, there is a difference, although in common practice one word is used for the other without discriminating. Sound means a succession of vibrations produced in their regular order, like music, whereas noise is a disorganized vibration. For instance, falling water, like our cataract here, is sound, but the report of George's gun was a noise."

"I can see the difference. Would a wagon going rapidly over a pavement be a noise or a sound?"

"It would be a noise if the pavement should be irregular, but if the pavement is regular and the vibrations or beats are uniform, it is then called a sound. But you wanted to know why you saw the shot before you heard it. Simply because sound does not travel as fast as light. Sound moves 1,040 feet in a second, and light over 186,000 miles a second, which is about 850,000 times faster than sound."

"Do soft and light sounds travel at the same speed?"

"Theoretically, yes; but numerous experiments have been made, and many of them go to show that a loud noise really travels faster than a soft noise."

Fig. 23. MEASURING SOUND PITCH

"What is the cause of that?"

"It is attributed to the belief that a loud noise causes greater wave motions, although the sound waves may be the same lengths in both cases. Or, it might be said that loud noises have greater strength."

"When we were going to New York in the cars, a train was coming toward us, and the engineer on that train blew his whistle when he was off quite a distance, and kept it up until long after he had passed us. I noticed that when the whistle started the sound had a very low pitch, which kept increasing to a higher and higher pitch until the train passed; what was the cause of that?"

"As the sound waves are uniform movements, and are at regular intervals, the vibratory action of the whistle, in case the trains were at rest, would all be the same distance apart; but as the two trains were coming together two things happened. At each moment your ear came nearer the whistle, and the distance through which the sound had to travel decreased. This made increasingly shorter waves, and not long, regular waves, as when at rest. Short waves make a high pitch, and long waves low pitch. After you passed the train the waves began to get longer, but they increased in length more rapidly than when you were approaching each other, so that if the whistle kept on blowing the waves would finally get to be so long and so far below their original pitch that the sound would cease.

"A little sketch will show this. (Figure 23.) The line A is the pitch of the whistle; B its pitch when you first heard it; C shows the point where you passed the whistle, and D shows how low the pitch was when it died away."



Chapter IX

Exciting Experiences With The Boats


During the nine months' life on the island all had the best of health. The Professor grew strong, and he declared that his constitution was more robust than it had been for years. They lived in the open much of the time; their fare was plain and mostly devoid of sweets; the store of honey which had been several times replenished, was the stock article in the absence of sugar.

It was, therefore, a matter of surprise that Harry should complain of having a tired and uncomfortable feeling, and would frequently lie down during the day while in the workshop. The Professor was always at his side during these periods, and while he had no instruments to enable him to determine whether there was a high fever present, the flushed face of his patient showed unmistakable symptoms.

"Do you think he has a very severe fever?" was George's inquiry, as the Professor left Harry.

"It seems so, and in order to determine whether there is any change we must at once set to work making a thermometer."

"We have neither mercury nor glass, and even if we had, how can we make a tube for it?"

"That being the case, we must make a substitute for both."

"But we must have something which will expand."

"We can use iron for that. Get a piece of small steel bar, say two inches long, and bend it in the form of a C. In the meantime I will make a base to hold the thermometer."

"For your guidance I make a drawing (Figure 24), in which A is the base, about five inches long, three inches at its widest end, and an inch wide at the narrow end. This should be made of a thin piece of hard wood. Bore a small hole in each end of the C-shaped piece. The next thing is to make a pointer (B) nearly as long as the base, pointed at one end, and provided with two holes at the other. The pointer is attached to the base by a pin (D). One end of the C-shaped piece of metal is then hinged to the other hole (E), and the other end of the C-shaped piece is hinged, as at F, to the base. You will now see that if the ends of the C-shaped piece spread apart the least bit the long end of the pointer will swing over to the other side of the base."

Fig. 24. THERMOMETER

"Do you intend to make the thermometer show the exact degrees of heat we really have?"

"Yes; as nearly as possible."

"Why can't we make it exact!"

"For the reason that to make what is called the Fahrenheit scale we should have freezing weather. The scale adopted by Fahrenheit was an arbitrary one. He determined it in this way: The temperature of his body was taken as one point in the scale. For zero he took the lowest temperature observed by him in the year 1709. As the temperature of his body was 86 he made a scale with 86 degrees on it, and then when he observed ice melting in water he put his thermometer in and found it registered at 32 degrees. It was not a very scientific way of doing it, but it answered the purpose, as, of course, temperature is merely a relative thing."

"But isn't there another scale to measure heat by?"

"The Centigrade method is on a more scientific basis. It is determined by taking the freezing and the boiling points of water, and dividing the scale into 100 degrees between those points."

It required the work of several hours to make the device as here shown, so that the tension of the C-shaped piece would hold the point to one side. The temperature of the atmosphere was about 65, as nearly as the Professor could judge, but when the C-shaped piece was held in the palm of the hand, the pointer moved to the lower edge of the base piece, and a mark of 80 was put there as the starting point. As they had no immediate use for a scale beyond 110 degrees, the end of the base was marked off, as you see in regular divisions.

The C-shaped piece was put under the tongue or in the armpit, so that the temperature of Harry could be determined, and it registered 102 degrees. It might be that Harry's temperature was really much higher, as the thermometer, for the reasons stated, was not accurate.

"I wish you would test the thermometer, George, so we can pretty well determine, within a range of two or three degrees, how nearly right we are."

George's temperature was found to register 98, whereas the Professor's was only 90. He explained that the temperature of youth is normally greater than old age, but it was remarkably close to the average normal temperature of two healthy persons.

"The advantage of the instrument now is to enable us to ascertain whether Harry's temperature will increase or decrease."

"Is there no other way in which we can find out about a fever?"

"When the fever comes on the pulse is usually quickened, as well as the breathing; the bowels are apt to be constipated; and thirst, loss of appetite, headache, and vague pains are felt. When the temperature goes beyond 105 it is very dangerous, and it is for this reason that physicians want to know the temperature."

"I am anxious to know why that C-shaped piece should try to straighten itself out when heat is applied to it?"

"When you bent the metal piece of which it is made you crowded the metal on the inside of the piece together, and also stretched the metal on the outside of the bend. As the application of heat expands the metal, the contracted particles of the metal on the inside of the piece pushed against each other with greater force than those on the outside, and the bar tried to straighten itself out again."

"I have noticed that if a hose is coiled up and water is forced through under pressure it will straighten out the hose. Is that also the case with the hose?"

"To a certain extent only. Another principle comes into play in that case. Water under pressure acts as a solid, and has a tendency to move along the shortest route or in the most direct way. If, therefore, there is a crook in the pipe the water tries to straighten it out. Steam gauges are made of flattened spirally coiled tubes. One end of the tube is open and the other has an inlet for the steam. The dial finger has a connection with the moving end, and by that means pressure is indicated."

The next morning Harry's temperature was fully one degree higher than the previous day, and the Professor advised that it would be necessary to administer some fever medicine.

"Last week you found several samples of the gentian flower. It is a first-class fever medicine and tonic. Do you think you could distinguish it by its large blue-colored, fringed flowers?"

"I know what you mean; it has one central stalk, with big leaves at the bottom which gradually grow smaller, and in which the stem seems to go up through the flowers."

"That describes it exactly. Get some of the roots, and peel them, then scrape a quantity, so we can give some to Harry."

This is a simple remedy, in the absence of regular fever medicines which were not available to them.

To their great relief the fever abated before morning, and by persistently taking the gentian tonic Harry was soon well again.

This little experience was sufficient notice that in health at least some preparation should be made for illness, which is sure to come to all at most unexpected times. It had also a stimulating effect in more pointedly directing the attention of the boys to the wonders of the vegetable world.

It was now the latter part of June, and the weather was not at all cold. Plenty of rain had fallen, and the Cataract stream had risen so high that their water wheel had been out of commission for several weeks, and Harry's illness or indisposition had somewhat retarded the work in the factory.

"Wouldn't it be a good idea to look up that animal over in the cave?" was George's first suggestion, one morning, shortly after Harry's recovery. "We might put in a little time there, and then go down around the bay on a little tour."

This was agreeable to all, and then George remembered the want of the candles. Zinc had been turned out, as previously told, but no steps had been taken toward making a battery which would be the starting point for an electric lighting system, as Harry and George both hoped for.

"It seems to me," said Harry, "that we ought to explore the coast line to the southeast of us, as we have never been in that direction, and then work our way around to the cliff cave."

Without further words the yaks were yoked up, and taking a hearty luncheon they were off for the east coast, where the bay indented the land. The coast was reached within two hours, a great deal of the time en route being spent in gathering samples of plants, flowers, and fruit, of which some species of trees were filled.

To the right of the place where they struck the sea was a cape which ran out into the sea for fully a quarter of a mile, and to the south of this was the mouth of the South River. As they had definitely planned to go north along the coast line to the cliff rocks, the explorations to the south must be reserved for some future day.

The sea front showed delightful stretches of beach, but at intervals small trees and bushes grew close to the ocean on the elevated spurs which broke up the otherwise smooth beach line.

The clam, as a source of food supply, had practically been neglected, because it was quite a distance from the Cataract home to the beach, and principally for the reason that other foods were so plentiful. Harry wanted some clams, and with one of their bags the beach was scoured for fully a mile, until he gathered a staggering load.

As he reached one of the little knolls which broke off abruptly close to the sea, Harry dropped the bag and ran to the brush. The Professor looked on in wonder. When Harry disappeared in the bush George and the Professor both hurried forward. Harry reappeared in an instant.

"What do you think I have found?"

"Another cave?" queried George, without stopping.

"No; our boat."

There, perched less than five feet above the level of the ocean, was the boat which they had left at the foot of the falls in the South River, fully three months before. One of the puzzling mysteries was solved.

It was some labor to dislodge the boat from its position between the cleft branches of shrubbery which also held other debris, and furthermore the boat was full of all sorts of rubbish. This was laboriously removed.

"You will remember I stated at the time of the disappearance the most likely explanation would be that high water coming on suddenly would wrench the boat from its fastenings, and --  -- "

The Professor got no further; he suddenly stopped and glanced to the forward end of the boat. "Who tied on that rope? It really does look as though some one has used the boat. That is not one of the oars we made."

"But where are the lockers we had on the boat, in which we put our provisions?"

"They have been removed by some one. This is a rope entirely unlike any we have had, and it is a native, or rather, hand-made article."

"Well, we have struck a greater mystery now than when we lost the boat."

This discovery brought up several other questions which, as it now appeared, might be linked together. The removal of the flag and flagstaff; the "hole" in the hill; the fire in the forest; the branded bull, all indicated that people had, at various times, visited the island. But the finding of their boat, with the positive evidence furnished by the oar and the rope, was conclusive, and what made it the more interesting was the fact that the island must have had such a visit within two, or at the most, not over three months ago.

Each was too busy to give much time for discussing the probabilities. They had entirely forgotten the cave. It was, by common consent, agreed that the boat must be taken home, and it was finally decided that the boys should pilot it around the point, past the cliffs, and in that way reach the mouth of the Cataract River, where it would always be convenient for cruising purposes.

It was fortunate that the sea was calm when the boys pushed the boat from the shore. It showed signs of leaking here and there, but the Professor assured them that the water would close up the joints before long. The Professor, himself, drove the team to the Cataract, and after unyoking them, followed the course of the river down to its mouth, to await the coming of the boys. He waited there until sundown, but the boys did not appear.

Let us now follow the boys. Lashed in the boat were two oars, as carefully secured as though tied only the day before. At the bow was the rope which the Professor discovered, after he had noticed the one tied around the oars. It will be remembered that the boat had been fitted with a mast and a sail. Those had been removed, as well as the crosspiece and the brace which held them in place. It was, therefore, necessary to row the boat around the point. The distance, as calculated by the Professor, was two miles or more to the cliffs, and fully a mile from the extreme point of the cliff to the mouth of the river.

Shortly after they started on the journey a light wind sprang up, which, however, did not seriously interfere with their progress, but it was sufficient to induce them to take a course outside of the point, instead of attempting to thread their way inshore between the rocks.

When abreast of the extreme point George's attention was directed toward an object on the cliff.

"What is that up on the rocks?"

Harry stopped rowing, and looked in the direction of George's extended arm. "It looks like a boat. Let us go in."

The boat was pointed to the shore, and drawn up, and in their eagerness, each tried to gain the elevation first. A miscalculation was made, in the attempt to reach the object, which was not visible from their location, and they were compelled to thread their way down again and go around the broken side of the cliff walls.

As they were about to ascend Harry called out: "Look at the boat, George! Run quick, it is adrift!" The wind had quickened, and they realized their carelessness in securing it at the landing place, and before George, who was lower down, could reach the water's edge, it was washed around the point of the rock, out of his reach.

Here was a dilemma. The boat lost, and no means to reach the mainland without swimming. The place where they landed was less than five hundred feet from the spot where they were cast ashore months before. Innumerable large rocks, detached from each other, formed the immense tier of sentinels for this part of the coast, and Harry's trip across, when he had the benefit of the life-preserver, was an entirely different thing from their present condition.

To add to the perplexity of the situation, George was not a good swimmer, and he doubted his ability to make the trip across the channels between the rocks which separated them from the mainland.

"Why not try to find the object we saw while we were out at sea?"

"Good idea. But I would like to know how we are going to get up?"

"Wasn't that a silly trick, to be so careless about our boat. What will the Professor say?"

At last, after repeated trials, they found a way which led them up the craggy sides, to the object they had seen.

"It is our life-boat," was Harry's excited cry. "That is, what is left of it."

We have previously detailed how, when they struck the rock, on that eventful day, months before, the boat had apparently been broken in two, and they saw only the stern of the boat held within a saddle of the rock; and how, at the next great wave, even that portion had disappeared. Here was the battered and broken-up part that remained.

"Do you think this part would float?"

"I suppose it would, but how can we get it down?"

They sat down, not discouraged, but annoyed at their own stupidity and carelessness. Night was approaching, and sitting down would not remedy matters. It was low tide, and the waters had receded, so that the wrecked boat was now fully twenty-five feet from the water. It was held within a wedge in the rocks, tilted up, and it was too heavy for them to lift. If they could possibly dislodge it, so as to push it over the edge, it would probably be crushed to pieces in tumbling down.

Even such a calamity would be better than remaining there, and it was decided to be the only course now available. Every vestige of the locker, or seats, or other appendages of the boat were swept away. The bare shell of the stern portion remained.

It was now growing dark, and when the wreck was finally dislodged and fell down with a crash the boys made their way down the sides very cautiously. It was now but the work of moments to get afloat. The boat originally had water-tight compartments, but these were now utterly useless as a means of sustaining the vessel; nevertheless, it was a means by which they might reach land, as they felt sure it would not sink. Here was another difficulty. They had neither oar nor other means of propelling it to shore. After considerable effort a portion of the side of the boat was broken off, and tired and worn with the effort and excitement they steered the craft shoreward. To do so was not an easy task, as the wind had increased, and the waves beat stronger, but this had no terror for them after all their previous experiences.

When the shore was reached Harry had one positive observation to make: "I am going to see that this boat is so fixed that it won't get away."

George looked around, and in spite of their trials, could not help laughing at Harry. "I should like to know how you are going to do it. I don't see any ropes around here, and trying to pull it up this steep beach wall will not be an easy job."

"Then we have got to take it where we can pull it up. I am tired of losing things in this way. We'll have a nice story to tell the Professor."

The Professor was by this time thoroughly alarmed, as well he might be, for it was past eight o'clock that evening when, going down from Observation Hill, he heard voices in the distance, and recognized the boys. He called to them, and you may be sure that their answering voices were joyful sounds.

When the boys appeared both began excitedly to detail their experiences, getting details of the story involved without any sequence just as we might expect an exciting, mixed-up recital of this kind to be under the circumstances.

"You lost your boat and found the other one. You are having enough experiences to fill a book."



Chapter X

The Birthday Party; And The Surprise


You may be sure that the interesting topic of conversation that night had relation to the events of the day. All previous experiences were insignificant now in comparison. Every phase of the question was discussed, and a solution sought.

The Professor did not attempt to conceal his doubts. "I have a theory that we are or may be near some other island, possibly inhabited by white or civilized people. It is likely that people from those islands may visit this place at intervals, and that the boat which we left at the falls was really washed down to the sea and found by some of them."

"If that is the case, why should it be washed up on shore, as it was? They, no doubt, used the boat, as the oars and rope showed. But I can't possibly make out the meaning of its being in the driftwood."

"That boat we made is a hoodoo," was Harry's conclusion. "Twice lost is enough for me."

"Well, I would take a sail in it the next day if we could only find it."

"I am interested in it," observed the Professor, "not so much for the purposes of its use, as to enable us to find out something more about it, and how it came to be there. If it had occurred to me that we should lose it so soon you may be sure I should have made a more careful examination of it when we had it. But it is too late now."

Harry's solution was the one most acceptable. "Let us make another boat, and with that we can carry on our investigations more satisfactorily."

"Harry is right. A good vessel will be a measure of safety, in the event we should be attacked by savages, and it will at least enable us to visit the shore line of our continent."

The sanitary arrangements of their kitchen had been for some time very unsatisfactory, and somewhat cramped, and the Professor thought it would be wise, for their comfort and health, to cleanse it thoroughly.

"I am inclined to think that Harry's sickness was caused by the condition of the kitchen. We are apt to overlook these things in the multiplicity of our work."

"What is the best way to clean it, by washing?"

"That is necessary, of course, but it is impossible, even by a liberal use of hot water and soap, to remove many of the poisonous germs. Some good disinfectant should be used."

"Have we anything which could be used for the purpose?"

"There is nothing better than charcoal. Common wood charcoal has the capacity of purifying and rendering odorless almost all impurities."

"In what way does charcoal do this?"

"When charcoal is crushed up finely its remarkable porosity enables it to absorb an enormous quantity of gases, and when so absorbed it condenses them, in which condition they are harmless, or they are retained in the charcoal."

"But how about the impure liquids?"

"Its affinity for sour and stinking liquids is so great that two tablespoonfuls of charcoal will purify a pint of the foulest sewage; it will also, in that quantity, absorb 100 cubic inches of gaseous ammonia."

"Have we anything else that can be used?"

"The sulphur that is in the samples of copper ore, if burned, will make a sulphurous acid gas, and while it must be carefully used, on account of its noxious and offensive odor, is a most powerful germicide. Or if we take some of the green acid of the copper, and make a liquid of it, and then pour this over common salt we are making what is known as muriatic acid. The vapor of this acid will destroy all germs. The objection to this, however, is, that it has an odor which is worse than the impure or unhealthful gases. In the last samples of ore we brought home, you may have noticed a very black lot of stuff. That was manganese. If we take the muriatic acid, which I have just referred to, and pour it over the manganese, we can make the most powerful agent of all, namely, chlorine."

"Chlorine is used for bleaching, isn't it?"

"That is its great use in the arts; but as a purifier it has no equal. It will decompose every gaseous compound and evil-smelling gas which escapes from decayed animal or vegetable matter."

Harry did not let the Professor forget the matter of the primary electric battery which he had been making preparations for, and after they had gone over the sanitary features of their kitchen, he was anxious to make a start. George was equally insistent, because the question of a better light was ever uppermost in his mind.

"Then here goes for the primary battery. We haven't any glass, nor have we found any rubber lying around, so we can make cells out of them, so what shall we use?" was the Professor's first inquiry.

"Why not use some of these iron pots we made?"

"I am afraid iron would not last very long, with sulphuric acid in them. We should use some non-conductor of electricity."

"What do you mean by non-conductor?"

"That quality in a material which will not allow electricity to pass."

"Then why can't we use clay? Will that conduct electricity?"

"That is just the thing. Isn't it wonderful what a friend common clay has been to us since we have been on this island!"

"I think we ought to erect a monument to Monsieur Clay?"

"It would be a fitting thing to do, because at the end we are all bound to go back to him."

"I believe you said, Professor, that we should have to grind up the coke and then mix it up and make plates out of it?"

"Yes; we can use either carbon or copper for the negative plates."

"What are the other plates?"

"The positive. That is what I wanted the zinc for, which we made several weeks ago."

"Why should we have positive and negative plates in a battery?"

"Everything must have an opposite. If there is an up there must be a down; there would be no darkness without light; no heat without cold; no strength without weakness, and no joy without sorrow. Like all these things, the electric current flows from one to the other."

"But in electricity the current flows only one way, does it not?"

"In the primary battery that is the case; but when electricity is generated and sent over the wires, the natural current flows in both directions -- that is, it goes in one direction as much as in the other."

"I do not understand what you mean by that."

"The current alternates. What is meant by that is this: For an instant the current flows from the positive to the negative, and the next instant it flows from the negative to the positive, and so on, making the alternate current."

"Then the primary battery we are going to make will be another kind of current?"

"We shall make what is called the direct current which goes in one direction only -- that is, within the battery it moves from the positive plate, the zinc, to the copper plate, or negative, and outside of the battery it moves from the negative to the positive plate."

"Why does it do so?"

"In order that you may understand, I shall make a drawing so Harry will not have so much trouble in arranging the parts. So if you will examine the sketch (Figure 25), you will see that the clay cell, which we are to make, has in it the two electrodes, A and B. That is what they are called when they are spoken of together; but the positive one (A), the zinc, is called the anode, and the negative (B), or copper, is called the cathode. You should keep these terms in mind.

Fig. 25. PRIMARY BATTERY

"The liquid in the cell, marked C, is used as the electrolyte, and for that we shall take some of the sulphate of copper which the copper ore furnishes. A good strong salt solution would also answer the purpose. The two electrodes are separated, and a wire connects the two outside of the cell. Now you will notice that within the cell the current flows, as shown by the dart E, from the positive to the negative plate, but outside of the battery the current flows through the wires F from the negative to the positive plate."

"I can understand it now. The current from the battery will always go from the negative to the positive pole."

"You are mistaken. I am glad you referred to that. It shows the importance of using correct terms. You must not confound the terms 'negative plate' with 'negative pole.' All currents leave the battery or dynamo from the negative plate, but that negative plate is called the positive pole of the dynamo."

"It seems to me that is a curious way to do it."

"Such is the case, however; but there is no real positive or negative in the alternating current, so that either side may be termed positive or negative."

Work on the battery continued for some days, as lack of fine tools made much of the work difficult, and in doing this work, as in everything else, a certain amount of preparation was necessary. They had no screws, and no facilities for making them, so a substitute had to be devised, but the difficult part now to encounter was the preparation of the wire.

"A battery is of no use unless we can have wire, and it will be a big job to beat out wire long enough for our purposes," Harry observed as the battery neared completion.

"Then we must draw some wire?"

"From what?"

"From the copper?"

"Is that better than iron?"

"Copper should be used for several reasons; first, because electricity travels through a copper wire more easily than through iron, and second, for the reason that copper is more ductile than iron, and can be drawn into a wire with greater facility."

"Doesn't electricity flow through different substances at the same rate of speed?"

"Yes; but it retards the amount or the force."

"You say, 'Amount' or 'Force.' I can understand that if applied to water, that there might be a large or small quantity of water, or a greater or less pressure, but I do not see how this applies to electricity."

"In measuring the pressure of water, calculation is made by taking the height of the water in the tank. For every 28 inches in height a column one inch square weighs one pound. This represents the force of the water when it issues from the orifice below. Now the orifice may be large or it may be small. The amount or quantity which flows out is dependent on the size of the opening. Electricity is measured in a somewhat similar manner. What is called 'Volts' is the same as the force in the tank -- that is, voltage means the pressure. Amperage, on the other hand, refers to the amount of current which is passing, and a greater quantity will pass over a large wire just the same as a greater amount of water will flow through a large than a small pipe. Is this perfectly clear to you?"

"Yes; I understand the difference, now."

The drawing of wire is not a difficult task where facilities are at hand, but it must be remembered that all their tools were of the crudest kind. Harry had prepared a number of bars of copper, each having been beaten out to form pieces about ten inches long and a half inch thick. A steel plate about three-eighths of an inch thick, two inches wide, and six inches long, had a number of holes bored through it, the largest hole being a half inch in diameter, and gradually increasing in size, the smallest being about a sixteenth of an inch in diameter.

Fig. 26. Template for Drawing Wire.

When all was ready Harry was instructed to hammer out one end, so it would go through the largest hole. The projecting end was then grasped by a pair of heavy pliers, and pulled through, so that the bar was formed the size and shape of the first hole, and of course the bar was lengthened. The end was then hammered out so that it would go through the next smaller hole, and the same process was repeated, and when the wire got larger they had a tool which pushed the wire in at the same time it was being pulled out at the other side.

It was laborious work, and a long time was consumed in fully drawing out each bar. In this way a quantity of serviceable wire was prepared.

"Why does this plate get so hot when we pull the wire through?"

"Why do you make a fire by rubbing together two substances?" replied the Professor.

"On account of the friction."

"For that same reason you are making the heat in drawing the copper through the die."

"But I notice that if I hammer a piece of cold iron it will get hot. There is not any rubbing motion there to make friction."

"Do you think not? You have by that means made the most intense friction. The iron is composed of tiny particles, called atoms, and molecules. When you strike a piece of iron you force these particles in among themselves, and the friction caused by this movement produces the heat."

"Is that true of all substances?"

"Yes."

"Well, if air is forced together will it heat in the same way?"

"Yes, and for the same reason. The tiny particles, of which air is composed, move among each other with such rapidity, under compression, that the heat their frictional contact develops is dependent on the pressure exerted."

"You used the terms 'atom' and 'molecules' a moment ago. What is the difference between them?"

"A molecule is always composed of two or more atoms. An atom is smaller than a molecule, for this reason. Furthermore, an atom comprises only one substance. A molecule has two or more substances in its make-up. For instance, water is composed of two parts of hydrogen and one part of oxygen. One molecule of water, therefore, has three atoms, two of the atoms being hydrogen, and one atom oxygen."

"Baby," the infant orang-outan, had now grown to be a pretty good-sized boy. He would sit at the table and gravely eat with a knife and fork, which he had learned to handle most intelligently. In the various trips which had been made from time to time, the Baby was kept at home, but on more than one occasion he would follow up the wagon, and would as often be welcomed when he did come.

Harry found a good use for him later on, and from that time forward Baby knew that a jaunt into the forest meant a trip for him as well. When it came to tree climbing Baby was in his glory. He would swing from branch to branch, and shake the nuts, and the amusing thing was to see him help gather and throw the nuts into the wagon, in the most business-like fashion. He was never known to laugh, but they had many occurrences which, no doubt, made him smile in his own way.

George was an adept cook. He was fond of making surprising delicacies, and boy-like, they were always the kind that had honey of some sort in their composition. Without any knowledge of cooking, but knowing, in a general way, that eggs and milk were the principal things used in puddings, it was not long before he was regarded as the chef. Baby was sure to be present whenever George occupied the kitchen. And help! Why certainly! He knew what flour meant, and particularly honey. The truth is, that he knew what that meant if George merely looked in the direction of the honey pot.

And talking about eggs! Harry found out about this accomplishment in Baby. In the tall grass beyond the barley fields were flocks of prairie chickens, and during one of the hunting expeditions he found several nests of eggs. They are just as much more delicious than the common egg as the prairie chicken is more delicate than the hen. Baby never thereafter forgot the eggs. Singularly, he never ate any of them. Apparently the orang does not crave them in his native state, but the little rascal had an eye to the good things, and when he saw the eggs go into the pudding and cake, there were no scruples on his part.

George had been planning a surprise for the Professor. In many devious ways he learned his age, and August was the month, so in concert with Harry, planned to treat the Professor with a birthday party, the first real attempt at jollification which had been proposed since they landed.

"I remember, he said he would be sixty-five years old on the tenth of August."

"But the trouble is, we don't know when we get to the 10th of the month."

"The chances are he doesn't know, either. But what difference does a day or two make, anyway?"

Among the delicacies which George had prepared were 65 little sweet cakes, because they couldn't put that many candles on the big cake, and the boys knew, from experience, that they would have to use candles, or something else to typify the age.

The "tenth of August" came, and the Professor, in all innocence, proposed a day for hunting. Both boys opposed this, to his surprise. The Professor did not press the matter. As usual, when at home, he was shut up in what they called the laboratory. Even though he should be present in the kitchen he would not be likely to take notice of any extra preparations.

In the meantime Harry had made a bell out of a flat sheet of steel. It was really a gong. When the noon hour arrived and the table had been set ready for the symbolic cake pyramid of little cakes, George ordered the gong to sound, and Harry made such a frightful din with the unexpected noise, that Baby was terribly frightened, and scampered to the loft, his usual place of retreat when reproved or unduly excited.

The Professor was out of the laboratory like a shot, and hurried over to the house. At the same time George returned. "Who has taken my cakes?" he cried. "There are less than a dozen left." Baby chattered in the loft. The Professor could not understand the commotion. All he knew was that Baby was swinging along the rafters and that George was flying around the kitchen hunting cakes.

"Hello, and what is all this? Expecting company?"

"Yes; this is a birthday party."

"'What is this, a party?' said the professor. 'Yes, a birthday party,' said Harry"

"That is a good idea. I suppose you have invited all your friends?"

"Yes; we have invited all we know; just one."

The Professor did not need to be told any more than this. His eyes filled with tears, the first real thing that the boys ever saw on his part that strongly affected them, and when the Professor, his heart so full that he could not speak, silently looked at them, they forgot the feast, and the cakes, and Baby. They thought of home and of what they were doing there, and whether the time would ever come when they might be rescued.

Brave Harry was the first to recover. Like a veteran he grasped the Professor by the hand, and wished him many a happy return of the day, and George, though not so demonstrative, joined Harry in this wish and prayer. Just then one of George's cakes fell at his feet. He picked it up and Harry glanced at the Baby. The mysterious disappearance had been solved.

No! Baby was not spanked. He came down without any coaxing, with several of the cookies in his hand, and gravely took his place at the table. What a very narrow margin there is between tears and laughter. They roared as though such a thing as tears were unknown.

When they recovered from their fits of laughter, and attempted to proceed with the feast in some semblance of order, a glance at Baby was sufficient to start them up anew. And here a surprising thing occurred. As before stated, he never had been known to laugh. But now Baby laughed, for the first time. And then the boys and the Professor knew that this was also the first time they had indulged in a hearty laugh.

"You may say what you please," said the Professor, "but laughter is infectious. How much farther a smile will go than a frown. And this reminds me of a very curious thing in nature. What are called perfumes have been known to carry through the air for ten miles. The odor from the balsam-yielding Humeriads has been perceived at a distance of four miles from the shores of South America; a species of Tetracera sends its perfume as far as that from Cuba, and the aroma of the Spice Islands is wafted many miles to sea. Now the singular thing is, that vile and injurious odors are not carried such distances."

"Why not?"

"For the reason that the oxygen of the air destroys the bad odors."

"I thought of this when we were laughing here so merrily a while ago. Laughter is like a perfume, it goes a long way and does not need a purifying agent; but the harsh and angry word is like the evil smelling substance, which needs to be purified."



Chapter XI

The Gruesome Skeleton


The merry party lingered long over the meal. Roast prairie chicken was the chief dish. The Professor had found lentils, and this, with potatoes, or cassava, formed the principal dish, to say nothing of the sago pudding and the residue of the little cakes which just suited Baby's palate.

For drink there was plenty of cold water, fresh and sparkling, obtained from a natural spring not far away. The Cataract River furnished a good water, in the sense that it was clear, but it had an unpleasant taste at times, so for all cooking purposes the water used had to be carried from the spring, which was sometimes burdensome.

"I wish we could purify the Cataract water, as it would be a great convenience," was George's remark, when they were considering their work and duties.

"We can easily do that by using the chips of the common oak tree or the charcoal can be used, as I have before stated."

"It is a curious thing that oak chips will purify it. Does it act in purifying the same way as charcoal?"

"We used oak bark for the purpose of tanning leather because of the tannic acid it contained. The chips of the wood contain tannic acid as well, and it does the same thing to the impurities in water that boiling does -- namely, it coagulates it. In Egypt, the muddy waters of the Nile are clarified and purified by using bitter almonds. In India, they use a nut called the Strychnos for this, purpose."

"It seems people everywhere had some idea of purifying drinking water."

"Yes, and through all ages; even the Bible speaks of it."

"Where?"

"The Book of Exodus. I think the fifteenth chapter, says:

"'So Moses brought Israel from the Red Sea; and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness and found no water. And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter; therefore the name of it was called Marah. And the people murmured against Moses saying, What shall we drink? And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet.'

"Our Cataract water, flowing, as it does, largely through forests and past vegetable banks, takes up a large quantity of albuminous matter, which is so great in quantity that the atmosphere, or the oxygen in the air, cannot purify it by the time it reaches us, so that if any astringent matter like oak, or birch, or beech, or even alum, is put in the water it will cause the albumen to precipitate. In the district of La Gironde, France, the waters of the Landes are naturally very impure from these causes, but since the cutting and floating down of the immense oak forests, the water has been made sweet and wholesome."

"Isn't all this curious and wonderful to think about?"

The work of preparing and putting into practical form the primary electric battery was going forward steadily, and at the Professor's suggestion a number of cells were made, which it might be well to describe briefly.

As the clay was the only available material, each cell had to be made rather heavy and clumsy in appearance, and was baked when completed. Each was ten inches deep and three by six and a half inches within. The electrodes, made of zinc, were each one-half inch thick, six inches wide, and nine inches long. The copper electrodes were the same dimensions, except that they were a quarter inch thick. These were stood in the cell, a short distance apart, and held in position by means of notched wooden blocks.

When all this was completed the cells were filled with sulphuric acid that had been made from the copper ore. It was, of course, much diluted with water, so as not to make it too strong.

"What is the object in making so many cells?"

"So as to get the voltage."

"Does the voltage depend on the number of the cells?"

"Each cell gives practically two volts, so that if we have 20 cells there will be 40 volts; 30 cells, 60 volts, and so on."

"But where do the amperes come in?"

"That depends on the size of the plates forming the battery. Surface is required for amperage, and quantity of plates for voltage."

"Suppose I had plates the size of this table, wouldn't I get more electricity than if I had the plates cut up into smaller pieces?"

"Electricity means both volts and amperes. There is no such thing as electricity with one of those qualities alone. A current may have 2 amperes and 40 volts, or 40 amperes and 2 volts. Multiplying the volts by the amperes gives what is called watts, and there would be 80 watts in each case."

Fig. 27. Complete Battery with connections.

The determination of the boys to build a new and better boat than the old one was now manifesting itself in plans, which were considered. George was in favor of building a large vessel, by means of which they could sail anywhere they wanted to; but Harry and the Professor opposed that plan, for several reasons. Harry, particularly, objected.

"I am just as anxious as George to build a large boat, but the difficulty is that to do so would take a long time, longer that we ought to take at this time. Furthermore, a large vessel would be hard to manage with our small crew, as we would have to make it a sailing vessel."

"Then why not make it a steam vessel?"

"That would make the job still harder and longer."

"I think Harry is quite right. A boat but little, if any, larger than the one we built, would be the most serviceable. If the one we made had been smaller, or lighter, we should have been able to carry it around the falls. Instead of that we had to leave it there."

Harry insisted in his views. "What we can do with our present supplies is to build a boat, even larger than our former one, and make it still lighter."

"Yes," said the Professor; "we now have lumber which is dried, and with the improvement in the tools we can turn out a boat which will be a credit to any community."

That question settled, the plan of the boat was drawn up. It was decided to build the boat on the general plan of the former one, as to size, namely, from sixteen to eighteen feet in length, and at least five feet wide, with a flat bottom, the prow to be contracted, and the bottom of the forward end to be bent upwardly, as much as their material would permit of bending.

For this purpose Harry stated that the body of the boat would be made of double thickness of material, as their sawing machinery had been so much improved that they could cut it into five-eighth inch lumber, and in that way the joints could be lapped, and the sides and bottom more easily bent into the required curves to make a graceful-looking boat.

The sawmill was at once put into good working condition, and within a week the principal parts of the boat were ready to be assembled.

"In your next weekly jaunt, I suggest that you might get our old life-boat. We should not neglect our friend."

The Professor's suggestion met with a hearty response, and on the following day the boys were off early to bring the boat to the Cataract.

First going to Observation Hill, which was the custom of one to do each day, they crawled up the rocky sides, and surveyed the horizon. From that position they could see across the neck of land, east of the Cataract, to the point southeast; to the southwest was the mountain range; to the west the forests, and to the northwest the irregular cliff line, which ended with another projecting point several miles beyond. Along the sea line this was the limit of their knowledge.

"While we are here let us examine the sides of Observation point and try to find the old flagstaff. I still think it was blown away."

Harry's suggestion was acted upon, and they made the trip together over the rocky side toward the sea. Observation point was on the mainland, and formed the extreme northern limit. It was fully half a mile from the grim rock where they had been wrecked. Between the two points were detached rocks which sprang up out of the water, and in which the water was constantly swaying to and fro. When the sea was heavy these rock islands made navigation among them a dangerous occupation.

The tide was then coming in, and eddies and cross currents were rushing hither and thither, so that it was easy to see that to float the wrecked life-boat it must be taken out to sea around the rocks. They hesitated to do this under the circumstances.

All sides of the hill were now examined with care. As they were about to leave the hill and go to the point where the life-boat lay, some wreckage was discovered below them, caught within the clefts of the rock. Here, packed in with seaweed and brush, was an object which interested them.

"What is this, George? It looks like the fragment of a boat; and here is another piece. Let us dig it out."

Both were excited beyond measure at this discovery. Not only one, but a number of pieces were finally removed. It was, beyond question, portions of a boat.

"Harry, this is part of our boat. See this piece of rope; and here is part of an oar. Wait till I get to the bottom of this mass."

"Run for the Professor, and I will remove the pieces while you are away," was George's answer.

Harry was off at the instant, and in less than half an hour, reappeared with the Professor, who examined the recovered portions of the wreck.

"It is certainly parts of a boat; but I am sure, from the present examination, that it cannot be our boat."

The boys were surprised at the information.

"My reasons for saying so," continued the Professor, "is, that the pieces here are not part of a life-boat, such as our craft was, although it was a part of a ship's boat. Where is the stern portion of our boat that you found? Let us get that, and we will be in a better condition to judge."

"We landed it beyond the point where Harry first reached the shore the day we were wrecked."

"Let us get it at once."

In less than a half hour the broken portion of the boat was landed at the foot of the cliff in front of Observation Hill.

Harry now had no doubt that the Professor's observation was correct. "See, this has no double hull, which the life-boat has, and no part of these pieces can be made to fit. Look at this stern. All of the stern post is still on the boat below."

It was, undoubtedly, another boat; but there was no name or number on any of the pieces by means of which it could be identified.

"I believe it was a part of the Investigator's equipment," was the Professor's final conclusion. "Have you recovered all the parts from the debris?"

"I don't think we can find anything else. While Harry was away I hunted all along the point in the hope that some more pieces might have been found."

The most minute examination was made for some mark of identification, but nothing was found which would give the least clue.

"Let us gather all these pieces and keep them for further observation, particularly for the reason that other parts may be found eventually, and identification will then be easier."

"Shouldn't we take the remnant of our life-boat to the Cataract?" asked George.

"By all means. It has just occurred to me that we might use that as part of the new boat we are building."

That was an idea which had not occurred to either of the boys. Considering that the portion recovered was the stern, and by far the largest part of the vessel, and that it had the double hull construction, made the suggestion a most acceptable one.

After all parts of the wreckage had been assembled, the Professor, accompanied by the boys, made another tour, much to the left, and on returning to the boat, the Professor's eye caught a white object lying partially hidden behind a rock.

"What is that by the rock to the right?" Without waiting for a further suggestion from the Professor, Harry made his way up, and when the object was reached, threw up his hands, without uttering a word. George had followed, and before the Professor had time to reach the spot, he cried: "A skull!"

"There is more than that," said the Professor. "Remove the debris."

The boys saw portions of the skeleton plainly now. It was such a shock to them that they could scarcely speak.

"Probably that solves the mystery of the wreckage we found."

"Undoubtedly," was the Professor's only comment.

The boys were now absolutely unnerved, but the Professor, without noticing their agitated state, carefully removed the seaweed and other accumulation, and found the skeleton largely disjointed, excepting the torso, or upper portion of the frame.

Fig. 28. HUMAN SKULL

When the entire skeleton had been taken out and arranged, the Professor said: "It seems we are to have one mystery after the other."

"How long do you suppose this body has been here?"

"Probably ten months or more."

The boys looked at each other. "Ten months? That is as long as we have been here."

"That is one of the reasons why I said ten months."

The boys knew what that meant. This was, very likely, one of the Investigator's boats, and the skeleton the remains of one of their shipmates.

"Probably it was one of the boys," was George's inquiry.

"I do not think so," said the Professor. "The skeleton shows that of an individual past middle age."

"Why do you think so?"

"Principally, from my examination, so far, on account of the condition of the skull. You see, these saw teeth lines, which cross the top portion. These are called the sutures, and in infancy they are not joined. Before the third period of life these joints grow together, so as to form an undivided skull. But wait; here is another indication. The teeth seem to be greatly worn, showing that the person must have been close to the sixth period of life."

This discovery was the cause of very conflicting emotions in the boys. They reverently gathered the bones, and at Harry's suggestion the boys went to the Cataract for the team. The Professor volunteered to remain.

We may well imagine the feelings of the boys as they went on their mission. Here was mute evidence that others of the ill-fated ship had met disaster. They had often speculated on the fate of their companions. How many had been left to tell the tale!

The yaks were yoked, and taking with them a rude box, which had been put together, as the Professor suggested, they shortly returned.

"Have you found anything new?" was George's first question.

"The poor fellow was undoubtedly killed when he landed, and I think he was a sailor."

"Have you found anything which makes you think so?"

"Nothing but what you see before you. That break in the skull was, in my opinion, made by contact with a rock; furthermore, several of the bones were broken, as you see, at the time he met with his calamity; and one of the legs shows where it was broken before his death, and had mended."

It was a remarkable funeral cortege which wended its way slowly back over the hills to their home. They felt it was paying a tribute to a friend and companion. All doubts on their part had been dispelled. He had been one of their companions on that terrible night when the explosion had sent their ship to the bottom, and had cast them adrift on a sea which welcomed them in raging fury.

"What shall we do with the skeleton?"

The Professor was silent a long time before he answered. "I do not know what to advise. Perhaps, in the future fate may be kind enough to restore us to our homes and friends, and if it should be that we are the only ones so rescued, the skeleton would be a positive means of enabling us to ascertain whether or not he was one of our companions, and also to advise his friends."

A stone sarcophagus was built, in which the remains were deposited after a funeral service at which the Professor presided.

This event had a most depressing influence on the boys, as well it might, during the entire day, and it was the principal topic of their conversation while together. During the two days following only brief references were made to the Professor, but the second evening George's inquisitive nature could not hold in any longer.

"When we were on the rocks examining the skeleton, you referred to the fourth and the sixth ages of man."

"Yes; in point of growth man has seven ages. The first is infancy, which ends at the second year; second, the age which ends at the seventh year; third, at the end of fourteen years; fourth, at the end of twenty-two years; fifth, at the end of forty-seven years; sixth, at the end of sixty-five years; and seventh, which ends at death. These divisions vary somewhat between males and females, and I have given you merely the average between the two sexes."

"I can't help feeling sad, when I think of the things that have happened, and at the thought that all our friends may have been lost."

"Sadness is a natural feeling under the circumstances, but after all, why should it be so? Why should the sight of the skeleton bring sorrow to you? Probably the Egyptians had the right idea when they always had a skeleton at the feast."

"Skeleton at the feast? What was that for?"

"As a reminder of death?"

"There is one thing I could never make myself understand. Why is death necessary? Why couldn't man have been made so he could live always?" was Harry's query.

"You have asked a very broad question. It is one which has a great many answers. At this time I shall give only one of the reasons. The earth would not be big enough to hold the people. I do not know the population of the globe to-day. It is about 1,000,000,000; and if we take the age of the earth at only 5,000 years, we should have in that time 125 generations, counting each generation as 40 years. Do you know what that would mean in population at this time? You could not comprehend the figures. Let us take the United States alone, as an example. Assuming that the population is 90,000,000 at the present time, and that the natural rate of increase is only double in each forty years. This is how it figures out: In forty years we would have 270,000,000; in eighty years, 810,000,000; in one hundred and twenty years, 2,430,000,000; and in one hundred and sixty years, 7,290,000,000. At that rate New York City would have 480,000,000 of people and its boundaries would take in the whole of the State of New Jersey and nearly half of the entire State of New York, as thickly settled as that city now is."



Chapter XII

The Distant Ship And Its Disappearance


"What is that weed you have, Professor? The root looks like a parsnip."

"It may be something we can drink."

"It looks just like a weed that grows all over our farm at home."

"I have no doubt of it. This is the endive, as it is known in the States, but it is really chicory."

"I have heard of chicory; isn't it used as a substitute for coffee?"

"Principally on account of the bitterness in it. The French make the greatest use of it, because they claim it gives strength to coffee."

"What part of it is used?"

"The root; the bulb you see here, and they have a curious way of preparing it. The root is dug up before the plant shoots into flower, and is washed, sliced and dried! it is then roasted until it is of a chocolate color. Two pounds of lard are roasted with each hundredweight; and afterwards, when ground and exposed to the air, it becomes moist and clammy, increases in weight, and smells like licorice. When put into cold water it gives a sweetish bitter taste, not unlike coffee."

"Let me try some of it, and don't say anything about it to Harry. And now, while I think about it, why couldn't we make some crocks out of our clay, so we can use them for our milk. We can't put them in the copper vessels and the iron is just as bad."

"That is a splendid idea; and you might as well vitrify them."

"What do you mean by vitrifying them?"

"Putting the glaze on them, just like the common crocks have."

"That would be simply fine."

The Professor explained the process, which consisted in making the crocks out of the best clay available, and then burning them. Afterwards an intense heat must be made in the furnace, and after soaking the crocks in a strong solution of salt brine, they must be put in and burned again; the greater the heat, the better.

The boys started at this with a will, and when they had arranged to make the crocks they found it most difficult to put them into a round and uniform shape.

"I would suggest that you make a potter's wheel for that purpose."

"A potter's wheel? What is it like?"

"It is the simplest thing imaginable. Do you think, Harry, you could turn out a wooden vessel just the size of the outside of an ordinary milk crock, and turn it with a central stem below, and also have a little pulley on that stem?"

The Professor made a drawing (Fig. 29), which shows just how he wanted it made. In the drawing, A is the cup-shape, which is the size and shape of outside the crock; B is the central stem; and D is the small pulley on the stem. This was mounted in a pair of arms like CC, and a belt was attached to the pulley.

"You have made a very creditable article. Now you may make a flat paddle, and shape one end so that it will be just like the inside of the crock."

Fig. 29. Potters Wheel.

The drawing (Fig. 30) shows how it was made, with a cross handle at the upper end.

That day the crocks were turned out in the following manner: The potter's wheel was rotated about sixty turns a minute, and the clay, in a plastic state, was put in the cup-shaped top, and the hands used to force the clay up the side wall. When the crock was formed in as even a manner as it could be by hand, the blade described was used to make the interior uniform.

The potter's wheel is one of the oldest tools known. Its use can be traced back for more than four thousand years, when it was well known by the Egyptians.

Fig. 30. Forming blade for inside of Crock.

Since the day that the boys visited Observation Hill, at the time they discovered the skeleton and fragments of the boat, no attempt had been made to visit the cave. That was the mission when they accidentally made their surprising discovery.

George did not, however, feel that they should again make the attempt until they had a better lighting means than the unsatisfactory candles, and when the supposed petroleum vein dashed all hopes of lighting material from that quarter, the only remedy seemed to be by way of improving their candle-light.

Harry had progressed well in the making of the battery. It was now in a completed state, and he announced that the first tests would be made the next day. In the morning all assembled in the factory, and the sulphuric acid solution was made up.

The Professor inspected the batteries. Ten cells had been prepared, so that they could have, at least, fifteen volts. When all the cells had been connected together -- that is, the positive pole of one cell with the negative pole of the other -- a wire was attached at each end of the row of cells, at the last electrodes, so as to form the outside connections.

When the two outside wires were brought together and their contact broken a spark was plainly shown, which was an indication that the battery was generating electricity. The boys danced about with joy at this exhibition. From that time forward the battery was one of the most interesting things in the laboratory, and what they finally accomplished with it will be fully detailed as we go along in their history.

George thought he saw a way to make the light necessary for the cave. "Why can't we rig up an electric light now and explore the cave?"

"We might do that, but we have several things to do before we can have light from that source."

"Haven't we the electricity for it?"

"Do you know how many years electricity was known before electric light was discovered? Before we can utilize this agency for lighting purposes, we must make a machine which will produce a vacuum; we must make glass; we must learn to carbonize threads; and the art of blowing glass would be a necessary accomplishment."

"As usual," said Harry, "something must be made to make something that makes something else."

"But can we make electric light without putting it in a glass bulb?"

"Yes; we can make what is called the arc light; instead of the incandescent."

"What is the difference between the two?"

"In the incandescent, such as we talked about making, a thin carbon filament is enclosed in a glass bulb, from which as much air as possible has been exhausted, and when a current of electricity passes through this filament, it is heated up to a white heat."

Fig. 31. The Electric Arc.

"Why doesn't it burn out?"

"It does burn out in time. What preserves it, however, for a long time, is that most of the oxygen has been exhausted from the bulb --  -- "

"Oh, yes; I know, there must be oxygen to support combustion, so that the carbon is merely heated up?"

"I am glad you remembered that. The arc light, on the other hand, depends on an entirely different thing. You have seen, no doubt, the long black pencils used in the large lamps. That is carbon also, made out of ground coke, molded and compressed into shape."

"What does arc mean!"

"Did you notice that when we put together the two circuiting ends of the wires in our battery this morning, we could not notice the existence of a current, but whenever we pulled them apart we had a spark?

"Let us now make a little experiment which will show you the arc. You see, I am making a sharp point at the end of each wire, and I will fasten one of the wires so it cannot be moved. Now the other wire will be placed with its point as close to the other points as possible, and so fixed to the support that we can adjust it still closer and hold it. See, the points now touch each other. I will move one of the wires the slightest distance away from the other. There! see the light?"

"But it goes out in a little while; what is the cause of that?"

"The electricity has been burned off the end of the wire, and the distance is now too great for the electricity to jump from one to the other, so they must be moved closer together. That space between the ends of the two wires is the electric arc. Instead of the two wires the carbon pencils are used."

"But how are the two carbon pencils kept apart at the right distance at all times?"

"That is what the invention of the arc light consisted in; to find a means whereby the current itself makes the adjustment necessary to furnish a steady, constant light. When we start to make the arc light the mechanism can be explained."

George's scheme of the electric lamp for the cave had vanished. But the cave must be explored. He was determined on that point.

The yaks were brought out and a start made for the cliffs. After unhitching them from the wagon and unyoking the animals, so they could feed in the meantime, the oil lamps were taken out and carefully examined. The Professor had suggested the advisability of carrying with them two of the spears, which, it will be remembered, formed part of the weapon equipment of their last voyage, and those, with the guns, were considered sufficient for any foe likely to be in the cave.

Harry, on this occasion, volunteered to mount Observation Hill for their daily trip of observation. He returned by the time the yaks were disposed of and the implements prepared, as stated.

"I suggest," said the Professor, "that we keep constantly on the alert now for any vestiges of driftwood, or other objects which we are likely to find along the shore."

As a result the progress was slow, and the scrutiny keen on the part of all. As they rounded the last large projecting rock, just before entering the gorge which led to the cave, Harry jumped on a rock, waving his hand, and crying, as he pointed seaward: "A sail! A ship! See it?"

The agitation of George was beyond all description. Harry kept repeating the words. He was entirely beyond control.

"Be calm; do not become excited. Harry, you are the most nimble; run to Observation Hill: here take the large sheet in the wagon; wave it there, and keep up the signaling; they may see you."

The ship, although far away, was plainly made out, but its character could not be determined. It was evidently a large sailing vessel. Just imagine what must have been the feelings of the party at the sight of the ship, although so far away. Would they see the signal?

In the commotion that followed, what was the Professor doing? He quickly placed two stakes in line with the ship, and watched it patiently. "It is moving to the west."

George's curiosity induced him to look over the Professor's shoulder, and thus enable him to follow the movement of the boat, and by means of which he could see the sails slowly move past the distant stake.

The Professor scarcely moved. "What is Harry doing? Is he still signaling?"

"Yes; he hasn't stopped since he reached the hill."

The stake nearest the Professor was again moved over a trifle as the ship moved on, and they watched and waited.

"Why, the ship hasn't moved for the last ten minutes."

"It seems not," was the Professor's response. Again they waited. George walked to the stakes and back again. He stepped aside to look at Harry on the hill, and again returned to the observation stakes.

"Singular that the ship hasn't moved in twenty minutes or more."

Then, enthusiastic at the mere thought, he cried out, as he ran toward the Professor: "Do you think they have seen our signal? Have they stopped; and are they returning?"

"Either that or they have changed their course, and are now leaving us dead ahead."

This was a blow to the poor boy, whose hopes, brought about by the apparently checked motion of the ship, were now dashed to the ground, when the Professor continued: "They are sailing away, I am sorry to say."

He left the observation stakes. Poor Harry was still signaling frantically. The Professor told Harry that further effort in that direction would be useless, and he slowly and sadly came down the hill.

They looked at each other most sorrowfully, and the boys could scarcely restrain their tears, while the Professor carefully avoided their gaze, or seemed not to notice their grief.

"It is one satisfaction to know," said Harry, as he dolefully looked across the broad sea, "that vessels do come this way, and that it is not out of the world entirely."

George quickly recovered. "Why not make a big signal flag for Observation Hill?" This was seconded by the Professor.

"And while we are about it why not make a good old American flag?" was Harry's comment.

The cave had been forgotten in this incident. When their wondering and questionings had ceased, the descent was made around the point, and the entrance soon reached.

The two lamps were now lighted, and the explorations began.

"I think it is advisable," was the Professor's first observation, "that we go in a hundred feet or so, and then mount one of our lamps in a conspicuous place. We can then proceed with the other as far as the water, and if any accident happens it will not cause trouble to both of the lights. We can always have one of them to fall back on."

When they had gone the distance determined on, a secure ledge was selected, and Harry placed the light so it would cast its beams along the cave.

"Be careful now, we are near the water."

The Professor had now the other light, and the boys led the way, so the beams from the light shone past ahead of them. They went beyond the point where the water had been found previously, but there was no sign of it. The course of the cave now changed to the right, and the floor of the cave went downwardly at a slight descent.

The Professor suddenly restrained the boys. "Wait a moment; the light behind us should be brought forward to this point."

George went back and brought it up, and after some delay a place for it was found. The two lights now plainly showed a sudden enlargement in the area of the cave, and above them hung what appeared to be huge icicles, giving the interior a weird appearance. Still no water was in sight.

"The white substances we see all around us indicate that above us the rocks are limestone, and water, in coming through, has acted on the stone so as to form carbonate of lime, or chalk."

The single lamp was now sufficient to light up the interior, which looked like a domed iceberg, with all sorts of fantastic figures standing out in bold relief, which were contrasted by the many dark recesses irregularly scattered about everywhere.

"I see an opening beyond," was Harry's remark, in a suppressed tone.

The contracted opening was to the left, and he quickly made his way over the uneven floor to that point. "The water is beyond, and I hear something there."

George quietly moved forward. The light from the Professor's lamp glistened on the surface, and rippling waves were easily distinguished.

"What has become of the light we had on the perch?" was the Professor's startling inquiry.

The boys looked back. It was not there. Probably it had gone out.

"We must not go on until we have relighted it," was the Professor's caution.

George went back. The light from the Professor's lamp still threw its rays back to the ledge, which was not more than a hundred feet from their present location. "I can't find it. It is not here, and I know I put it on this ledge. Here is the piece of lime I put up against it."

Too startled for words, Harry drew back from the opening. Without further conversation he and the Professor retraced their steps toward George, who was now frantically searching every crevice.

"That is too bad. Are you sure this is the place?"

"I am positive of it."

The boys looked at the Professor. He knew they mentally asked whether they should proceed with the single light. "I think it would be unwise to go farther with one light only. If we can do no better we can make a half dozen lights, and light up the whole cave. I am just as much interested in it now as you are."

They were about six hundred feet from the mouth of the cave, as nearly as could be estimated.

"Before we return we might as well chart the cave, so we shall have some idea of its crooks and turns. Have we anything to measure with? If not, have you a cord, so we can get some idea of distances?"

George held out one of the spears, which was about five feet long.

"That will answer," said the Professor. "Let us call this five feet long for the present. The first thing we must do is to establish a base line. But what shall we do for something to mark our chart on? I haven't a bit of paper."

Here was another difficulty. It would be impossible to make tracings on their clothing. Harry's wit came to the rescue. "I have it. Why can't we break off a piece of this chalk. Probably we can find some smooth piece that will answer."

"That might be done," was George's answer, on reflection; "but what can be used to mark on chalk?"

The Professor was now highly amused. "Can't you think of anything we have here which will answer?"

"I haven't had a pencil, or anything except charcoal, since we touched this wonder island."

"We have something here that is used among all civilized people the world over for marking purposes." The boys opened their eyes in wonder. "I have it here," said the Professor, looking at the lamp.

"The lamp?"

"No, not the lamp, but what is in the lamp."

"The oil? Where can we get anything to mark with in the oil?"

"We have been making a marking material all the time we have been in the cave, and you are just as well acquainted with it as anything you know. It is the soot from the burning oil."

The boys laughed, not at the information, but at their stupidity.

"Yes; the soot is carbon, and the best soot is made by imperfectly burning oil, or fat, or any other fuel which has a large amount of carbon."

The boys found several pieces of flat chalk, one of them a little over a foot long. This was held above the flame of the candle until covered with soot.

"The first thing to do is to establish a base line. This we will mark A on the drawing. Now, starting from the point here where we lost the light, you may measure along the line to the west, we will say, until you get to the other end of the chamber. Twenty-five measures of the spear? That makes the chamber 125 feet long, and it is about 90 feet the other way. Let us roughly outline the floor plan. Now go out toward the mouth of our cave, and measure off 50 feet. Stop there. You see, I have marked the line A and have laid down the slate slab so that this line is exactly on a line with the one you have measured along the chamber. The point B, 50 feet from here, which you have just measured, makes an angle, C. I will now take the slab to the point B, and you may measure off 50 feet more, and we will call that D. That gives us another angle line, E. You see, at every point we establish a new base line. C is the base line for the line E, and so on all through the cave."

Fig. 32. The Cave, and how it was charted.

All the measurements were made on the plan outlined, and scratched on the sooted slab.

"One thing more we must observe. As we are marking the successive points, you will notice that I took particular care to observe the side walls of the passageway, so that I could roughly outline them, noting the distances from the various points, and in a crude way marking out the irregularities between the points."

The chart interested the boys so intensely that the disappearance of the light did not again recur to them until they emerged from the mouth of the cave, when it all came back again, with added wonder and speculation. How many more mysterious things would present themselves!



Chapter XIII

The Exciting Hunt In The Forest


They returned to their home with conflicting emotions. It had been an eventful day. They had a glimpse of the outside world, and an experience below the surface of the earth. Both were unsatisfying. They could explain the one far away on the sea; but the other, close at hand, was a mystery.

"How do you account for the water being so far away from the mouth of the cave?" was George's inquiry after the evening meal.

"Haven't you noticed that we have had no rain for the past five weeks?"

Such was, indeed, the case. The boys had not been observant, like the Professor.

"Evidently the water is supplied from rains, and the floor of the cave permits more or less of the water to leak through, so that, in time, if we had no rains, the cave would be entirely free of water."

"But how about the animal in there; if it is a water animal, how did it get in; and if the water ever dries up, how can it live there?"

"There may not be any subterranean connection directly with the sea, and the animal has been trapped there; or it may be able to reach the sea in the cave at any time, by some underground channel."

"How far do you think the cave goes in?"

"That is one of the impossible things to say. It may extend for miles. Like yourselves, I am curious to know all about it, as soon as we can make further investigations. In the meantime, don't forget about the flag."

"I had forgotten that. I am willing to start on it in the morning. How large should it be made?"

"We should make it a regulation flag, by all means."

"Let me see; how many stripes must we have?" said Harry.

"I know; thirteen."

"Yes; and they must be red and white."

"That is correct," responded the Professor; "but do you remember how many of each?"

The boys were silent.

"The top and the bottom stripes are red, and the intervening ones white. What do these stripes represent?"

"The original States."

"I see you have a pretty good recollection. I remember a class of over forty boys, on one occasion, which had only three boys who recalled that. Then we must have a field of another color, up in the corner."

"That is the blue field, with stars on it."

"Yes; but how many stars?"

"A star for each State."

"And how many States are there now?"

There was no response to this. How many boys or men, even, can tell offhand the number at the present time?

"There were 48 before we sailed. How many, if any, were added since I do not know."

The next day the boys were anxious to set to work on the flag. There was plenty of the ramie cloth at hand, but it was quite yellow. George noticed this, and said: "It seems to me we shall have to be content with making the flag red, yellow and blue, that is, if we can get the red and the blue."

"No," was the Professor's rejoinder; "we must make it red, white and blue."

"But how can we make the ramie cloth white?"

"By bleaching it."

That was a new idea; to make white cloth.

"How can we do it?"

"Wet it and put it in the sun. If we want to hurry it up we can use some chloride of lime."

"But where is the chloride of lime?"

"Do you remember that black ore we have in the laboratory, which is called manganese? If we put some of the sulphuric acid on that a gas will be formed, called chlorine, one of the most powerful bleaching compounds known. We can use it in that form, or subject some of our lime to the gases, and in that case make chloride of lime."

The decision was to make the flag sixteen feet long and nine feet nine inches wide, so that each stripe would be nine inches wide. The blue field would be five feet wide and seven feet long.

This was certainly a task, and the boys were directed to prepare four strips of red and three strips of white, each nine feet long, and also three strips of white and three strips of red sixteen feet long. Four of the short strips and three of the long strips were then laid aside to be dyed red. The other strips were put out to bleach.

When all this was prepared George was troubled about the colors.

"Professor, I do not see what we can use to make the blue and red colors."

"I think we are fortunate in having one of the varieties of the madder plant all about here."

"Is that a good dye plant?"

"It is a plant that is more extensively used for dyeing than any other in the world. For many years, until the products from petroleum began to come in, it was the only source for the red colors, because of its permanence. The dye is so powerful that it will turn the bones of animals red, if they are fed on it, and it also colors the claws and beaks of birds."

"Have you seen any of it here?"

"There is plenty of it growing here. You cannot mistake it. It is the plant with the elongated, smooth-edged leaf, which grows on the main stem, from which the small, thin stems branch out that carry the little red flowers."

"I know what you mean; let me get some of them at once." And George was off after the plant.

Meanwhile Harry was busily at work cutting out the double set of stars required for the blue field.

Several days before this George had prepared the roots of the chicory plant, as will be remembered, and it had been dried, and was ready to be ground up. At the noon meal he served the first cup of "coffee," to the delight of Harry, who was completely taken by surprise, and afforded much amusement for George and the Professor.

"It seems to be rather strong," was Harry's only comment, "and even if it isn't real coffee, it is good enough, I assure you."

"Wouldn't it be injurious to take too much of it?"

Fig. 33. Betel Nut.

"Exactly with this as with everything else. It is not the use, but the abuse, that causes trouble. Of course, chicory does not have the soothing and hunger-staying qualities of the real coffee, but the bitter principle in the root is a tonic, and the extract is used as a medicine for that purpose. The leaves of the endive, of which we are using the roots, make a most delicious salad."

"Don't many people use this as a kind of an intoxicant?"

"If used to excess it has an exhilarating influence, on account of its tonic properties."

"I have often thought it was wonderful," said Harry, "that people all over the world have some kind of a weed or plant that they use to stimulate themselves with."

"There seems to be a universal instinct in man to select the strong and bitter principles for that purpose. The aborigines of Central America used rolled tobacco leaves ages before Columbus was born; and the coca leaf, chewed by the lowest orders of the Peruvians, was for ages, and is now, their main source of strength and comfort. So opium, hemp and the betel-nut have been used by eastern Asiatics from the remotest antiquity; and the same is true of the pepper plants of the South Sea Islands and the Indian Archipelago; also of the thorn apples used among the natives of the Andes, and on the slopes of the Himalayas. In northern Europe the ledum and the hop have been so used, and in Siberia the narcotic fungus has been eaten from time immemorial."

At that moment Baby appeared on the scene, his hands and one side of his head dyed a beautiful red, presenting a ludicrous appearance. The first glance at him was one of astonishment; but realizing that he had been testing George's newly made dye, all burst out in laughter at the amusing sight.

"You really look like a red angel," was George's greeting, and Baby seemed to relish the joke. From that time forward Baby's name was "Red Angel," but it took him some time to learn what the new title was. It took him much longer to acquire it than it did to learn what honey meant.

"Red Angel is certainly a very smart little chap," said the Professor, with a laugh, "because he was really doing what is done in the dyeing art and in chemistry every day, furnishing a test sample."

"Test sample; what is that?"

"In the art of dyeing it is the custom, before commencing to dye goods, to make a test sample, and all goods dyed must come up to the standard set by that sample. That is called the 'test sample.'"

"But how do the chemists use it?"

"In the analyses of chemicals one of the processes is by what is called the color metric test -- that is, the test by color. The chemist makes a solution with a known quantity of the element in it which is of full strength and purity, and is therefore of a well-defined color. Now, if any substance is to be analyzed, the same reagent is used in the tested sample as was used to make the well-known sample. The color of the unknown sample is then compared with the known sample, and the quantity determined by the difference of color in the two."

"What do you mean by reagent?"

"A substance used to effect a chemical change in another substance. For instance, what is called Nessler's Reagent is a substance which, if put into water, will detect one part of ammonia in twenty million parts of water, and give a perceptible reddish-yellow tinge."

"Well, Red Angel has certainly made a good test sample for us; isn't that a good color?"

The blue color was still wanting when the other parts were ready, and the Professor came to the laboratory with a sample of bitter-sweet, the common hedge plant of North America. The boys both recognized the plant and were surprised to learn that it contained a dye suitable for their purpose.

"We can use this or take some of the copper ore, that is, the blue vitriol part of the ore, and by putting it in a lime-water solution a beautiful blue color can be obtained."

The flag, when completed, was really a work of art. They gave many days to the task, and were proud of it. The question of a suitable pole or flagstaff was one which now absorbed their energies. As nothing of the kind was found in the immediate neighborhood, it was suggested that on their regular hunting day it should be made a part of their duty to find a staff worthy to be installed. The trips to the cave, and the absorbing work of preparing the flag, had so taken up the time, that they had entirely forgotten the regular outings.

On this occasion they insisted that the Professor should accompany them, and George declared that the only place available for a good pole would be in the forest below the South River, where they had shot the ocelots.

The yaks were prepared, as usual, and it was a merry party which started off on that bright morning for the forest. They did not, you may be sure, forget the spears and the guns, and before leaving home Harry thought it would be a good idea to provide a small two-wheeled truck, which could be used as a trailer, for the pole.

On the way down, Harry said: "How large a pole shall we get?"

George had his opinions, as usual: "Let us get a pole at least 50 feet long. We must have something which will match the flag."

"A pole that length will be a difficult matter to raise; have you thought of that?" was the Professor's observation.

"Can't we rig up something to raise it with?"

"Yes; and for a pole a hundred feet long, if necessary."

The Professor made no further objections. Reaching the South River the yaks were tethered, and taking advantage of the raft which they had used on the first trip, they were soon on the way into the forest. On this occasion they took a course to the right of their former exploits, the desire being to acquaint themselves, as much as possible, with the topography of the country toward the falls. Soon they came within sight of game, squirrels, woodchucks; and many familiar varieties of birds were seen on all sides.

What interested the boys most was an animal about three and a half feet long, and almost three feet high, which they saw at a distance.

"What is that, Professor?"

"It is a giant ant-eater, found in many parts of South America."

"What a big bushy tail he has."

"He uses that in a peculiar way. When he sleeps he lies on one side, rolls himself up so that his snout lies on his breast, places all his feet together, and covers himself with that bushy tail. As the hair of the tail resembles hay, or the surrounding dried grass, it is likely to be passed by without being noticed."

"I wish we could get a shot at him."

"There is a fine pole," said Harry, whose keen interest was as great in that quarter as in the hunting.

Fig. 34. THE GIANT ANT-EATER

It was an exceptionally fine specimen of shell-bark hickory, and the base was nearly six inches in diameter, but it was as straight as a line, apparently, and it was fully thirty feet to the first limb.

"You couldn't get a better pole; but hickory is one of the heaviest woods, and being green, it will be a task to raise it. It weighs, dry, about 45 pounds per cubic foot."

"What is the weight of a cubic foot of water?"

"About sixty-four pounds."

"How much do you think that pole will weigh when it is trimmed up?"

The Professor, after carefully surveying the tree for a time, answered: "It will weigh fully 400 pounds, but I am in favor of taking it, as we know shell bark is a good American tree, and it is the kind of wood we usually select on account of its strength. I know it will resist any winds likely to come our way."

It was at once cut down, and on measuring was found to be 58 feet up to the branching top, at which point it was not less than two inches in diameter.

"Cut it off above the last crotch, as we shall want that part to attach the top pulley between."

Now that it was cut and trimmed, the problem was to convey it back to the river.

"Do you think we can induce the yaks to swim across the river?"

"That's a capital idea, Harry, let us go back and try it."

"While you are getting the animals I shall do some investigating," said the Professor.

The boys crossed the river and took the two-wheeled truck across. "It might be amusing to the Professor, if he found we had taken the truck across before we knew whether the yaks could be induced to go over." Harry laughed at George, and answered: "How shall we manage it? We had better keep them yoked, I suppose."

After some urging, they were driven to the water, the boys having tied a rope to the yoke before they went into the river. To their great surprise and relief, the yaks made no objections, and immediately started out at a great rate for the opposite shore, and before they had gone twenty feet were swimming. The boys in the raft held on tightly and were drawn across without further trouble.

As they left the river for the trip, they distinctly heard a shot.

"I wonder what the Professor has shot? Did you hear him?" They listened intently. The shot appeared to come from a point considerably to the left of the place where the pole had been cut, but they paid little attention to that. After they had gone halfway another shot was heard, this time at a point which indicated that the Professor must be some distance away.

As anticipated, the Professor was not in the location of the pole.

"I don't think the Professor expected us back so soon," was Harry's suggestion. "Let us rig up the pole and hitch the team, and by that time he may be back."

In less than a half hour this was done, ready for a start; still no signs of the Professor.

"I think we had better fire a shot to let him know we are here."

"Singular we didn't think of that before; here goes." Waiting fully a quarter of an hour after the shot, they were surprised at not hearing any response from him. "I wonder," continued Harry, "if he has met with some accident?"

"We heard it in this direction, didn't we? Don't let us waste any more time. Get the guns and ammunition. Hurry up; and let us take a spear; it may be useful."

Each boy took a spear, as a matter of precaution, and set out. At intervals the boys shouted, and after wandering about for fully a half hour, determined to try another shot. This was answered by a shot apparently from the direction of the team, and the boys turned about and hurriedly made their way back.

It happened that the boys had actually lost their way, and in the excitement all sense of direction. The Professor had made a complete circle and the boys in their wanderings had executed a complete loop within that circle, and were actually going back to the river instead of to the team.

"I can't understand this business," said George, in a despairing tone. "We have traveled far enough to get back to the team twice over. Let's try another shot." It was answered by a shout from the Professor, close by, to their left, and when they appeared in sight he was seated on the log leisurely driving the yaks, laughing in a quiet way, and apparently not noticing the discomfiture of the boys.

"We thought you were lost," said George; "didn't you hear us firing?"

"How does it happen you are going in this direction?" was the Professor's quizzical remark, which he uttered with a faint suspicion of a smile. As the boys did not reply, he continued: "Did you expect to find the team at the river?"

Fig. 35. CHART SHOWING HOW THE BOYS WERE LOST

Of course, they all had a good laugh at this, because the direction they were taking, and the position in which the Professor found them, were sufficient to indicate that they were really lost, and that he knew it.

"I felt satisfied," was his final remark, "that you had not a well-defined idea of your direction when you fired the last time, but you will learn in time how to keep your direction, and what is more, you will never again permit an excited condition of the mind to make you take a crooked path."

The boys looked wonderingly at the Professor.

"How," asked Harry, "does an excited mind make anyone take a crooked path?"

"When the mind is excited, it is, for the time, deranged, like soldiers, frequently on the field of battle, who are wounded, without having the least knowledge of it. The sense of direction is a well-developed trait in some people; in others, it does not exist at all. But in the case of either, the moment the mind is excited, it becomes abnormal; some lose the ability to judge distances, some are unable to talk, and others can't do anything but talk. All judgment for the time disappears. Now, take that person in a forest, and highly excite him, and he has absolutely no judgment of distance or direction, and is not in a good position to mark and follow a course with intelligence. I have spoken thus fully on the subject, in order to warn you, that under no circumstances should you ever set out on such a mission as you have with the least cloud of excitement. It is far better not to go at all."

It was a warning the boys never forgot.



Chapter XIV

The Raising Of The Flag And Angel's Part In It


On the return home that evening they were surprised to find Red Angel absent. Frequently he would go with them on their trips, but he was purposely left at home on this occasion. He had ample opportunity to roam at will during their absence, and had never strayed away.

"It is very singular he cannot be found. I searched the house, the shop, and the cattle range, and he is nowhere in sight."

It was a grief to all to miss him, as all had learned to appreciate his mischievous tricks, and George had taken a delight in "educating" him. Probably now, that he had grown to a more mature age, the spirit of the wild life possessed him, and he had taken French leave at the first opportunity.

George missed him more than Harry, because as cooking was one of George's accomplishments, and as honey was the weak spot in Red Angel, the kitchen was an attraction, and the reward for service in the kitchen was this delicious sweet.

Their stock of this was running low. George was not as liberal with honey of late, and after ruminating on the subject of the disappearance, he concluded that Red Angel had cause for "running away."

The next morning while at breakfast, who should appear at the door but Red Angel, his long fingers and palms holding a quantity of nuts. He evidently saw that the welcome was most enthusiastic on the part of all. With the utmost gravity he shambled across the floor and deposited the nuts on the table and took his usual place in the most matter-of-fact way, and commenced on the nuts as though it was part of a solemn duty.

George's hand reached out for the honey; Angel saw it, a quizzical look came on his face -- a real orang smile -- and he forgot about the nuts.

In a spirit of fun George helped himself without offering any. This was too much for the animal, and with a shrewd, calculating look he pushed the nuts over to George.

Did he get any honey after this? George could not resist this appeal; and after Angel got it, and George helped himself to nuts, the Simian approval was very marked. Do you think he reasoned?

Preparations must now be made for "pole-raising day." In the absence of a sufficient amount of rope the last bearskin was cut up into strips, as it was necessary to have nearly a hundred feet, and the bearskin was a much-needed addition to the small quantity of ramie cord which they had on hand.

The Professor took a keen interest in the proceedings. "We must get a half dozen forked poles of good wood; they should be of different lengths, to support the pole as it goes up. Then, Harry, as we have a pretty tough job before us, I suggest that you make two capstans, something like those you saw on shipboard, around which the two raising ropes can he wound, each to have a crank, and a means for holding the crank at any position."

The preparations occupied the greater part of the day. Several boards, five feet long, were required, and at least a dozen stakes to hold the capstans in position.

Early the following morning the yaks were brought out, yoked up, and the pole and truck hitched on. A luncheon was provided, the flag and all paraphernalia assembled and loaded, and Red Angel invited to attend the ceremonies.

Fig. 36. Pole raising.

Reaching Observation Hill, a spot for the pole was selected, and a hole three feet in diameter and five feet deep was laboriously dug out. It was, indeed, a trying task, with the tools they had, but it was a labor of love. It was more than that to them. They were now making preparations to notify the world that they still lived.

The top of the pole had been provided with a pulley, which was mounted between the crotch, and a guard put over the pulley, so it would prevent the halliards from coming off. When it had been placed in position, with the foot across the hole, the two boards were stood down in the pit so the end of the pole was against them. The halliards were then strung over the pulley and looped down, and the three ropes were attached to the pole, twenty feet from the lower end. Together they raised it up, so that it was about five feet from the ground at the point where the ropes were tied. Two of the ropes were then carried out past the hole, and branched out, and attached to the capstans, while the other was allowed to hang. As the capstans turned, the pole was gradually drawn up, and the Professor stood ready with the forked standards to prevent the flagstaff from falling back. In less than an hour it was erect, and the work of tamping in the dirt and stone around the base was in order, and soon completed.

And now for the flag!

"Tell us, Professor, why the attaching of the flag on the cord, or halliards, is called bending it?"

"The term comes from heraldry, and it originally designated two diagonal lines across the field of an escutcheon. Later on, sailors bent the ends of the flags or ensigns on the halliards, or around the yards, and also called the fastening of a cable to the anchor a bend; a knot is also designated by them as a bend; the form of the ship from the keel to the top of the side is called a bend, as, the midship bend."

A strong rope had been seamed in the end of the flag, and eyelets worked at intervals, so that the task of attaching it to the halliards was soon performed.

"The raising of the national emblem for the first time in any new country has always been regarded as an event of the greatest importance, as it represents sovereignty and responsibility. On this occasion," said the Professor, as he removed his hat, "let us honor the flag with appropriate ceremonies."

At that moment Red Angel concluded he would also take part, and in an instant was at the pole and scrambled upwardly. When the top was reached he caught sight of the wheel. It moved. Every time he grasped the rope the wheel would turn.

This seriously interrupted the program. The Professor could not help laughing. A moment before he was particularly grave, and the boys had no feelings of mirth; but now this new element in the proceedings added gaiety to the occasion.

"Come down, you rascal! Come down! Do you hear me?" cried George. Red Angel didn't hear. He hung there and smiled; yes, smiled, as he looked down, while playing with the wheel. "We can't put up the flag while he is there." George walked over to the wagon, and took out the honey pot. Red Angel saw it, but made no motion to come down. The honey pot was held up as an inducement, but there was nothing in the world so fascinating just then as that wheel.

Harry and the Professor laughed at the situation. Just to think of it! An orang-outan actually preventing a foreign power from hoisting the emblem of possession over his native land! It was too ludicrous for words.

George actually became almost hysterical as he threw himself back on the seat of the wagon and held up the honey pot, while laughing. "What do you think that little scamp has been doing? He has eaten every bit of the honey." That only added another fit of laughter, and when it subsided, and George could recover his voice, he added, "and wasn't this a smart thing to do?" as he held up the vessel.

"What?" asked Harry, momentarily straightening out his face.

"He actually put the lid back after he got through."

But this could not last indefinitely. No one suggested a remedy, if there was one. The United States must take possession in the proper way; hats must come off; the flag must go up slowly, and the band must play the national air; -- the music, they had not thought of it before.

"Can you climb the pole, George?" asked the Professor.

"I think so, with the aid of the halliard."

He approached the pole. "Do you hear me, Baby, come down! Come down, I say!"

Red Angel saw George's design, and without saying a word he slowly descended, shambled over to the wagon, and hanging on the side of the box, looked around to the company in the most reproachful manner.

"Red Angel saw George's design, and without saying a word he slowly descended"

The hoisting of the flag was, indeed, a solemn thing, but it had its amusing side, and when, with uncovered heads, the flag went up to the masthead and stopped there, the Professor said: "We should have had music to make it more appropriate, but as we have no band, let us sing 'The Star-Spangled Banner.'"

The boys were both good singers, as the Professor knew. The song was started, but before the first line was finished, they broke down and tears began to come; the Professor, with his hands clasped and head bowed, did not look up, nor was he surprised when they stopped. The boys had a suspicion that even he could not have carried that song a single bar. They were powerless to go on.

When the Professor did look up and gaze on the flag, the boys saw his tears; they were ashamed no longer, and their eyes looked up, too.

In a voice which sounded almost strange to the boys, the Professor said: "We take possession of this land in the name of the United States of America, and give notice that we shall defend the same against all powers."

Then, as the beautiful flag unfurled itself, and threw its waving shadow on the ground that it now protected, they looked down, and there was Red Angel, close beside them, looking up at the flag as though he understood what it meant, and his silence gave consent to the solemn act which transferred his allegiance to a greater power.

As they were about to descend the hill the Professor called them to a halt. "Do you intend to leave the flag at full mast?"

They had entirely forgotten to half mast it. "And now," said Harry, "if they can't see that flag we'll make one big enough next time."

As they went down the hill, they could not help looking back over and over, to admire the flag and the pole, and everything connected with it. They knew every thread and every piece of it. Somehow it seemed to be a part of them.

There was always a sentimental streak in George. "I can't help thinking that is the most beautiful flag in the world; I suppose other people think the same of their flag. How did flags come to be used by people?"

"The flag is the successor of the banner, which is taken from the Celtic word 'band.' The Bible mentions banners, showing they were used early in scriptural history. The banners of the Romans, used in their warfares, were essentially different from modern flags, colors and ensigns; they were carvings of wood or metal, some of them representing eagles, like the Persian standard described by Xenophon. In the Middle Ages it was a connecting link between the military and the clergy. The crescent and the cross symbols typified the two great contending forces of the world at that time."

Returning to their home, tired with the exertions, they sat in the living room and talked over the events of the day. Somehow, they felt that the day was too sacred to be desecrated with further toil. They congratulated each other at the success in raising the pole, as that was a matter which had given them a great deal of concern.

Ever since the day on which they commenced work on the electric battery the boys deplored the lack of glass. If they could make that it would be of such immense importance to them in many ways. It would be of great service for their tableware; they could use it for their electric work, which interested them more than any branch to which their time had been given, among the mechanical arts; with that they could make thermometers and testing instruments; and give their house the air of a modern home, because windows could be put in.

"Will it be difficult to make glass?" asked George.

"It is an exceedingly simple matter to make glass -- that is, to fuse or melt it. The difficult part is the art of making it, either by the blowing process, or by making the flat forms, like window panes and the like. Owing to the simplicity in preparing it, the making of glass articles was known at a very early date, certainly fifteen hundred years before the beginning of the Christian era. In the first stages only opaque glass was produced, and it was not until eight hundred years later that the first transparent product was manufactured. Under Pharaoh it was one of the products extensively made and exported to Phonecia and other Mediterranean ports. Five hundred years before Christ, Aristophanes mentions glass or crystal vessels, but as its value at that time was next to gold it could not have been a common article."

"What is glass made of?"

"Simply common sand. Sand is the ground up particles of quartz, and may be found almost everywhere. The principal thing is to get the pure quartz. In connection an alkali of some kind must be used."

"What is an alkali?"

"A substance which is the exact opposite of an acid. Potash, soda and hartshorn (or ammonia) are the best known. They have most remarkable chemical activities, and an alkali united with an acid entirely neutralizes or destroys the activity of both. The compound produced by the union of an acid and an alkali is termed a salt."

"What is the effect of using an alkali with the quartz sand?"

"Quartz possesses all the qualities of an acid, so that when the alkali is fused with the quartz a neutral substance, unlike either, is formed."

"What kind of alkali is best to use?"

"That depends on what it is to be used for. Quartz and lime make a fine window glass product. Bottle glass is usually made of soda and quartz; window glass is also made of quartz, soda and lime; plate glass of quartz, lime, soda and potash; and flint glass has only the alkalis, potash and oxide of lead."

"Well, for our purposes, wouldn't it be better to make the glass out of quartz and lime if windows can be made out of it?"

"By all means, for several reasons: We have the lime on hand, and also because it makes a very hard article."

"What can we melt it up in?"

"The clay retort or crucible will just be the thing for the purpose, and the first thing in the morning I will make a tour to a point close at hand, where I think we shall be able to get a good quality."

The boys were astir in the morning earlier than usual. They had a new impulse -- something to learn and to do. Harry busied himself with putting the crucible in order, and in getting the fuel. George, after his usual morning's work, brought in the lime, and broke it up preparatory to grinding it up into small particles, so that it would intimately mix with the sand.

Within an hour the Professor returned with several samples of sand, either of which, he thought, would make a good article. The yaks were hitched up, and George went with him to get a good supply.

"How much do you think we ought to make up at first?"

"Several gallons of the sand will do for the experiment."

"What kind of article should be made with the first trial?"

"We might make some window glass. It is true it will not be transparent, but it will be translucent, and so will give us light, as well as though it should be transparent."

"What is translucent glass?"

"Where the surface of a cast plate is polished the material is such that you can see through it, but if it is left rough it is impossible to see through it, although it will permit light to go through. The term applied to such glass is translucent."

"If light will pass through, why is it the eye cannot see through it?"

"A powerful magnifying glass shows that the surface of unpolished glass is formed by a layer of crystals, or of sand, with the faces projecting out in all directions and at all angles. The result is, that a beam of light from the eye strikes one or more of these faces and is diverted from a straight line through the glass. As all the rays are thus changed from a direct course, confusion results, and the eye distinguishes nothing."

Several bushels of the sand were brought to the laboratory, and the Professor then directed the preparation of a half dozen slate slabs, each slab being nearly two feet square. He explained that in practice iron plates were used, but as they had nothing of that kind available, slate would answer admirably.

"The slate slabs must be heated, and when the fused material is poured on the slabs, the heat must be kept up for a short time and gradually cooled down."

"What is the object in doing that?"

"If cooled too suddenly the plates, will crack, but by heating the slates and then cooling them down gradually, we anneal the glass, in a measure. You remember how we annealed the steel by gradually cooling it down? Glass, however, cannot be annealed so that it will not fracture, although attempts have been made for years to find a means for doing it. The man who can discover a process that will enable it to bend without breaking, can command any price for the discovery."



Chapter XV

Mysterious Happenings On The Island


The Professor supervised every part of the operation with the utmost care. "Before the plates are heated you must put a raised margin around each slate square, so the molten material will not run off."

"How high shall we make the margins?"

"About a quarter inch above the surface of the slate."

"As we are now ready to heat up the crucible, how shall the materials be mixed?"

Fig. 37. Making Sheet Glass.

"For this trial, measure out eight quarts of sand and two quarts of the lime, and after depositing it in the crucible, we are ready for the heat."

In a short time, with the assistance of the blower, which has already been described, the sand began to melt. It was now stirred so that the elements were thoroughly mingled. During the melting period the dross or impurities which came to the top were skimmed off, and when no more of the impurities collected the Professor stated that they might remove the crucible and pour the melted mass into small pockets, which they had previously formed with clay.

"Why not pour this on the slate forms we made?"

"Because we must know that we have a good sample of glass, and for the further reason that the product we are now to make should have some glass in it that has already been fluxed before, and we now have such a manufactured material."

The material which had been cast in the pockets was broken up with a hammer, as soon as it had cooled, and its appearance noted.

"I see we shall have to use less lime."

"Why?"

"You will note that it is too white or milky-like. This shows too much lime and consequently it is very brittle."

"Suppose, on the other hand, there was too little lime, what would be the result?"

"We should then have a glass which would not hang together at all. In the one case, as with the present sample, with too much lime in it, we have made a product which is closely allied to the alkaline base; and if we had, on the other hand, too little lime, we should have something which is nearly like quartz, hence not suitable for our purpose."

"It seems, then, we have to do in this case just as Red Angel did, make a test sample?"

This allusion to their pet caused a smile all around.

Since the trip made by our colonists two months before they made no effort to gain any additional knowledge of their island. What they really knew of the country, aside from two of the trips made in the interior, under very unfavorable circumstances, was of no value as a means of locating the natives.

That the island was inhabited there could no longer be any reason to doubt. The fire plot on the banks of the Cataract River, the lights near the woods beyond the West River, the finding of the arrows, and the mysterious use of the boat which had so strangely disappeared from the falls in South River, to say nothing of the removal of the flag and flagstaff, were evidences which could not be disregarded.

The further investigations which they must make for their own safety was one of the impelling steps which determined them to build another boat. The discovery of the wrecked portion of the life-boat and the decision to utilize the recovered portion for the new craft had facilitated their preparations somewhat, but there was still a great deal of work to do.

They had six imperfect guns, as they called them, mere pistols, muzzle-loaders, with barrels eight inches long, and the powder was not the best which could be made. Everything was crude and imperfect, and to boldly venture out among savage tribes with such an equipment would not be wise.

All these things were considered in their conferences. But another matter was suggested by the Professor, which carried some weight. A sail had been seen by them. There could be no question on that point. Other ships might come again, and now that they had a flag of such proportions that it would be seen miles further than the original one, it was possible that the opportunity of rescue might be more likely from their side of the island than anywhere else.

It was certain that if a ship should, in their absence, reach the port, and even discover their home through the instrumentality of the evidence which they had left at the signal flag, there was no assurance that the vessel would await their return, or undertake the mission of rescuing them from the savages, if they should be so unfortunate as to be captured.

It was a most distracting thing to solve. It was not only perplexing, but exceedingly trying, to feel that at any moment a visit might be expected from the natives.

Nevertheless, after all considerations, and giving due weight to the likelihood that some ship might visit them, the building of the boat was decided on, and it was to be of such a character that it could circumnavigate the island. They believed it to be their first duty to do this.

This was the Professor's view: "If we can build a boat large enough, and make it of sufficient strength to carry us and the provisions we must take with us, on such a voyage, we should, at some point in our tour, find the natives, and determine their character."

"But, supposing, Professor, that they discover our boat and should pursue us?"

"My reply to that is, that our vessel must be made of sufficient size and strength to outsail them. My opinion is that the most they have is canoes, and we could readily cope with them. The difficulty is this: If we should be discovered, their curiosity, to say the least, would be sufficient to cause them to trail us along the shore, and it would be exceedingly uncomfortable to have them follow us around the shores to our home. Afloat, in strange localities, on an uncharted sea, at night, is a trying situation with a sailor, even though he has all the instruments of navigation at his command. To go ashore, under the circumstances, knowing that the savages are in wait, would be fully as dangerous."

To Harry's practical turn of mind, there was another feature that might be considered. "Some time ago you stated, Professor, that it was quite possible we had an island near us as a neighbor, and from which we may have had visitors. If such is likely to be the case, our boat will be the means of enabling us to reach that island, because if they have boats of sufficient size to come here they will be civilized, at any rate."

It will thus be seen from a consideration of all the conditions what determined them to increase the dimensions of the proposed new boat, although it would consume more time than they had originally contemplated.

"Do you remember, boys, that it is now about one year since we left the harbor of New York on our voyage in the training ship Investigator?"

"Yes, and we have been on this island for nine months," answered George. "I can hardly believe it possible."

What might be called spring was now at hand, and as the warm rains had quickened the vegetation, the Professor suggested that it would be prudent to devote some time to the planting of such crops as could be utilized by them. Barley was a crop which grew in sufficient quantities all about them, so that no care need be taken in that direction.

Garden vegetables would be needed most. Wild potatoes grew in many places, but when they were needed search had to be made. Endives, which made excellent greens, could also be found, together with the cassava, and a variety of peas; but aside from the foregoing, nothing else was available.

While talking on this subject one day the Professor remarked: "In my wanderings I found quite a variety of plants that we might utilize in our proposed garden or farm. One of them is a small, triangularly formed, dark brown seed, which you may recognize."

"That," was Harry's answer, "looks something like our buckwheat."

"You are right; I found several varieties; none of them exactly like the kind grown in the States, but we can readily propagate it, so that it will be practically the same."

"How is the propagation done, so as to bring about the change?"

"It is merely a careful selection of the best varieties of the particular plant, and by budding, grafting, or inarching, transmitting the qualities of the good kind to the stalk or tree which bears the inferior kind. That is done with vegetation which is perennial, like fruit trees and the like."

Fig. 38. Grafting. Fig. 39. Budding. Fig. 40. Inarching.

"But how could any of these methods be used with the buckwheat?"

"An entirely different method is used in cultivating vegetation of that kind. You probably have seen wild oats growing here, as in the States. In its wild or native state the grains are so small as to be utterly useless. It is found that by taking this wild plant and changing the soil in which it grows, the seed will finally develop and become larger, until, in time, we get the full grain. The same thing is true in the development of fruit which is full of seeds. The banana in its wild state is full of seeds. By this process of cultivation it has finally become entirely seedless, and the value of the fruit greatly enhanced."

Beyond the Cataract was a low and level stretch of meadow, which the Professor thought was rich and could be readily worked, and it was the field which they determined to devote to agricultural purposes.

In the meantime, the plans for the boat were developed. A description of the recovered after part of the life-boat will make their plans better understood. When they landed on the rock, and its forward part was crushed and washed away, they saw the stern portion lodged in a saddle in the rocks. It was there for an instant only, as the next wave dislodged it, and when it was eventually found, months afterwards, it had caught in the rocks a hundred feet further inland.

The part which they recovered was still in a good condition, but the ruptured portion of the hull was a broken up and splintered mass, so that it would require considerable work to prepare it to receive the bow part which was now to be grafted on.

It had been originally sixteen feet long, with a five-foot beam. Harry's plan was to increase the new vessel to a length of twenty feet, and its extreme breadth six and a half feet, and in order to give greater security and carrying capacity, it should have a depth of two and a half feet.

"How much are you calculating on for the weight to be carried on the new boat?" was the Professor's question.

"I am estimating that the passenger weight will be 400 pounds and the weight of the boat itself at 500 pounds."

"That is a very liberal estimate. Have you considered the mast and sails?"

"That is something entirely beyond my knowledge. I do not know what kind of sail; or how large it shall be; nor the length or size of the masts. If I knew something about the kinds of sails used for vessels I might be able to decide on that as well as the other parts."

"The term ship, as usually applied, has reference to a vessel furnished with a bowsprit and three masts -- a mainmast, a foremast and a mizzenmast; and these three masts are each composed of three parts, namely, a lowermast, a topmast, and a topgallant mast."

"The bowsprit is that mast which projects forward from the bow, isn't it?"

"Yes. In small vessels the cutter and the sloop have single masts, the difference being that in the cutter the jib-boom has no stay to support it."

"What's the difference between the jib-boom and the bowsprit; they both project out from the bow of the vessel?"

"The bowsprit projects out only a little forward of the bow, and the jib-boom is attached to the forward end of the bowsprit."

"Well, if we are to have only one mast, should we have a bowsprit?"

"It is not necessary, for the reason that in a small boat the boom, as it is called, to stretch the foot of the sail, runs out directly from the foot of the mast to which it is pivotally hinged."

"Then it would be better to have a single mast and a triangular sail, one side of the sail to be attached to the mast, and one of the other sides to the boom?"

"Yes; excepting that the sail must not be attached to the shaft, but to a cable which is run up the mast."

As the vessel was intended not for speed, but for safety and for ease of management, it was finally decided that the mast should be twenty feet long, and the boom sixteen feet, thus giving a sail area, approximately, of 150 square feet.



Chapter XVI

Discovery Of The Savages' Huts


While it was true that up to this time they had indirect evidence only of the existence of human beings on the island, several events occurred, at this time, which not only pointed more clearly to such a condition, but they began to feel that leaving the Cataract would be a hazardous thing.

The first incident occurred during one of the hunting expeditions in which the boys engaged. It had been their custom to penetrate the forest below the South River, not very far, it is true, but the sport there was most exhilarating to them after each week's work.

The Professor had always encouraged this. "You have not taken your usual weekly outing," he remarked, "and I feel we ought to have some wild game. If you have time, on your next trip, make it a point to explore the region to the south and west of the falls."

"That section interests me also," answered George. "I have often wished we could go down near the mountain range."

"Couldn't you go with us?" interposed Harry, "and let us make a day of it?"

"I should like to do so," he replied. "But I have good reason for declining at this time, on account of some special work which is attracting my attention, particularly in preparing the instruments we shall need on our voyage."

"That is true," answered George. "But we shall certainly start early enough in the morning to enable us to visit that section, and go far enough to get some idea of what it looks like near the mountain."

"It would be a good idea," suggested Harry, "to take the team along, as far as the river, at any rate, and that will give us an opportunity to ride going and coming. In that way it will help us."

"Yes; and to carry the game," said George, with a laugh.

"If you bag as big game as you did on the last trip, you will need the wagon," replied the Professor.

They were on the way early in the morning, with the guns and plenty of ammunition, and before nine o'clock reached the river. Scarcity of rains had considerably lowered the stream, and they discussed the advisability of fording the team across.

"I am in favor of the idea, if the stream isn't too deep. It seems to be shallow enough."

"Suppose, George, we take out the raft, and try the depth. If we find the animals will have to swim, we had better leave them on this side."

The raft was launched, and it was pushed out with the poles, but before going very far it was seen that the idea was impracticable, and it might be a hazardous operation.

"This won't do. Besides, we may not be able to go into the woods very far, in any event."

"Then," said Harry, "we must select a good place for the team, where they will be in reach of water, and cut plenty of feed for the yaks, as I can see a good half day's sport before us."

"I hope, Harry, we shall not make the mistake of getting lost this time. Let us keep the sun in mind, and watch our bearings at all times."

"The mountains to the south will always be a guide for us. Don't forget that. Then, we shall also know the river is to the north, or in the opposite direction from the mountains."

"So that we may know just where the team is, we must take a note of its location. See the four large trees near the other bank. I think we can remember them, and can see them for some distance."

The raft was pushed across the river, and when it had been properly secured, they began the march directly to the southwest, and within a half hour reached the border line of the great forest.

"Six months ago I would have dreaded to enter such a dense wood as this," said George.

"I was thinking of that, too," replied Harry. "Isn't it singular how we become used to dangers? This is fun now. I can never forget the first long trip we made through the forest to the west of the Cataract. I was frightened at every step, and started at the least noise."

As they entered, the underbrush grew thinner, but the trees were more massive and thicker, and they were so close together, in many places, that little sunlight found its way through the foliage.

"I would like to know, Harry, how we can tell where the mountains are? The trees do not give us an opportunity."

"I suppose we shall have to depend on the sun altogether."

"Yes; it is now forenoon, and we must not forget that the shadow will point in a different direction in six hours from now."

"I have taken note of that," replied Harry. "We are now following our shadow, see? In six hours, which will be about four o'clock, which direction must we go to reach the wagon, judging by the shadow?"

"Let me see; the shadow is to the southwest now. At four this afternoon, it will be about southeast, so, I suppose, we shall have to take a course with the shadow at our right hand."

"Correct! I haven't forgotten that point about the shadows. It's really simple if you stop to reason it out."

Although numerous small animals appeared at frequent intervals, neither had an opportunity to try his skill, because up to that time the boys had been too intent on noting the direction of their route. The course was kept up due southwest, as planned.

"Did you ever see such a gloomy place?" remarked George. "If it wasn't for the chirping of the birds and the chatter of the little animals it would make me feel mighty lonely."

"Ah! there is something!" quietly whispered Harry, as he held out his arm, as though to restrain George. "See that animal slinking away?"

"Where?"

"Almost directly in front. Come closer. See that broken tree?"

"That's an ocelot," exclaimed George.

"Are you sure?"

"Just like the ones we got."

"Oh, this one's much larger."

"Shall we make a try for him?"

"Certainly; if we can get close enough," answered Harry.

The boys moved forward stealthily, using the most convenient trees to hide their movements. The animal was very wary, and the boys knew that the distance was too great to attempt a shot.

"Let us keep on after him. We may get a chance sooner or later," remarked Harry, eagerly.

But the animal kept beyond their reach, and after a half hour it finally forged ahead with such speed that it was soon lost to view, to the great disappointment of the hunters.

"Now, if we can get a glimpse of the sun we shall know what our direction is. This is the most wonderful forest I have ever seen."

"It seems to me we have gone considerably to the right. How far are we from the river, according to your calculations?"

"Well, Harry, I am not good at guessing, but I suppose we have traveled at a pretty lively rate while going after the ocelot. We certainly made two miles trailing him; and it was as much more from the river to the forest. I should say we are fully six miles from it."

"I wish we could get a glimpse of the mountains," answered Harry. "I wonder why the Professor has always been so anxious to investigate this part of the island?"

"That is a mystery to me. It may be merely a natural curiosity."

The boys noted the gradual ascent they were making now, and it was also obvious that the trees were not so thick nor so tall, in comparison with those farther north.

"Do you suppose we are near the base of the mountain?" asked Harry.

"It must be we are near it, or we should not be going up so gradually, as we have done for the last hour."

When several more miles had been added, the woods thinned out perceptibly, and when the clearing was sufficient to enable them to get the first glimpse to the south, Harry remarked:

"Well, there are the mountains, and they seem as far away as when we left the river. Suppose we follow this ridge to the west. You see, there is another forest between us and the mountains."

As they advanced the trees were smaller, and there was every evidence that this was a young forest. There was an abundance of the finest grass, and here they found immense flocks of beautiful pheasants and numerous other birds that were unknown to the boys, and it was not long until they had more than a dozen of different varieties.

"This is getting to be a pretty heavy load," remarked Harry. "I think it would be a good plan to find a place for the game, and then come back and take it as we return."

"Yes; we ought to do that. What time do you suppose it is?"

"It must be past noon, and I am pretty hungry. Why not take our luncheon now?"

"Good idea. Look over to the right. It seems pretty clear there, and the two large trees there will make a good point to aim for on our way back. We can use the log there to rest and spread out our luncheon on," remarked George, as he pointed to the direction of the trees.

He kept looking in that direction intently, as Harry watched him. "What do you see?" Harry asked.

"That looks like a hut."

"So it does," replied Harry, excitedly. "It may be only a large rock, however," he continued.

"No; it doesn't look like a rock to me. Let us move up closer."

The object was fully a thousand feet away, and on a slight crest with few trees about. It was round-topped, very uneven in its outline, which gave it the appearance of a large boulder.

The boys approached cautiously, and as they came nearer, another but smaller object of the same character was noticed to the left.

"That is surely a hut of some kind. See the door at the side of the one to the left?"

"You may be right, Harry, but this seems to be an out-of-the-way place for a village or habitation. You know the Professor stated on one occasion, that even savages were smart enough to plan their homes near running water, and why they should select this place, when they could easily find plenty of water not far away, is something I can't understand."

"Dead sure there is nobody here now. Look at the vines growing across the door opening. Isn't this a find? I wish the Professor could see this."

"Better wait wishing until we see it. We might find something that will surprise us."

"All right, George; let us get up, closer; I am anxious to see the door of the big hut. Let us go around to the other side."

Without approaching the clearing which extended out a considerable distance from the huts, the boys made a circle, until the open door of the large one was in sight, and they were, therefore, directly behind the smaller hut.

"Now let us go up behind this one. If there is anybody in the large one we can easily see him," quietly remarked Harry.

The weeds all about indicated that no one was living there at the time, but they were still too far from the main structure to be able to judge positively.

"What's this?" asked George, kicking at some broad-leaved specimens of vegetables. "See, they are in rows. Some one has had a garden here; that is sure."

"This is certainly getting to be interesting. No; I don't believe there is any one about. Still I don't like the idea of going up to that big hut with the open door."

The boys looked at each other inquiringly. The question was, what to do and how to do it.

"Suppose we fire a shot; that ought to arouse them."

"That would be a good idea, Harry, but I hate to waste the shot. We might call, and see if we can get an answer."

The plan was adopted and after each "Hello!" a slight answering echo came back. There was no response, and they boldly marched up to the open doorway.

There was no light within, other than that through the door, except a little streak from an opening, due to the partially decayed coating of the hut. There was sufficient light, however, to show that this had been occupied by people who were very primitive, as in the interior, at one side, was a pile of bones, scattered about, and a few broken clay vessels, as well as several clam shells, which had been ground to a cutting edge, the examination of which caused the boys to smile.

"Well, what do you think of this? Nothing but bones and dirt everywhere. I suppose it must have been occupied by the savages."

The large hut was circular in form, not exceeding twelve or fifteen feet in diameter, and its extreme height was probably eight feet. It was built of a framework of saplings, the thickest of them not exceeding two inches in diameter, which had been planted in the earth, and then had the tops bent over and bound together.

Smaller branches, or withes, were then run around and interlaced, so as to make the web fairly close, and over this was plastered a species of blue clay, which, when dried and baked by the sun, formed an impervious coating that kept out the rain.

The boys marveled at the construction, because this was the first example of savage architecture they had seen. The smaller hut was distant about fifty feet, similarly made, but smaller in diameter.

"Let us examine the other place. Possibly that will give us some clue," and Harry started across the intervening space, while George was still rummaging about, uncovering the odds and ends and raking them toward the door.

Before Harry reached the hut, George cried out: "Come here, Harry; I have found something." And he held up a scrap of paper. "If the savages have been here they have left something that looks like writing."

Harry was back in an instant, and leaned over George's shoulder as he tried to make out the scrawls on the piece of blackened and crumpled sheet which he was smoothing out. The paper was about four by six inches in size, and evidently a good quality of wrapping paper, known as manilla.

"There are words here, sure enough. Look at this -- it must be a name. Yes; can you read it? 'Rogers.' But who has signed it? Can you make that out?"

"Well, if there is one scrap, the chances are there must be some more. Let us get this stuff out of here."

"But be careful, Harry. I found this by the merest accident, and as it is, you will see I have torn it."

A more careful search was now begun, and every scrap was raked out and examined. A brass button was among the things; a buckle; the broken blade of a knife; a little metal disk, which might have been part of a locket case; a steel ring, all rusted and about two inches in diameter.

As these things were successively brought to light, it dawned on the boys that this might well have been the homes of savages, and the articles mentioned were likely taken from captives. The message on the paper, if it could be deciphered, might be the most valuable clue, but they were reserving that for examination later on, when they could have the assistance of the Professor.

The important thing now was to go over every bit of material in both places, and then make a survey of the surrounding country. It set at doubt all questions in their minds about the inhabitants of the country.

The small hut was visited, and here the litter was still more profuse, but after every scrap had been gone over, there was nothing to add to the small accumulation which they had taken from the other hut.

"Shall we go any farther?" asked George.

"It seems to me that this is enough for one day. Before going back, however, let us look all around this place. You know the Professor will be sure to want to know everything about it."

Directly west of the knoll, on which the huts were situated, was a slight declivity. "Let us go down the hill for several hundred feet," said George, as he led the way through the tangled brush.

Within a hundred feet of the hut was a little brook, with the clearest cold water. "I can see why the huts were placed there. Look at that spring."

Within fifty feet of their position was a slightly shelving rock, and below it a bubbling spring flowing upwardly into a semicircular basin formed in the rock.

George ran forward and made a quick survey. "Here is a metal drinking cup, just as they left it. My, but it's heavy!"

"I wonder what it is made of? Here, rub it."

Only a few passes were made over it, when he held it up in astonishment. "Why, it looks like silver."

"So it does," broke in Harry. "But what is this on the side? See those initials: 'A.W.'"

"I must have a drink before I leave this," and Harry removed the little copper cup which he always carried. "What a peculiar water this is! It must be a kind of mineral water."

"Yes," responded George; "that is sulphur water, or it has considerable sulphur in it."

"I wonder if this was a health resort for the savages?" asked Harry, as he laughed.

"Let's start for home at once," remarked George, without noticing Harry's sarcastic fling at the poor inhabitants.



Chapter XVII

The Grim Evidence In The Hills


The boys secured a convenient pole, over which they slung the braces of game, and started out on the march for the river. It was fully three o'clock before they were ready to start.

"See here, Harry, there is something we have forgotten, and I begin to feel it now."

"What is that?"

"Our luncheon."

"I was so excited and interested that I forgot all about it until now. Why not go back to the spring and take luncheon there?"

"With that water? I'd rather wait until we get to the river."

"Well, let's take something, anyhow. I am mighty hungry. Funny we didn't think of it before."

"Now for our direction. Do you think we can strike the river at the right place?"

"I'll be perfectly satisfied if we strike the river anywhere."

"Then why not go directly north, and we can reach it a mile or two sooner than the way we are now going."

"Good idea! Here we go!"

It was a lucky thing that they decided to take a different course from the river, because they soon discovered that the ridge they were on ran for a long distance almost directly north, and that the woods were not nearly so dense as they were in the course they had followed.

At frequent intervals they came upon new game, and brought down a number of additional specimens, until Harry protested against any further stopping.

"It seems to me we have enough to last a week, and it is getting mighty heavy at this end of the pole."

"Well, it does seem to be an awful distance over to the river. Are you sure we aren't mixed up in the direction?"

"Of course not. The mountains are right behind us, and the shadow at our right. You can't fool me the second time," answered Harry, as he shifted the pole to the other shoulder.

While thus talking they caught the first glimpse of the river, and it was hailed with delight.

"Whenever I get near the old river it feels like home. My! how I would like to put in several days in a further hunt over toward the mountains. I am sure we would turn up something there."

They reached the river a considerable distance above the falls, and without stopping to rest, went down along the bank for a full hour before they came within hearing of the rushing water.

They sat down on the craggy rocks alongside of the stream and took a good rest. "This will be interesting news for the Professor," said George, musingly, as he watched the rushing stream.

"Indeed, it will. I should not be surprised to find that the natives are directly south of us, or rather west of the mountains."

"That may account for the fact that they have never been near our part of the island."

When they took up the load to resume the journey, it was still heavier, apparently, than before, and they were now so thoroughly tired that frequent stops were made, but in another hour they had the satisfaction of seeing the large trees that had been singled out for their guidance.

It was a great relief to deposit the load on the raft, and it did not take long to swing the raft under the wagon and start the yaks on the homeward journey. The Cataract came in sight before six in the evening, and the Professor was on hand to welcome them.

"Did you have a good time?" he inquired; but as he looked over the tailboard and saw the fruit of the hunt, exclaimed: "You must have gotten everything over there."

"Yes, and something else besides that," said Harry in such a tone that the Professor anxiously asked:

"What; have you made any discoveries?"

"Look at that," replied George, as he carefully drew out the discolored paper with the writing on it. "We not only found this, but we discovered some huts -- two of them, fully six miles or more southwest of the falls."

The Professor's eyes opened wide. "This is, indeed, interesting. But never mind about telling me now. Let us get the team unhitched and examine this when we get inside. I had a suspicion that the other side of the river would give us some clue."

While Harry and the Professor were putting up the team George prepared several of the pheasants for the evening meal, and they were soon in the oven. By common consent the meal was of more importance than the new finds, and when the dishes were removed the paper was carefully examined.

"If I knew just what was used for the writing, I might suggest something that would bring it out more clearly. It is evident that the writer did not use ink."

"Why do you think so?"

"Simply for the reason that this name, Rogers, which is the most plainly written, has the words only on the surface of the paper. If ink had been used it would have penetrated the fiber, and the writing would thus have been preserved."

"Where did you find the paper?"

"It was among a mass of rubbish, which, on account of the poor light, was raked out to a point nearer the door, so we could examine the material better, and I don't know whether it was with the pile of bones or with the stuff on the other side."

"Was the grass about the hut as high as the grass round about the place?"

"It seemed to be. We made a pretty careful examination all over, so as to give us a fair idea of the condition of things."

"How far was the spring from the hut?"

"Less than a hundred feet."

"By the way," remarked Harry, "we forgot to say that close to the small hut we found some vegetables growing in several rows, and weeds all over the place and between the vegetables."

"Do you think," asked George, "that the vegetable garden is any sign that white people have been living there?"

"It may be; but the lowest savages have usually some form of knowledge about raising and caring for vegetables, so we should not count too much on that. This cup here seems to indicate the presence of some civilized being, whoever he may be."

"It is just as likely, is it not, that the savages may have captured a prisoner who had the cup?"

"That is one solution. This writing is the most important piece of information we have had up to this time. It is not at all likely that the natives would preserve it, so that the only conclusion I can draw from it is, that the one who wrote the message, or the one who got the paper, was at the hut, and now the important thing is to arrive at some sort of idea when, and what the message means."

"It does not seem," remarked Harry, as he carefully scanned the paper, "that we can make out more than a few of the words. Here is the word which looks like 'river.' Yes; I am sure of that."

"And besides that the words 'of' and a capital letter 'B,' and something that looks like 'r-e-n,' which may be simply part of a word," added George.

"As this is simply ordinary wrapping paper, it is likely that it may have no meaning whatever. Still, I have been trying to recall whether anyone on shipboard had a name that these initials would fit. My limited knowledge in that direction does not help me, I confess."

"What do you suppose the cup is made of?"

"That is undoubtedly silver, or some alloy of metals of which silver is the principal part. It is very hard, as you notice. It is certainly a singular thing that a vessel of this kind should be left at the springs, if the owner of it was there, and it is just as remarkable that the natives would permit it to remain there. I now regard the finding of the cup as of far more importance than the paper, because of these considerations."

"Well, the finding of the huts, and these articles, are pretty strong arguments in favor of our purpose to find the people who owned the things we found there," responded Harry.

"But I have also a little news to impart," said the Professor.

"What is it?" asked the boys in concert.

"I have found a companion to the skeleton we discovered on the beach, and also some information about the inhabitants of the island."

"Tell us about it. Where did you come across it?"

"It isn't much of a story, but an hour or so after you left, I felt like taking a little stroll, so I crossed the valley east of us, and skirted the incline beyond, going toward the cliffs fronting the sea. Ever since we found the skeleton I felt that, unless washed out to sea, there might be some other traces of the wreck.

"I was quite unprepared to make any searches along the hillside, except for evidences of minerals, and particularly to note the peculiar outcropping of the rock on this side of the ridge which terminates at Observation Hill.

"The backbone of the ridge is limestone, and after I had reached a certain level I noted, all along, that the rock had remarkably wide cleavages; that is where there had been breaks in the rock the seams opened, and in some places I found recesses fully six feet wide, and thus caverns, sometimes thirty or forty feet in length, would be formed.

"I explored some of them in the hope that it would lead me to a cave of some extent, but in this I was disappointed. Such may be the case, but I have not discovered anything which leads me to believe that there are other caves than the one we explored.

"I entered one of those, which was a long way this side of Observation point, and there, on a rude sort of improvised wooden cot, was a skeleton. I found a half dozen arrows, lying near, but neither a bow nor any other kind of weapon was anywhere in sight.

"The skeleton showed that it was the remains of a tall man, past middle age, undoubtedly, and there was no evidence that he came to his death by any wound which effected a fracture of any of his bones. The cot on which the skeleton reposed was made of pieces of wood, in a complete state of decay, and there was not a vestige of clothing, jewelry or pocket articles at or near the bones.

"I found two of the arrows near one hand, and the others lying about. Here they are. Handle them carefully, as they are decayed, and will readily fall to pieces, unless you use the utmost care. That is my story. I hunted all about the vicinity, hoping that I might find some additional clues, but I was disappointed."

"Do you think he had any connection with the skeleton we found on shore?"

"No; it does not seem likely. My reason for saying so is, that it would take several years for wood to decay, as you see in the case of these arrows, and the cot had the heaviest portions all rotted. In my opinion this skeleton shows greater age."

"Under conditions of that kind, what sort of story could you weave out of it, so as to determine what happened to him?"

"It is decidedly more interesting than our adventure, and about as difficult to gather any information from," answered Harry.

"In my opinion, the man died from starvation, as you say he had no tools or implements of any kind," replied George.

"That may be; but it appears entirely different to me. The man was, undoubtedly, cast ashore, or was shipwrecked. We have evidence that this island is noted for taking in people that way. He may or he may not have had clothing, but in either event, he could not starve in a place like this, with vegetation around him everywhere and at all seasons of the year.

"I am picturing this condition of affairs in my mind: He was, no doubt, out in quest of food, when he was attacked by the natives and escaped from them. He was wounded by them, and when he reached his shelter, removed the arrows, as I found them near his bones. It is probable that his wounds proved fatal shortly after he reached the cave."

"But how do you account for the cot on which he was lying?"

"It would be the most natural thing for him to find a place to shelter himself. That would be the first thing to do; just as he had a place to retreat to, and was fortunate enough to elude his pursuers, who were not aware of the hiding place."

"That seems reasonable," remarked George. "But it seems to point one way sure; that we have a pretty tough lot of people on the island to deal with, and satisfies me that we are going about it the right way, in making the proper preparations for the time when we must meet them."



Chapter XVIII

Strange Discovery Of A Companion Lifeboat


The greatest activity was now manifested in every direction. The Professor was here, there and everywhere, taking part in every sort of labor which the different work required. Part of the time he was in the meadow where George was engaged in plowing up an acre of ground for the garden.

It must not be concluded for one moment, that the scheme of eventually leaving the island had been forgotten and that their preparation for planting crops foreboded an indefinite stay.

It will be recalled that the Professor knew what idleness and an unoccupied mind would do to the boys in their situation. He tried in many insidious ways to stimulate the boys to think out and carry forward original work, and in almost every instance he succeeded in doing this in such a way that the boys themselves suggested the work to be done.

Harry was the builder, and the utilizer of the knowledge gained, and George was content at the arrangement which kept him in the workshop with the tools, while he gladly did the most of the outdoor duties.

For two weeks the boys worked without a thought of relaxation, and on this occasion, as on many others, it was incumbent on the Professor to suggest a day of sport. It was the only direction in which he at any time tried to wield the energies of the boys, and from this you may infer how intensely they were interested in the marvelous developments day by day, of which they were the important factors.

"Well," said Harry, "I must confess that I had entirely forgotten our arrangement to devote a day each week to hunting and explorations, and I didn't miss it."

"Nor did I," was George's reply: "I suppose we shall have to go, as I imagine the Professor wants to have some sport," and he laughed at the sly dig which he had given him.

The Professor smiled. "You are right, George, old as I am, I am in for sport, and fun of any kind. Why, I am just as young as you are in feeling and desires, but the difficulty is that getting old is a habit with many people. It gets on their nerves; they get some reminder of old age every day of their lives, and sometimes hourly during the day. When this goes on for three, four, five or ten years, it is too much for the most of humanity. It is taken as an accepted fact that old age means infirmity, and the break comes, not really because the body is weak and worn out, but because the mental state has contributed too much to the idea that they are no longer young and cannot be youthful, and are getting too old to enjoy things that others delight in."

The all-absorbing topic at the evening conference was to determine where the hunting exploits should next take place; whether to the west, where they had witnessed the fight between the bears for the honey tree, or to the other side of the South River, which they called their hunting preserves.

Heretofore, George had been anxious to do all the hunting along the river, but now he kept suggesting the forest to the west, and it eventually turned out that the real reason was on account of the supply of honey giving out; and he had an idea that, as they had not seen any trees with honey indications anywhere else in their wanderings, that would be the proper place to go.

His views prevailed, but it was a two-days' journey, there and back. That was the only objection; and considering that they had not taken a vacation for two weeks, this was not an extraordinary thing to do, notwithstanding the urgent work which they had started on the boat and in the agricultural line.

The next morning the yaks were yoked, the wagons supplied with their usual camping equipment, tools, weapons, provisions and the like, and a start was made before ten o'clock.

By agreement a course was marked out farther south than was taken on their previous trips, because they had never explored the country immediately north of the South River, except beyond the falls, and it was their aim to learn every foot of the territory.

On their way they passed the mysterious hole where George had his experience, and the route was also close to the spot where Harry found him when he was lost. Both places were again visited, so that samples of rock might be taken from one of the places, and the Professor hoped the clay bed on the small creek might indicate the proximity of other metals than they had been able to find previously.

Late that evening they reached the edge of the main forest, and a camp made for the night. Red Angel was with them. He was as happy at the sight of the forest as an orang well could be. It was his delight to exhibit his skill as a climber on these occasions, and where the woods were dense he would spring from limb to limb with surprising agility.

During the night, as on several previous trips, Angel exhibited his nervousness, which was attributed to the presence of some animal that alarmed him, but otherwise nothing disturbed the camp.

"How far do you think we are from the falls?" asked Harry.

The Professor made a mental calculation as he replied: "We cannot be far east of it; possibly five or ten miles at most, and it is very likely several miles south. Since you suggest it, we might deviate from our route and take it in, as to do so will not take up more than two hours of our time. It interests me because I have not examined the place from which our boat was taken. That is one of the mysteries I am most interested in."

George was anxious to get a solution of that singular occurrence and jumped at the opportunity to go there. A southwesterly course was at once marked out, and after traveling about three hours George's alert ear caught a sound, as he was at that time leading the advance. Running back he called out: "Do you hear that peculiar sound?"

The wagon stopped. In the stillness around them they could hear a faint murmuring sound.

"Do you know what that is?" The boys looked at each other. "I think," continued the Professor, "that must be the falls."

"Then why not turn to the left and go directly to the river?"

They did so, and within fifteen minutes the river was in sight. A further trip of ten minutes brought them to the foot of the falls, where the boat had been deposited nearly five months before and which had so mysteriously disappeared, only to be recovered by them and again lost by accident, as detailed.

A search along the river bank failed to reveal any trace of the tree overhanging the stream, where the oars had been placed, and instead the river washed out a small bay. All along the banks were evidences of washouts which piled up driftwood every place along the shore where there was a root or snag which would hold the accumulations. The Professor wandered down the stream, pulling out and examining pieces of the limbs, to find, if possible, whether there were any evidences of the drift having been cut by human agencies.

So far as could be seen, the limbs had all been broken, not cut, and this was a relief, in a sense. The South River drained a large part of the island, and it might rightly be inferred that the driftwood in a stream of this kind, if it flowed through a region inhabited by man, would show some signs which they might interpret.

As they were returning George pointed across the river at a peculiarly shaped log, or what appeared to be portion of a large tree. The river at this point was about seventy-five feet wide. The Professor was silent for some time. "My eyesight is not of the best, but it does not look to me like a tree."

"I can easily swim the stream," and Harry had his clothing off in short order, and plunged in. Gaining the other side, he drew himself up, and without touching a thing in and about the debris, called out excitedly: "It is a boat, something like our life-boat! Yes; it is exactly like our boat!"

"Can you dislodge it? If not, I'll come over."

"Never mind, I can manage it, I think."

The interior of the boat was filled with accumulated material of all sorts, principally leaves and bark, and when it had been lightened of all that weight Harry put his shoulder against the stern, and soon succeeded in dislodging it from its seat against the tree which held it a prisoner.

Just before he had it in a position to launch the Professor called out: "Don't put it in the water until you have found something which will serve as a paddle." The stream at this point, being less than a half mile below the falls, had a fairly good current, so that without an oar of some kind he would not be able readily to get it across.

"I can't find any signs of oars, so I will take a piece of this wood."

He ferried it across, and landed a hundred feet below. As he neared the shore George sprang toward it excitedly, and cried out: "Look at that! See the name, 'Investigator'!"

Harry stopped rowing, and bent over the side of the craft; there, plainly, near the stern, was the word "Investigator" followed by the letter "L." The space beyond the letter L was broken, and if anything else had originally been in that space it had been brushed off by contact with some outside object.

This was, undoubtedly, one of the companion lifeboats of their ill-fated ship.

"How do you suppose this boat ever got here?"

"It undoubtedly came over the falls, and if so, it must have come from the interior of the island. My only solution is, that our companions in this boat were also, like us, cast ashore, or, at any rate, the boat itself was, and if they reached land safely probably used this boat on the river."

"Isn't it singular that this boat has been treated just as our boat was, since they removed the lockers? Why should they do that?"

"The interesting thing to me is," answered the Professor, "why the boat was lost by them, if it ever was in the possession of our friends on the island?"

"Possibly the natives may have captured or killed them."

"That is a plausible explanation, but there may be a reason which is entirely different from anything which now occurs to us. I believe a search of the island will show that we are not the only white people living here, and that the loss of the boat indicates that they are not on friendly terms with the natives."

All thoughts of hunting were now dissipated. It did not interest them in the least.

They sat down and debated the discovery. Undoubtedly, it had drifted down South River and gone over the falls, as the indented sides and bottom of the boat plainly showed. How far had the river carried it before the falls were reached? It was a matter of regret now that they had passed up the river before the animal trail in their path had caused them to leave it, instead of trying to discover its source.

Something must be done. Their companions must be in peril. That was a situation hinted at by the Professor. They had a duty to perform, if such should turn out to be the case. With many misgivings they decided that they must follow up the stream, cost what it might. No provision had been made for a lengthy trip, but, fortunately, they had plenty of ammunition, and as to food, they could supplement what they had by forage along the way, as they had often done before.

"What shall we do with the boat?"

"Let us find a place for it far enough from the shore to be beyond reach of the river, and hide it, so there will be no further danger of its disappearance."

"We are so used to have things get away from us that it has become a habit," said Harry, laughing.

While they were engaged in the task of drawing the boat up, Red Angel appeared, excitedly chattering and endeavoring to attract their attention, and frequently running back in the direction of the wagon.

"What is the matter with him? I never saw him with such antics before." George, who had the greatest control over him, ran up and tried to catch him, but the little fellow avoided capture, and whenever George would get near he would spring toward the wagon, keeping up his excited gesticulations all the while.

The Professor now ran forward without another word, and Harry stood there wondering what had happened, or was about to happen. As he ran past George, who was still trying to get Angel, the Professor merely said: "He is trying to get you to go to the wagon."

The boys understood, and both started on a run. Harry was the first to get there. The team had disappeared!

Their further adventures on the island are related in the next book, entitled "The Mysteries of the Caverns."

<eob>

The Real Dope

By

Ring W. Lardner



Chapter I

And Many A Stormy Wind Shall Blow


On the Ship Board, Jan. 15.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I suppose it is kind of foolish to be writeing you a letter now when they won't be no chance to mail it till we get across the old pond but still and all a man has got to do something to keep themself busy and I know you will be glad to hear all about our trip so I might as well write you a letter when ever I get a chance and I can mail them to you all at once when we get across the old pond and you will think I have wrote a book or something.

Jokeing a side Al you are lucky to have an old pal thats going to see all the fun and write to you about it because its a different thing haveing a person write to you about what they see themself then getting the dope out of a newspaper or something because you will know that what I tell you is the real dope that I seen myself where if you read it in a newspaper you know its guest work because in the 1st. place they don't leave the reporters get nowheres near the front and besides that they wouldn't go there if they had a leave because they would be to scared like the baseball reporters that sets a mile from the game because they haven't got the nerve to get down on the field where a man could take a punch at them and even when they are a mile away with a screen in front of them they duck when somebody hits a pop foul.

Well Al it is against the rules to tell you when we left the old U. S. or where we come away from because the pro German spy might get a hold of a man's letter some way and then it would be good night because he would send a telegram to where the submarines is located at and they wouldn't send no 1 or 2 submarines after us but the whole German navy would get after us because they would figure that if they ever got us it would be a rich hall. When I say that Al I don't mean it to sound like I was swell headed or something and I don't mean it would be a rich hall because I am on board or nothing like that but you would know what I am getting at if you seen the bunch we are takeing across.

In the 1st. place Al this is a different kind of a trip then the time I went around the world with the 2 ball clubs because then it was just the 1 boat load and only for two or 3 of the boys on board it wouldn't of made no difference if the boat had of turned a turtle only to pave the whole bottom of the ocean with ivory. But this time Al we have got not only 1 boat load but we got four boat loads of soldiers alone and that is not all we have got. All together Al there is 10 boats in the parade and 6 of them is what they call the convoys and that means war ships that goes along to see that we get there safe on acct. of the submarines and four of them is what they call destroyers and they are little bits of shafers but they say they can go like he -- ll when they get started and when a submarine pops up these little birds chases right after them and drops a death bomb on to them and if it ever hits them the capt. of the submarine can pick up what is left of his boat and stick a 2 cent stamp on it and mail it to the kaiser.

Jokeing a side I guess they's no chance of a submarine getting fat off of us as long as these little birds is on watch so I don't see why a man shouldn't come right out and say when we left and from where we come from but if they didn't have some kind of rules they's a lot of guys that wouldn't know no better then write to Van Hinburg or somebody and tell them all they know but I guess at that they could use a post card.

Well Al we been at sea just two days and a lot of the boys has gave up the ghost all ready and pretty near everything else but I haven't felt the least bit sick that is sea sick but I will own up I felt a little home sick just as we come out of the harbor and seen the godess of liberty standing up there maybe for the last time but don't think for a minute Al that I am sorry I come and I only wish we was over there all ready and could get in to it and the only kick I got comeing so far is that we haven't got no further then we are now on acct. that we didn't do nothing the 1st. day only stall around like we was waiting for Connie Mack to waggle his score card or something.

But we will get there some time and when we do you can bet we will show them something and I am tickled to death I am going and if I lay down my life I will feel like it wasn't throwed away for nothing like you would die of tyford fever or something.

Well I would of liked to of had Florrie and little Al come east and see me off but Florrie felt like she couldn't afford to spend the money to make another long trip after making one long trip down to Texas and besides we wasn't even supposed to tell our family where we was going to sail from but I notice they was a lot of women folks right down to the dock to bid us good by and I suppose they just guessed what was comeing off eh Al? Or maybe they was all strangers that just happened to be there but I'll say I never seen so much kissing between strangers. Any way I and my family had our farewells out west and Florrie was got up like a fancy dress ball and I suppose if I die where she can tend the funeral she will come in pink tights or something.

Well Al I better not keep on talking about Florrie and little Al or I will do the baby act and any way its pretty near time for chow but I suppose you will wonder what am I talking about when I say chow. Well Al that's the name we boys got up down to Camp Grant for stuff to eat and when we talk about food instead of saying food we say chow so that's what I am getting at when I say its pretty near time for chow.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 17.

FRIEND AL: Well Al here we are out somewheres in the middle of the old pond and I wished the trip was over not because I have been sea sick or anything but I can't hardly wait to get over there and get in to it and besides they got us jammed in like a sardine or something and four of us in 1 state room and I don't mind doubleing up with some good pal but a man can't get no rest when they's four trying to sleep in a room that wouldn't be big enough for Nemo Liebold but I wouldn't make no holler at that if they had of left us pick our own roomys but out of the four of us they's one that looks like he must of bribed the jury or he wouldn't be here and his name is Smith and another one's name is Sam Hall and he has always got a grouch on and the other boy is O. K. only I would like him a whole lot better if he was about 1/2 his size but no he is as big as me only not put up like I am. His name is Lee and he pulls a lot of funny stuff like this A. M. he says they must of thought us four was a male quartette and they stuck us all in together so as we could get some close harmony. That's what they call it when they hit them minors.

Well Al I always been use to sleeping with my feet in bed with me but you can't do that in the bunk I have got because your knee would crack you in the jaw and knock you out and even if they was room to strech Hall keeps crabbing till you can't rest and he keeps the room filled up with cigarette smoke and no air and you can't open up the port hole or you would freeze to death so about the only chance I get to sleep is up in the parlor in a chair in the day time and you don't no sooner set down when they got a life boat drill or something and for some reason another they have a role call every day and that means everybody has got to answer to their name to see if we are all on board just as if they was any other place to go.

When they give the signal for a life boat drill everybody has got to stick their life belt on and go to the boat where they have been given the number of it and even when everybody knows its a fake you got to show up just the same and yesterday they was one bird thats supposed to go in our life boat and he was sea sick and he didn't show up so they went after him and one of the officers told him that wasn't no excuse and what would he do if he was sea sick and the ship was realy sinking and he says he thought it was realy sinking ever since we started.

Well Al we got some crowd on the boat and they's two French officers along with us that been giveing drills and etc. in one of the camps in the U. S. and navy officers and gunners and a man would almost wish something would happen because I bet we would put up some battle.

Lee just come in and asked me who was I writeing to and I told him and he says I better be careful to not write nothing against anybody on the trip just as if I would. But any way I asked him why not and he says because all the mail would be opened and read by the censor so I said "Yes but he won't see this because I won't mail it till we get across the old pond and then I will mail all my letters at once."

So he said a man can't do it that way because just before we hit land the censor will take all our mail off of us and read it and cut out whatever he don't like and then mail it himself. So I didn't know we had a censor along with us but Lee says we certainly have got one and he is up in the front ship and they call that the censor ship on acct. of him being on there.

Well Al I don't care what he reads and what he don't read because I am not the kind that spill anything about the trip that would hurt anybody or get them in bad. So he is welcome to read anything I write you might say.

This front ship is the slowest one of the whole four and how is that for fine judgment Al to put the slowest one ahead and this ship we are on is the fastest and they keep us behind instead of leaving us go up ahead and set the pace for them and no wonder we never get nowheres. Of course that ain't the censor's fault but if the old U. S. is in such a hurry to get men across the pond I should think they would use some judgment and its just like as if Hughey Jennings would stick Oscar Stanage or somebody ahead of Cobb in the batting order so as Cobb couldn't make to many bases on a hit.

Well Al I will have to cut it out for now because its pretty near time for chow and that's the name we got up out to Camp Grant for meals and now everybody in the army when they talk about food they call it chow.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 19.

FRIEND AL: Well Al they have got a new nickname for me and now they call me Jack Tar and Bob Lee got it up and I will tell you how it come off. Last night was one rough bird and I guess pretty near everybody on the boat were sick and Lee says to me how was it that I stood the rough weather so good and it didn't seem to effect me so I says it was probably on acct. of me going around the world that time with the two ball clubs and I was right at home on the water so he says "I guess we better call you Jack Tar."

So that's how they come to call me Jack Tar and its a name they got for old sailors that's been all their life on the water. So on acct. of my name being Jack it fits in pretty good.

Well a man can't help from feeling sorry for the boys that have not been across the old pond before and can't stand a little rough spell but it makes a man kind of proud to think the rough weather don't effect you when pretty near everybody else feels like a churn or something the minute a drop of water splashes vs. the side of the boat but still a man can't hardly help from laughing when they look at them.

Lee says he would of thought I would of enlisted in the navy on acct. of being such a good sailor. Well I would of Al if I had knew they needed men and I told Lee so and he said he thought the U. S. made a big mistake keeping it a secret that they did need men in the navy till all the good ones enlisted in the draft and then of course the navy had to take what they could get.

Well I guess I all ready told you that one of the boys in our room is named Freddie Smith and he don't never say a word and I thought at 1st. it was because he was a kind of a bum like Hall that didn't know nothing and that's why he didn't say it but it seems the reason he don't talk more is because he can't talk English very good but he is a Frenchman and he was a waiter in the big French resturent in Milwaukee and now what do you think Al he is going to learn Lee and I French lessons and Lee fixed it up with him. We want to learn how to talk a little so when we get there we can make ourself understood and you remember I started studing French out to Camp Grant but the man down there didn't know nothing about what he was talking about so I walked out on him but this bird won't try and learn us grammer or how you spell it or nothing like that but just a few words so as we can order drinks and meals and etc. when we get a leave off some time. Tonight we are going to have our 1st. lesson and with a man like he to learn us we ought to pick it up quick.

Well old pal I will wind up for this time as I don't feel very good on acct. of something I eat this noon and its a wonder a man can keep up at all where they got you in a stateroom jammed in like a sardine or something and Hall smokeing all the while like he was a freight engine pulling a freight train up grade or something.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 20.

FRIEND AL: Just a line Al because I don't feel like writeing as I was taken sick last night from something I eat and who wouldn't be sick jammed in a room like a sardine.

I had a kind of a run in with Hall because he tried to kid me about being sick with some of his funny stuff but I told him where to head in. He started out by saying to Lee that Jack Tar looked like somebody had knocked the tar out of him and after a while he says "What's the matter with the old salt tonight he don't seem to have no pepper with him." So I told him to shut up.

Well we didn't have no French lesson on acct. of me being taken sick but we are going to have a lesson tonight and pretty soon I am going up and try and eat something and I hope they don't try and hand me no more of that canned beans or whatever it was that effected me and if Uncle Sam wants his boys to go over there and put up a battle he shouldn't try and poison them first.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 21.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I was talking to one of the sailors named Doran to-day and he says in a day or 2 more we would be right in the danger zone where all the subs hangs out and then would come the fun and we would probably all have to keep our clothes on all night and keep our life belts on and I asked him if they was much danger with all them convoys guarding us and he says the subs might fire a periscope right between two of the convoys and hit our ship and maybe the convoys might get them afterwards but then it would be to late.

He said the last time he come over with troops they was two subs got after this ship and they shot two periscopes at this ship and just missed it and they seem to be laying for this ship because its one of the biggest and fastest the U. S. has got.

Well I told Doran it wouldn't bother me to keep my clothes on all night because I all ready been keeping them on all night because when you have got a state room like ours they's only one place where they's room for a man's clothes and that's on you.

Well old pal they's a whole lot of difference between learning something from somebody that knows what they are talking about and visa versa. I and Lee and Smith got together in the room last night and we wasn't at it more than an hour but I learned more then all the time I took lessons from that 4 flusher out to Camp Grant because Smith don't waist no time with a lot of junk about grammer but I or Lee would ask him what was the French for so and so and he would tell us and we would write it down and say it over till we had it down pat and I bet we could pretty near order a meal now without no help from some of these smart alex that claims they can talk all the languages in the world.

In the 1st. place they's a whole lot of words in French that they's no difference you might say between them from the way we say it like beef steak and beer because Lee asked him if suppose we went in somewheres and wanted a steak and bread and butter and beer and the French for and is und so we would say beef steak und brot mit butter schmieren und bier and that's all they is to it and I can say that without looking at the paper where we wrote it down and you can see I have got that much learned all ready so I wouldn't starve and when you want to call a waiter you call him kellner so you see I could go in a place in Paris and call a waiter and get everything I wanted. Well Al I bet nobody ever learned that much in I hour off that bird out to Camp Grant and I'll say its some speed.

We are going to have another lesson tonight but Lee says we don't want to try and learn to, much at once or we will forget what we all ready learned and they's a good deal to that Al.

Well Al its time for chow again so lebe wohl and that's the same like good by in French.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 22.

FRIEND AL: Well Al we are in what they call the danger zone and they's some excitement these days and at night to because they don't many of the boys go to sleep nights and they go to their rooms and pretend like they are going to sleep but I bet you wouldn't need no alarm clock to make them jump out of bed.

Most of the boys stays out on deck most of the time and I been staying out there myself most all day today not because I am scared of anything because I always figure if its going to happen its going to happen but I stay out because it ain't near as cold as it was and besides if something is comeing off I don't want to miss it. Besides maybe I could help out some way if something did happen.

Last night we was all out on deck in the dark talking about this and that and one of the boys I was standing along side of him made the remark that we had been out nine days and he didn't see no France yet or no signs of getting there so I said no wonder when we had such a he -- ll of a censor ship and some other guy heard me say it so he said I better not talk like that but I didn't mean it like that but only how slow it was.

Well we are getting along O. K. with the French lessons and Bob Lee told me last night that he run across one of the two French officers that's on the ship and he thought he would try some of his French on him so he said something about it being a nice day in French and the Frenchman was tickled to death and smiled and bowed at him and I guess I will try it out on them the next time I see them.

Well Al that shows we been learning something when the Frenchmans themself know what we are talking about and I and Lee will have the laugh on the rest of the boys when we get there that is if we do get there but for some reason another I have got a hunch that we won't never see France and I can't explain why but once in a while a man gets a hunch and a lot of times they are generally always right.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 23.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I was just out on deck with Lee and Sargent Bishop and Bishop is a sargent in our Co. and he said he had just came from Capt. Seeley and Capt. Seeley told him to tell all the N. C. O. officers like sargents and corporals that if a sub got us we was to leave the privates get into the boats first before we got in and we wasn't to get into our boats till all the privates was safe in the boats because we would probably be cooler and not get all excited like the privates. So you see Al if something does happen us birds will have to take things in hand you might say and we will have to stick on the job and not think about ourselfs till everybody else is taken care of.

Well Lee said that Doran one of the sailors told him something on the quiet that didn't never get into the newspapers and that was about one of the trips that come off in December and it seems like a whole fleet of subs got on to it that some transports was comeing so they layed for them and they shot a periscope at one of the transports and hit it square in the middle and it begun to sink right away and it looked like they wouldn't nobody get into the boats but the sargents and corporals was as cool as if nothing was comeing off and they quieted the soldiers down and finely got them into the boats and the N. C. O. officers was so cool and done so well that when Gen. Pershing heard about it he made this rule about the N. C. O. officer always waiting till the last so they could kind of handle things. But Doran also told Lee that they was some men sunk with the ship and they was all N. C. O. officers except one sailor and of course the ship sunk so quick that some of the corporals and sargents didn't have no time to get off on acct. of haveing to wait till the last. So you see that when you read the newspapers you don't get all the dope because they don't tell the reporters only what they feel like telling them.

Well Al I guess I told you all ready about me haveing this hunch that I wouldn't never see France and I guess it looks now more then ever like my hunch was right because if we get hit I will have to kind of look out for the boys that's in my boat and not think about myself till everybody else is O. K. and Doran says if this ship ever does get hit it will sink quick because its so big and heavy and of course the heavier a ship is it will sink all the sooner and Doran says he knows they are laying for us because he has made five trips over and back on this ship and he never was on a trip when a sub didn't get after them.

Well I will close for this time because I am not feeling very good Al and it isn't nothing I eat or like that but its just I feel kind of faint like I use to sometimes when I would pitch a tough game in St. Louis when it was hot or something.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 23.

FRIEND AL: Well I all ready wrote you one letter today but I kind of feel like I better write to you again because any minute we are libel to hear a bang against the side of the boat and you know what that means and I have got a hunch that I won't never get off of the ship alive but will go down with her because I wouldn't never leave the ship as long as they was anybody left on her rules or no rules but I would stay and help out till every man was off and then of course it would be to late but any way I would go down feeling like I had done my duty. Well Al when a man has got a hunch like that he would be a sucker to not pay no tension to it and that is why I am writeing to you again because I got some things I want to say before the end.

Now old pal I know that Florrie hasn't never warmed up towards you and Bertha and wouldn't never go down to Bedford with me and pay you a visit and every time I ever give her a hint that I would like to have you and Bertha come up and see us she always had some excuse that she was going to be busy or this and that and of course I knew she was trying to alibi herself and the truth was she always felt like Bertha and her wouldn't have nothing in common you might say because Florrie has always been a swell dresser and cared a whole lot about how she looked and some way she felt like Bertha wouldn't feel comfortable around where she was at and maybe she was right but we can forget all that now Al and I can say one thing Al she never said nothing reflecting on you yourself in any way because I wouldn't of stood for it but instead of that when I showed her that picture of you and Bertha in your wedding suit she made the remark that you looked like one of the honest homely kind of people that their friends could always depend on them. Well Al when she said that she hit the nail on the head and I always knew you was the one pal who I could depend on and I am depending on you now and I know that if I am laying down at the bottom of the ocean tonight you will see that my wishs in this letter is carried out to the letter.

What I want to say is about Florrie and little Al. Now don't think Al that I am going to ask you for financial assistants because I would know better then that and besides we don't need it on acct. of me having $10000 dollars soldier insurence in Florrie's name as the benefitter and the way she is coining money in that beauty parlor she won't need to touch my insurence but save it for little Al for a rainy day only I suppose that the minute she gets her hands on it she will blow it for widows weeds and I bet they will be some weeds Al and everybody will think they are flowers instead of weeds.

But what I am getting at is that she won't need no money because with what I leave her and what she can make she has got enough and more then enough but I often say that money isn't the only thing in this world and they's a whole lot of things pretty near as good and one of them is kindness and what I am asking from you and Bertha is to drop in on her once in a while up in Chi and pay her a visit and I have all ready wrote her a letter telling her to ask you but even if she don't ask you go and see her any way and see how she is getting along and if she is takeing good care of the kid or leaving him with the Swede nurse all the while.

Between you and I Al what I am scared of most is that Florrie's mind will be effected if anything happens to me and without knowing what she was doing she would probably take the first man that asked her and believe me she is not the kind that would have to wait around on no st. corner to catch somebody's eye but they would follow her around and nag at her till she married them and I would feel like he -- ll over it because Florrie is the kind of a girl that has got to be handled right and not only that but what would become of little Al with some horse Dr. for a father in law and probably this bird would treat him like a dog and beat him up either that or make a sissy out of him.

Well Al old pal I know you will do like I ask and go and see her and maybe you better go alone but if you do take Bertha along I guess it would be better and not let Bertha say nothing to her because Florrie is the kind that flare up easy and specially when they think they are a little better then somebody. But if you could just drop her a hint and say that she should ought to be proud to be a widow to a husband that died for Uncle Sam and she ought to live for my memory and for little Al and try and make him as much like I as possible I believe it would make her think and any way I want you to do it for me old pal.

Well good by old pal and I wished I could leave some thing to you and Bertha and believe me I would if I had ever known this was comeing off this way though of course I figured right along that I wouldn't last long in France because what chance has a corporal got? But I figured I would make some arrangements for a little present for you and Bertha as soon as I got to France but of course it looks now like I wouldn't never get there and all the money I have got is tied up so its to late to think of that and all as I can say is good luck to you and Bertha and everybody in Bedford and I hope they will be proud of me and remember I done my best and I often say what more can a man do then that?

Well Al I will say good by again and good luck and now have got to quit and go to chow.

Your pal to the last, JACK KEEFE.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 24.

FRIEND AL: Well this has been some day and wait till you hear about it and hear what come off and some of the birds on this ship took me for a sucker and tried to make a rummy out of me but I was wise to their game and I guess the shoe is on the other foot this time.

Well it was early this A. M. and I couldn't sleep and I was up on deck and along come one of them French officers that's been on board all the way over. Well I thought I would try myself out on him like Lee said he done so I give him a salute and I said to him "Schones tag nicht wahr." Like you would say its a beautiful day only I thought I was saying it in French but wait till you hear about it Al.

Well Al they ain't nobody in the world fast enough to of caught what he said back to me and I won't never know what he said but I won't never forget how he looked at me and when I took one look at him I seen we wasn't going to get along very good so I turned around and started up the deck. Well he must of flagged the first man he seen and sent him after me and it was a 2d. lieut. and he come running up to me and stopped me and asked me what was my name and what Co. and etc. and at first I was going to stall and then I thought I better not so I told him who I was and he left me go.

Well I didn't know then what was comeing off so I just layed low and I didn't have to wait around long and all of a sudden a bird from the Colonel's staff found me in the parlor and says I was wanted right away and when I got to this room there was the Col. and the two Frenchmans and my captain Capt. Seeley and a couple others so I saluted and I can't tell you exactly what come off because I can't remember all what the Colonel said but it was something like this.

In the first place he says "Corporal Keefe they's some little matters that you have got to explain and we was going to pass them up first on the grounds that Capt. Seeley said you probably didn't know no better but this thing that come off this A. M. can't be explained by ignorants."

So then he says "It was reported that you was standing on deck the night before last and you made the remark that we had a he -- ll of a censor ship." And he says "What did you mean by that?"

So you see Al this smart alex of a Lee had told me they called the first ship the censor ship and I believed him at first because I was thinking about something else or of course I never would of believed him because the censor ship isn't no ship like this kind of a ship but means something else. So I explained about that and I seen Capt. Seeley kind of crack a smile so then I knew I was O. K.

So then he pulled it on me about speaking to Capt. Somebody of the French army in the German language and of course they was only one answer to that and you see the way it was Al all the time Smith was pretending to learn us French he was learning us German and Lee put him up to it but when the Colonel asked me what I meant by doing such a thing as talk German why of course I knew in a minute that they had been trying to kid me but at first I told the Colonel I couldn't of said no German because I don't know no more German than Silk O'Loughlin. Well the Frenchman was pretty sore and I don't know what would of came off only for Capt. Seeley and he spoke up and said to the Colonel that if he could have a few minutes to investigate he thought he could clear things up because he figured I hadn't intended to do nothing wrong and somebody had probably been playing jokes.

So Capt. Seeley went out and it seemed like a couple of yrs. till he came back and he had Smith and Lee and Doran with him. So then them 3 birds was up on the carpet and I'll say they got some panning and when it was all over the Colonel said something about they being a dam site to much kidding back and fourth going on and he hoped that before long we would find out that this war wasn't no practicle joke and he give Lee and Smith a fierce balling out and he said he would leave Capt. Seeley to deal with them and he would report Doran to the proper quarters and then he was back on me again and he said it looked like I had been the innocent victim of a practicle joke but he says "You are so dam innocent that I figure you are temperately unfit to hold on to a corporal's warrant so you can consider yourself reduced to the ranks. We can't have no corporals that if some comedian told them the Germans was now one of our allies they would try and get in the German trenches and shake hands with them."

Well Al when it was all over I couldn't hardly keep from laughing because you see I come out of it O. K. and the laugh was on Smith and Lee and Doran because I got just what I wanted because I never did want to be a corporal because it meant I couldn't pal around with the boys and be their pals and I never felt right when I was giveing them orders because I would rather be just one of them and make them feel like we were all equals.

Of course they wasn't no time on the whole trip when Lee or Doran or Smith either one of them had me fooled because just to look at them you would know they are the kind of smart alex that's always trying to put something over on somebody only I figured two could play at that game as good as one and I would kid them right back and give them as good as they sent because I always figure that the game ain't over till the ninth inning and the man that does the laughing then has got all the best of it. But at that I don't bear no bad will towards neither one of them and I have got a good notion to ask Capt. Seeley to let them off easy.

Well Al this is a long letter but I wanted you to know I wasn't no corporal no more and if a sub hits us now Al I can hop into a boat as quick as I feel like it but jokeing a side if something like that happened it wouldn't make no difference to me if I was a corporal or not a corporal because I am a man and I would do my best and help the rest of the boys get into the boats before I thought about myself.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

On the Ship Board, Jan. 25.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal just a line to let you know we are out of the danger zone and pretty near in port and I can't tell you where we land at but everybody is hollering and the band's playing and I guess the boys feels a whole lot better then when we was out there where the subs could get at us but between you and I Al I never thought about the subs all the way over only when I heard somebody else talk about them because I always figure that if they's some danger of that kind the best way to do is just forget it and if its going to happen all right but what's the use of worrying about it? But I suppose lots of people is built different and they have just got to worry all the while and they get scared stiff just thinking about what might happen but I always say nobody ever got fat worrying so why not just forget it and take things as they come.

Well old pal they's to many sights to see so I will quit for this time.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Jan. 26.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal here we are and its against the rules to tell you where we are at but of course it don't take no Shylock to find out because all you would have to do is look at the post mark that they will put on this letter.

Any way you couldn't pronounce what the town's name is if you seen it spelled out because it isn't nothing like how its spelled out and you won't catch me trying to pronounce none of these names or talk French because I am off of languages for a while and good old American is good enough for me eh Al?

Well Al now that its all over I guess we was pretty lucky to get across the old pond without no trouble because between you and I Al I heard just a little while ago from one of the boys that three nights ago we was attacked and our ship just missed getting hit by a periscope and the destroyers went after the subs and they was a whole flock of them and the reason we didn't hear nothing is that the death bombs don't go off till they are way under water so you can't hear them but between you and I Al the navy men say they was nine subs sank.

Well I didn't say nothing about it to the man who tipped me off but I had a hunch that night that something was going on and I don't remember now if it was something I heard or what it was but I knew they was something in the air and I was expecting every minute that the signal would come for us to take to the boats but they wasn't no necessity of that because the destroyers worked so fast and besides they say they don't never give no alarm till the last minute because they don't want to get everybody up at night for nothing.

Well any way its all over now and here we are and you ought to of heard the people in the town here cheer us when we come in and you ought to see how the girls look at us and believe me Al they are some girls. Its a good thing I am an old married man or I believe I would pretty near be tempted to flirt back with some of the ones that's been trying to get my eye but the way it is I just give them a smile and pass on and they's no harm in that and I figure a man always ought to give other people as much pleasure as you can as long as it don't harm nobody.

Well Al everybody's busier then a chicken with their head off and I haven't got no more time to write. But when we get to where we are going I will have time maybe and tell you how we are getting along and if you want drop me a line and I wish you would send me the Chi papers once in a while especially when the baseball training trips starts but maybe they won't be no Jack Keefe to send them to by that time but if they do get me I will die fighting. You know me Al.

Your pal, JACK.




Chapter II

Private Valentine


Somewheres in France, Feb. 2.

FRIEND AL: Well Al here I am only I can't tell you where its at because the censor rubs it out when you put down the name of a town and besides that even if I was to write out where we are at you wouldn't have no idear where its at because how you spell them hasn't nothing to do with their name if you tried to say it.

For inst. they's a town a little ways from us that when you say it its Lucy like a gal or something but when you come to spell it out its Loucey like something else.

Well Al any way this is where they have got us staying till we get called up to the front and I can't hardly wait till that comes off and some say it may be tomorrow and others say we are libel to be here a yr. Well I hope they are wrong because I would rather live in the trenches then one of these billets where they got us and between you and I Al its nothing more then a barn. Just think of a man like I Al thats been use to nothing only the best hotels in the big league and now they got me staying in a barn like I was a horse or something and I use to think I was cold when they had us sleeping with imaginery blankets out to Camp Grant but I would prespire if I was there now after this and when we get through here they can send us up to the north pole in our undershirt and we would half to keep moping the sweat off of our forehead and set under a electric fan to keep from sweltering.

Well they have got us pegged as horses all right not only because they give us a barn to live in but also from the way they sent us here from where we landed at in France and we made the trip in cattle cars and 1 of the boys says they must of got us mixed up with the calvary or something. It certainly was some experience to be rideing on one of these French trains for a man that went back and fourth to the different towns in the big league and back in a special Pullman and sometimes 2 of them so as we could all have lower births. Well we didn't have no births on the French R. R. and it wouldn't of done us no good to of had them because you wouldn't no sooner dose off when the engine would let off a screem that sounded like a woman that seen a snake and 1 of the boys says that on acct. of all the men being in the army they had women doing the men's work and judgeing by the noise they even had them whistleing for the crossings.

Well we finely got here any way and they signed us to our different billets and they's 20 of us in this one not counting a couple of pigs and god knows how many rats and a cow that mews all night. We haven't done nothing yet only look around but Monday we go to work out to the training grounds and they say we won't only half to march 12 miles through the mud and snow to get there. Mean time we set and look out the cracks onto Main St. and every little wile they's a Co. of pollutes marchs through or a train of motor Lauras takeing stuff up to the front or bringing guys back that didn't duck quick enough and to see these Frenchmens march you would think it was fun but when they have been at it a wile they will loose some of their pep.

Well its warmer in bed then setting here writeing so I will close for this time.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Feb. 4.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I am writeing this in the Y. M. C. A. hut where they try and keep it warm and all the boys that can crowd in spends most of their spare time here but we don't have much spare time at that because its always one thing another and I guess its just as well they keep us busy because every time they find out you are not doing nothing they begin vaxinating everybody.

They's enough noise in here so as a man can't hear yourself think let alone writeing a letter so if I make mistakes in spelling and etc. in this letter you will know why it is. They are singing the song now about the baby's prayer at twilight where the little girl is supposed to be praying for her daddy that's a soldier to take care of himself but if she was here now she would be praying for him to shut up his noise.

Well we was in the trenchs all day not the regular ones but the ones they got for us to train in them and they was a bunch of French officers trying to learn us how to do this in that and etc. and some of the time you could all most understand what they was trying to tell you and then it was stuff we learnt the first wk. out to Camp Grant and I suppose when they get so as they can speak a few words of English they will tell us we ought to stand up when we hear the Star spangle Banner. Well we was a pretty sight when we got back with the mud and slush and everything and by the time they get ready to call us into action they will half to page us in the morgue.

About every 2 or 3 miles today we would pass through a town where some of the rest of the boys has got their billets only they don't call it miles in France because that's to easy to say but instead of miles they call them kilometts. But any way from the number of jerk water burgs we went through you would think we was on the Monon and the towns all looks so much like the other that when one of the French soldiers gets a few days leave off they half to spend most of it looking for land marks so as they will know if they are where they live. And they couldn't even be sure if it was warm weather and their folks was standing out in front of the house because all the familys is just alike with the old Mr. and the Mrs. and pigs and a cow and a dog.

Well Al they say its pretty quite these days up to the front and the boys that's been around here a wile says you can hear the guns when they's something doing and the wind blows this way but we haven't heard no guns yet only our own out to where we have riffle practice but everybody says as soon as spring comes and the weather warms up the Germans is sure to start something. Well I don't care if they start anything or not just so the weather warms up and besides they won't never finish what they start unless they start going back home and they won't even finish that unless they show a whole lot more speed then they did comeing. They are just trying to throw a scare into somebody with a lot of junk about a big drive they are going to make but I have seen birds come up to hit in baseball Al that was going to drive it out of the park but their drive turned out to be a hump back liner to the pitcher. I remember once when Speaker come up with a couple men on and we was 2 runs ahead in the 9th. inning and he says to me "Well busher here is where I hit one a mile." Well Al he hit one a mile all right but it was 1/2 a mile up and the other 1/2 a mile down and that's the way it goes with them gabby guys and its the same way with the Germans and they talk all the time so as they will get thirsty and that's how they like to be.

Speaking about thirsty Al its different over here then at home because when a man in uniform wants a drink over here you don't half to hire no room in a hotel and put on your nightgown but you can get it here in your uniform only what they call beer here we would pore it on our wheat cakes at home and they got 2 kinds of wine red and white that you could climb outside of a bbl. of it without asking the head waiter to have them play the Rosery. But they say the champagne is O. K. and I am going to tackle it when I get a chance and you may think from that that I have got jack to throw away but over here Al is where they make the champagne and you can get a qt. of it for about a buck or 1/2 what you would pay for it in the U. S. and besides that the money they got here is a frank instead of a dollar and a frank isn't only worth about $.19 cents so a man can have a whole lot better time here and not cost him near as much.

And another place where the people in France has got it on the Americans and that is that when they write a letter here they don't half to pay nothing to mail it but when you write to me you have got to stick a 5 cent stamp on it but judgeing by the way you answer my letters the war will be all over before you half to break a dime. Of course I am just jokeing Al and I know why you don't write much because you haven't got nothing to write staying there in Bedford and you could take a post card and tell me all the news that happened in 10 yrs. and still have room enough yet to say Bertha sends kind regards.

But of course its different with a man like I because I am always where they is something big going on and first it was baseball and now its a bigger game yet you might say but whatever is going on big you can always count on me being in the mist of it and not buried alive in no Indiana X roads where they still think the first bounce is out. But of course I know it is not your fault that you haven't been around and seen more and it ain't every man that can get away from a small town and make a name for themself and I suppose I ought to consider myself lucky.

Well Al enough for this time and I will write soon again and I would like to hear from you even if you haven't nothing to say and don't forget to send me a Chi paper when you get a hold of one and I asked Florrie to send me one every day but asking her for favors is like rolling off a duck's back you might say and its first in one ear and then the other.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Feb. 7.

FRIEND AL: I suppose you have read articles in the papers about the war that's wrote over here by reporters and the way they do it is they find out something and then write it up and send it by cablegrams to their papers and then they print it and that's what you read in the papers.

Well Al they's a whole flock of these here reporters over here and I guess they's one for every big paper in the U. S. and they all wear bands around their sleeves with a C on them for civilian or something so as you can spot them comeing and keep your mouth shut. Well they have got their head quarters in one of the towns along the line but they ride all over the camp in automobiles and this evening I was outside of our billet and one of them come along and seen me and got out of his car and come up to me and asked if I wasn't Jack Keefe the White Sox pitcher. Well Al he writes for one of the Chi papers and of course he knows all about me and has seen me work. Well he asked me a lot of questions about this in that and I didn't give him no military secrets but he asked me how did I like the army game and etc.

I asked him if he was going to mention about me being here in the paper and he says the censors wouldn't stand for mentioning no names until you get killed because if they mentioned your name the Germans would know who all was here but after you are dead the Germans don't care if you had been here or not.

But he says he would put it in the paper that he was talking to a man that use to be a star pitcher on the White Sox and he says everybody would know who it was he was talking about because they wasn't such a slue of star pitchers in the army that it would take a civil service detective to find out who he meant.

So we talked along and finely he asked me was I going to write a book about the war and I said no and he says all right he would tell the paper that he had ran across a soldier that not only use to be a ball player but wasn't going to write a book and they would make a big story out of it.

So I said I wouldn't know how to go about it to write a book but when I went around the world with the 2 ball clubs that time I use to write some poultry once in a wile just for different occasions like where the boys was called on for a speech or something and they didn't know what to say so I would make up one of my poems and the people would go nuts over them.

So he said why didn't I tear off a few patriotic poems now and slip them to him and he would send them to his paper and they would print them and maybe if some of them was good enough somebody would set down and write a song to them and probably everybody would want to buy it and sing it like Over There and I would clean up a good peace of jack.

Well Al I told him I would see if I could think up something to write and of course I was just stalling him because a soldier has got something better to do than write songs and I will leave that to the birds that was gun shy and stayed home. But if you see in the Chi papers where one of the reporters was talking to a soldier that use to be a star pitcher in the American League or something you will know who they mean. He said he would drop by in a few days again and see if I had something wrote up for him but I will half to tell him I have been to busy to monkey with it.

As far as I can see they's enough songs all ready wrote up about the war so as everybody in the army and navy could have 1 a peace and still have a few left over for the boshs and that's a name we got up for the Germans Al and instead of calling them Germans we call them boshs on acct. of them being so full of bunk.

Well Al one of the burgs along the line is where Jonah Vark was born when she was alive. It seems like France was mixed up in another war along about a 100 yrs. ago and they was getting licked and Jonah was just a young gal but she dressed up in men's coat and pants and went up to the front and led the charges with a horse and she carried a white flag and the Dutchmens or whoever they was fighting against must of thought it was a flag of truants and any way they didn't fire at them and the French captured New Orleans and win the war. The Germans is trying to pull the same stuff on our boys now and lots of times they run up and holler Conrad like they was going to give up and when your back is turned they whang away at you but they won't pull none of that stuff on me and when one of them trys to Conrad me I will perculate them with a bayonet.

Well Al the boys is starting their choir practice and its good night and some times I wished I was a deef and dumb mute and couldn't hear nothing.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Feb. 9.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I didn't have nothing to do last night and I happened to think about that reporter and how he would be comeing along in a few days asking for that poultry.

I figured I might as well set down and write him up a couple verses because them fellows is hard up for articles to send their paper because in the first place we don't tell them nothing so they could write it up and when they write it the censors smeers out everything but the question marks and dots but of course they would leave them send poems because the Germans couldn't make head or tale out of them. So any way I set down and tore off 3 verses and he says they ought to be something about a gal in it so here is what I wrote:

Near a year ago today Pres. Wilson of the U. S. A. had something to say, "Germany you better keep away This is no time for play." When it come time to go America was not slow Each one said good by to their girl so dear And some of them has been over here since last year.

I will come home when the war is over Back to the U. S. A. So don't worry little girlie And now we are going to Berlin And when we the Kaiser skin and the war we will win And make the Kaiser jump out of his skin.

The ones that stays at home Can subscribe to the liberty loan And some day we will come home to the girles that's left alone Old Kaiser Bill is up against it For all are doing their bit. Pres. Wilson says the stars and stripes Will always fight for their rights.

That's what I tore off and when he comes around again I will have it for him and if you see it in the Chi papers you will know who wrote it up and maybe somebody will write a song to it but of course they can't sign my name to it unless I get killed or something but I guess at that they ain't so many soldiers over here that can turn out stuff like that but what my friends won't be pretty sure who wrote it.

But if something does happen to me I wished you would kind of keep your eyes pealed and if the song comes out try and see that Florrie gets some jack out of it and I haven't wrote nothing to her about it because she is like all other wifes and when somebodys else husband pulls something its O. K. but if their own husband does it he must of had a snoot full.

Well today was so rotten that they didn't make us go nowheres and I'll say its got to be pretty rotten when they do that and the meal they give us tonight wouldn't of bulged out a grandaddy long legs and I and my buddy Frank Carson was both hungry after we eat and I suppose you will wonder what do I mean by buddy. Well Al that's a name I got up for who ever you pal around with or bunk next to them and now everybody calls their pal their buddy. Well any way he says why didn't we go over to the Red X canteen resturent and buy ourself a feed so we went over and its a little shack where the Red X serves you a pretty good meal for 1 frank and that's about $.19 cents and they don't try and make no profits on it but just run them so as a man don't half to go along all the wile on what the army hands out to you.

Well they was 3 janes on the job over there and 2 of them would be safe anywheres you put them but the other one is Class A and her old woman must of been pie eyed when she left her come over here. Well Carson said she belonged to him because he had seen her before and besides I was a married man so I says all right go ahead and get her. Well Al it would be like Terre Haute going after George Sisler or somebody and the minute we blowed in she didn't have eyes for only me but I wasn't going to give her no encouragement because we were here to kill Germans and not ladys but I wished you could of seen the smile she give me. Well she's just as much a American as I or you but of course Carson had to be cute and try to pull some of his French on her so he says Bon soir Madam Moselle and that is the same like we would say good evening but when Carson pulled it I spoke up and said "If your bones is soir why don't you go and take the baths somewhere?" Pretending like I thought he meant his bones were sore. Well the little lady got it O. K. and pretty near laughed outright. You see Al when a person has got rhuematism they go and take the baths like down to Mudlavia so I meant if his bones was sore he better go somewheres like that. So the little lady tried to not laugh on acct. of me being a stranger but she couldn't hardly help from busting out and then I smiled at her back and after that Carson might as well of been mowing the lawn out in Nobody's Land. I felt kind of sorry the way things broke because here he is a man without no home ties and of course I have all ready got a wife but Miss Moselle didn't have no eyes for him and that's the way it goes but what can a man do and Carson seen how it was going and says to me right in front of her "Have you heard from your Mrs. since we been over?" And I didn't dast look up and see how she took it.

Well they set us up a pretty good feed and the little lady kept asking us questions like how long had we been here and what part of the U. S. we come from and etc. and finely Carson told her who I was and she popped her eyes out and says she use to go to the ball games once in a wile in N. Y. city with her old man and she didn't never think she would meet a big league pitcher and talk to them and she says she wondered if she ever seen me pitch. Well I guess if she had she would remember it specially in N. Y. because there was one club I always made them look like a fool and they wasn't the only club at that and I guess they's about 6 other clubs in the American League that if they had seen my name in the dead they wouldn't shed off enough tears to gum up the infield.

Well when we come out she asked us would we come again and we said yes but I guess its best for both she and I if I stay away but I said we would come again to be polite so she said au revoir and that's like you would say so long so I said au reservoir pretending like I didn't know the right way to say it but she seen I was just kidding and laughed and she is the kind of a gal that gets everything you pull and bright as a whip and her and I Would make a good team but of course they's no use talking about it the way I am tied up so even when I'm sick in tired of the regular rations I won't dast go over there for a feed because it couldn't do nothing only harm to the both of us and the best way to do with those kind of affairs is to cut it out before somebody gets hurt.

Well its time to hop into the feathers and I only wished it was feathers but feathers comes off a chicken or something and I guess these matteresses we got is made out to Gary or Indiana Harbor or somewheres.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Feb. 11.

FRIEND AL: Well Al they's several of the boys that won't need no motor Laura to carry their pay for the next couple mos. and if you was to mention champagne to them they would ask for a barrage. I was over to the Y. M. C. A. hut last night and when I come back I wished you could of seen my buddys and they was 2 of them that was still able to talk yet and they was haveing a argument because one of them wanted to pore some champagne in a dish so as the rats would get stewed and the other bird was trying to not let him because he said it always made them mean and they would go home and beat up their Mrs.

It seems like one of the boys had a birthday and his folks is well off and they had sent him some jack from the states to buy blankets and etc. with it and he thought it would be a sucker play to load up with bed close when spring was comeing so he loaded up with something else and some of the boys with him and for 50 or 60 franks over here you can get enough champagne to keep the dust layed all summer and of course some of the boys hadn't never tasted it before and they thought you could bathe in it like beer. They didn't pay no more tension to revelry this A. M. then if they was a corps and most of them was at that and out of the whole bunch of us they was only 7 that didn't get reported and the others got soaked 2 thirds of their pay and confined to their quarters and Capt. Seeley says if they was any more birthdays in his Co. we wouldn't wind the celebration up till sunrise and then it would be in front of a fireing squad. Well Al if the boys can't handle it no better then that they better leave it alone and just because its cheap that's no reason to try and get it all at once because the grapes will still be growing over here yet when all us birds takes our teeth off at night with our other close.

Well Al the reporter that asked me to write up the verses ain't been around since and probably he has went up to the front or somewheres and I am glad of it and I hope he forgets all about it because in the first place I am not one of the kind that is crazy to get in the papers and besides I am to busy to be monking with stuff like that. Yes they keep us on the jump all the wile and we are pretty well wore out when night comes around but a man wouldn't mind it if we was learning something but the way it is now its like as if we had graduated from college and then they sent us to kindegarden and outside of maybe a few skulls the whole regt. is ready right now to get up there in the trenches and show them something and I only wished we was going tomorrow but I guess some of the boys would like it to never go up there but would rather stay here in this burg and think they was haveing a good time kidding with the French gals and etc. but that's no business for a married man and even if I didn't have no family the French gals I seen so far wouldn't half to shew me away and I been hearing all my life what swell dressers they was but a scout for the Follys wouldn't waist no time in this burg.

But I'm sick in tired of the same thing day in and day out and here we been in France 2 wks. and all we done is a little riffle practice and stuff we had back home and get soping wet every day and no mail and I wouldn't wonder if Florrie and little Al had forgot all about me and if Secty. Daniels wired them that Jack Keefe had been killed they would say who and the hell is he.

So all and all they can't send us up to the front to quick and it seems like a shame that men like I should be held back just because they's a few birds in the regt. that can't put on a gas mask yet without triping themself up.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Feb. 13.

FRIEND AL: Well Al wait till you hear this and I bet you will pop your eyes out. I guess I all ready told you about Miss Moselle the little lady over to the Red X canteen. Well I was over there the day before yesterday and she wasn't around nowheres and I was glad of it because I didn't want to see her and just dropped in there to get something to eat and today I was in there again and this time she was there and she smiled when she seen me and come up and begin talking and she asked me how I liked it and I said I would like it a whole lot better if we was in the fighting and she asked me if I didn't like this town and I said well no I wasn't nuts about it and she said she didn't think I was very complementary so then I seen she wanted to get personal.

Well Al she knows I am a married man because Carson just as good as told her so I didn't see no harm in kidding her along a wile so I give her a smile and said well you know the whole town ain't like you and she blushed up and says "Well I didn't expect nothing like that from a great baseball pitcher" so you see Al she had been makeing inquirys about me. So I said "Well they was only one pitcher I ever heard of that couldn't talk and that was Dummy Taylor but at that they's a whole lot of them that if they couldn't say my arm's sore they might as well be tongue tied." But I told her I wasn't one of those kind and I guest when it came to talking I could give as good as I sent and she asked me was I a college man and I kidded her along and said yes I went to Harvard and she said what year so I told her I was there 2 different yrs. and we talked along about this in that and I happened to have them verses in my pocket that I wrote up and they dropped out when I was after my pocket book and she acted like she wanted to know what the writeing was so I showed them to her.

Well Al I wished you could of seen how supprised she was when she read them and she says "So you are a poet." So I said "Yes I am a poet and don't know it" so that made her laugh and I told her about the reporter asking me to write some poems and then she asked me if she could keep a hold of those ones till she made out a copy of them to keep for herself and I said "You can keep that copy and pretend like I was thinking of you when I wrote them." Well Al I wished you could of seen her then and she couldn't say nothing at first but finely she says tomorrow was valentine day and the verses would do for a valentine so just jokeing I asked her if she wouldn't rather have a comical valentine and she says those ones would do O. K. so then I told her I would write her a real valentine for herself but I might maybe not get it ready in time to give her tomorrow and she says she realized it took time and any time would do.

Well of course I am not going to write up nothing for her and after this I will keep away from the canteen because it isn't right to leave her see to much of me even if she does know I am married but if I do write her something I will make it comical and no mushy stuff in it. But it does seem like fate or something that the harder I try and not get mixed up in a flirtation I can't turn around you might say but what they's some gal poping up on my trail and if it was anybody else only Miss Moselle I wouldn't mind but she is a darb and I wouldn't do nothing to hurt her for the world but they can't nobody say this is my fault.

Well Al I pretty near forgot to tell you that the boys is putting on a entertainment over to the Y. M. C. A. Saturday night and they will be singing and gags and etc. and they asked me would I give them a little talk on baseball and I said no at first but they begged me and finely I give my consent but you know how I hate makeing speeches and etc. but a man don't hardly feel like refuseing when they want me so bad so I am going to give them a little talk on my experiences and make it comical and I will tell you about the entertainment when its over.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Feb. 15.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I just been over to the canteen and I give the little lady the valentine I promised to write up for her and I wasn't going to write it up only I happened to remember that I promised so I wrote something up and I was going to make it comical but I figured that would disappoint her on acct. of the way she feels towards me so here is what I wrote up.

To Miss Moselle

(Private)

A soldier don't have much time To set down and write up a valentine but please bear in mind That I think about you many a time And I wished I could call you mine And I hope they will come a time When I will have more time And then everything will be fine And if you will be my valentine I will try and show you a good time.

Well after I had wrote it I thought I better have it fixed up like a valentine and they's one of the boys in our Co. named Stoops that use to be a artist so I had him draw me a couple of hearts with a bow and arrow sticking through them and a few flowers on a peace of card board and I coppied off the valentine on the card in printing and stuck it in a envelope and took it over to her and I didn't wait for her to open it up and look at it and I just says here is that valentine I promised you and its 1 day late and she blushed up and couldn't say nothing and I come away. Well Al she has read it by this time and I hope she don't take nothing I said serious but of course she knows I am a married man and she can read between the lines and see where I am trying to let her down easy and telling her to not expect no more tensions from me and its just like saying good by to her in a way only not as rough as comeing right out and saying it. But I won't see her no more and its all over before it begun you might say.

Well we passed some German prisoners today and believe me we give them a ride. Everybody called them Heinie and Fritz and I seen one of them giveing me a look like he was wondring if all the U. S. soldiers was big stroppers like I but I stuck out my tongue at him and said "What do you think you are looking at you big pretzel" and he didn't dast say nothing back. Well they was a fine looking gang and they's been a lot of storys going the rounds about no soap in Germany. Well Al its all true.

Well I finely got a letter from Florrie that is if you could call it a letter and to read it you wouldn't never guess that she had a husband over here in France and maybe never see him again but you would think I had went across the st. to get a bottle of ketchup and all as she said about little Al was that he needed a new pair of shoes and they's about as much news in that as if she said he woke up in the night. And the rest of the letter was about how good she was doing in the beauty parlor and for me not to worry about her because she was O. K. only for a callous on her heel and I suppose she will go to the hospital with it and here I am with so many of them that if they was worth a frank a peace I could pay the Kaiser's gas bill. And she never asked me did I need anything or how was I getting along. And she enclosed a snapshot of herself in one of these here war bride outfits and she looks so good in it that I bet she goes to church every Sunday and asks god to prolongate the war.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Feb. 16.

FRIEND AL: Well Al they's a certain bird in this camp that if I ever find out who he is they won't need no tonnages to carry him back when the war's over. Let me tell you what come off tonight and what was pulled off on the little lady and I and if you read about me getting in front of the court marshall for murder you will know how it come off.

I guess I all ready told you about the show that was comeing off tonight and they asked me to make a little talk on baseball. Well they was as many there as could crowd in and the band played and they was singing and gags and storys and etc. and they didn't call on me till pretty near the last. Well Al you ought to of heard the crowd when I got up there and it sounded like old times to have them all cheering and clapping and I stepped to the front of the platform and give them a bow and it was the first time I was ever on the stage but I wasn't scared only at first.

Well I had wrote out what I was going to say and learnt the most of it by heart and here is what I give them only I won't give you only part of it because it run pretty long.

"Gentlemen and friends. I am no speech maker and I guess if I had to make speeches for a liveing I am afraid I couldn't do it but the boys is anxious I should say a few words about baseball and I didn't want to disappoint them. They may be some of you boys that has not followed the great American game very close and maybe don't know who Jack Keefe is. Well gentlemen I was boughten from Terre Haute in the Central League by that grand old Roman Charley Comiskey owner of the Chicago White Sox in 1913 and I been in the big league ever since except one year I was with Frisco and I stood that league on their head and Mr. Comiskey called me back and I was still starring with the Chicago White Sox when Uncle Sam sent out the call for men and I quit the great American game to enlist in the greatest game of all the game we are playing against the Kaiser and we will win this game like I have win many a game of baseball because I was to fast for them and used my brains and it will be the same with the Kaiser and America will fight to the drop of the hat and make the world safe for democracy."

Well Al I had to stop 2 or 3 minutes while they give me a hand and they clapped and hollered at pretty near everything I said. So I said "This war reminds me a good deal like a incident that happened once when I was pitching against the Detroit club. No doubt you gentlemen and officers has heard of the famous Hughey Jennings and his eeyah and on the Detroit club is also the famous Tyrus Cobb the Georgia Peach as he is called and I want to pay him a tribute right here and say he is one of the best ball players in the American League and a great hitter if you don't pitch just right to him. One time we was in Detroit for a serious of games and we had loose the first two games do to bad pitching and the first game Eddie Cicotte didn't have nothing and the second game Faber was in the same boat so on this morning I refer to Manager Rowland come up to me in the lobby of the Tuller hotel and said how do you feel Jack and I said O. K. Clarence why do you ask? And he said well we have loose 2 games here and we have got to grab this one this P. M. and if you feel O. K. I will work you because I know you have got them licked as soon as you walk out there. So I said all right Clarence you can rely on me. And that P. M. I give them 3 hits and shut them out and Cobb come up in the ninth innings with two men on bases and two men out and Ray Schalk our catcher signed me for a curve ball but I shook my head and give him my floater and the mighty Cobb hit that ball on a line to our right fielder Eddie Murphy and the game was over.

"This war is a good deal like baseball gentlemen because it is stratejy that wins and no matter how many soldiers a gen. has got he won't get nowheres without he uses his brains and its the same in baseball and the boys that stays in the big league is the boys that can think and when this war is over I hope to go back and begin where I left off and win a pennant for Charley Comiskey the old Roman in the American League."

Well Al they was a regular storm when I got through and I bowed and give them a smile and started off of the platform but a sargent named Avery from our Co. stopped me and set me down in a chair and says I was to wait a minute and I thought of course they was going to give me a cup or something though I didn't expect nothing of the kind but I hadn't no sooner set down when Sargent Avery stepped up to the front of the platform and says "Gentlemen I want to say to you that Private Jack Keefe the great stratejest is not only a great pitcher and a great speech maker but he is also a great poet and if you don't believe me I will read you this beautiful valentine that he wrote to a certain lady that we all admire and who was in the Red X canteen up till today when she went back to Paris to resume other dutys."

Well before I could make a move he read that crazy valentine and of course they wasn't a word in it that I was serious when I wrote it and it was all a joke with me only not exactly a joke neither because I was really trying to let the little lady down easy and tell her good by between the lines without being rough with it. But of course these boobs pretended like they thought I meant it all and was love sick or something and they hollered like a bunch of Indians and clapped and razed he -- ll.

Well Al I didn't get a chance to see Sargent Avery after it was over because he blowed right out but I will see him tomorrow and I will find out from him who stole that poem from Miss Moselle and I wouldn't be supprised if the reason she blowed to Paris was on acct. of missing the poem and figureing some big bum had stole it off her and they would find out her secret and make things misable for her and the chances is that's why she blowed. Well wait till I find out who done it and they will be one less snake in this regt. and the sooner you weed those kind of birds out of the army you will get somewheres and if you don't you won't.

But the poor little lady Al I can't help from feeling sorry for her and I only wished I could go to Paris and find her and tell her to not worry though of course its best if she don't see me again but I'm sorry it had to come off this way.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, Feb. 18.

FRIEND AL: Well Al this may be the last letter you will ever get from me because I am waiting now to find out what they are going to do with me and I will explain what I mean.

Yesterday A. M. I seen Sargent Avery and I asked him if I could talk to him a minute and he says yes and I said I wanted to find out from him who stole that valentine from Miss Moselle. So he says "Who is Miss Moselle?" So I said "Why that little lady in the canteen that's blowed to Paris." So he says "Well that little lady's name isn't Miss Moselle but her name is Ruth Palmer and she is the daughter of one of the richest birds in N. Y. city and they wasn't nobody stole no valentine from her because she give the valentine to me before she left." So I said "What do you mean she give it to you?" So he says "I mean she give it to me and when she give it to me she said us birds was in the same Co. with a poet and didn't know it and she thought it was about time we was finding it out. So she laughed and give me the valentine and that's the whole story."

Well Al I had a 20 frank note on me and I asked Sargent Avery if he wouldn't like some champagne and he said no he wouldn't. But that didn't stop me Al and I got all I could hold onto and then some and I snuck in last night after lights out and I don't know if anybody was wise or not but if they are its libel to go hard with me and Capt. Seeley said something about the fireing squad for the next bird that cut loose.

Well I reported sick this A. M. and they could tell to look at me that it wasn't no stall so I'm here and the rest of the boys is gone and I am waiting for them to summons me before the court marshall. But listen Al if they do like Capt. Seeley said you can bet that before they get me I will get some of these birds that's been calling me Private Valentine ever since Saturday night.

Your pal, JACK.




Chapter III

Stragety And Tragedy


Somewheres in France, March 2.

FRIEND AL: Well Al if it rains a couple more days like its been they will half to page the navy and at that its about time they give them something to do and I don't mean the chasers and destroyers and etc. that acts like convoys for our troop ships and throws them death bombs at the U boats but I mean the big battle ships and I bet you haven't heard of a supper dread 0 doing nothing since we been in the war and they say they can't do nothing till the German navy comes out and that's what they're waiting for. Well Al that's a good deal like waiting for the 30nd. of Feb. or for Jennings to send his self up to hit for Cobb and they can say all they want about the Germans being bullet proof from the neck up but they got some brains and you can bet their navy ain't comeing out no more then my hair. So as far as I can see a man being on a supper dread 0 is just like you owned a private yatch without haveing to pay for the keep up and when they talk about a man on a big U. S. battle ship in danger they mean he might maybe die because he eat to much and no exercise.

So if I was them I would send the big ships here so as we could use them for motor Lauras and I guess they's no place in our whole camp where you couldn't float them and I don't know how it is all over France but if they was a baseball league between the towns where they have got us billeted the fans would get blear eyed looking at the no game sign and if a mgr. worked their pitchers in turn say it was my turn tomorrow and the next time my turn come around some of little Al's kids would half to help me out of the easy chair and say "Come on granpa you pitch this afternoon."

Jokeing a side Al if I was running the training camps like Camp Grant back home instead of starting the men off with the regular drills and hikes like they give them now I would stand them under a shower bath with their close on about 1/2 the time and when it come time for a hike I would send them back and fourth across Rock River and back where they wasn't no bridge. And then maybe when they got over here France wouldn't be such a big supprise.

One of the boys has put a sign up on our billet and it says Noahs Ark on it and maybe you have heard that old gag Al about the big flood that everybody was drownded only Noah and his folks and a married couple of every kind of animals in the world and they wasn't drownded because Noah had a Ark for them to get in out of the wet. Well Noahs Ark is a good name for our dump and believe me they haven't none of the animals been overlooked and we are also going Noah one better and sheltering all the bugs and some of them is dressed in cocky.

Well I am in this war to the finish and you couldn't hire me to quit till we have ran them ragged but I wished they had of gave us steel helmets wide enough so as they would make a bumber shoot and I hope the next war they have they will pick out Arizona to have it there.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, March 6.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I suppose you have read in the communicates that comes out in the paper where the Americans that's all ready in the trenchs has pulled off some great stuff and a whole lot of them has been sighted and give meddles and etc. by the Frenchmens for what they have pulled off and the way they work it Al when one of the soldiers wrists his life or something and pulls off something big like takeing a mess of prisoners and bringing them back here where they can get something to eat the French pins a meddle on them and sometimes they do it if you don't do nothing but die only then of course they send it to your family so as they will have something to show their friends besides snapshots of Mich. City.

Well we was kidding back and fourth about it today and one of the smart alex in our Co. a bird named Johnny Alcock that is always trying to kid somebody all the time he said to me "Well I suppose they will half to build more tonnages to carry all the meddles you will win back to the states." So I said "Well I guess I will win as many of them as you will win." That shut him up for a wile but finely he says "You have got enough chest to wear a whole junk shop on it." So I said "Well I am not the baby that can't win them." So he says "If you ever happen to be snooping around the bosh trenchs when Fritz climbs over the top you will come back so fast that the Kaiser will want to know who was that speed merchant that led the charge and decorate you with a iron cross." So I said "I will decorate you right in the eye one of these days." So he had to shut up and all the other boys give him the laugh.

Well Al jokeing to one side if I half to go back home without a meddle it will be because they are playing favorites but I guess I wouldn't be left out at that because I stand ace high with most of the Frenchmens around here because they like a man that's always got a smile or a kind word for them and they would like me still better yet if they could understand more English and get my stuff better but it don't seem like they even try to learn and I suppose its because they figure the war is in their country so everybody should ought to talk their language but when you get down to cases they's a big job on both our hands and if one of us has got to talk the others language why and the he -- ll should they pick on the one that's hard to learn it and besides its 2 to I you might say because the U. S. and the English uses the same language and they's nobody only the French that talks like they do because they couldn't nobody else talk that way so why wouldn't it be the square thing for them to forget theirs and tackle ours and it would prolongate their lifes to do it because most of their words can't be said without straining yourself and no matter what kind of a physic you got its bound to wear you down in time.

But I suppose the French soldiers figure they have got enough of a job on their hands remembering their different uniforms and who to salute and etc. and they have got a fine system in the French army Al because you wear whatever you was before you got to be what you are that is sometimes. For inst. suppose you use to be in the artillery and now you are a aviator you still wear a artillery uniform part of the time and its like I use to pitch for the White Sox and I guess I would be a pretty looking bird if I waddled around in the mire here a wile with my old baseball unie on me and soon people would begin to think I was drafted from the Toledo Mud Hens.

Seriously Al sometimes you see 4 or 5 French officers comeing along and they haven't one of them got the same color uniform on but they are all dressed up like a Roman candle you might say and if their uniforms run when they got wet a man could let them drip into a pail and drink it up for a pussy cafe.

Well Al the boys in our regt. is going to get out a newspaper and get it out themself and it will be just the news about our regt. and a few gags and comical storys about the different boys and they are going to get it out once per wk.

Corp. Pierson from our Co. that use to work on a newspaper somewheres is going to be the editor and he wants I should write them up something about baseball and how to pitch and etc. but I don't believe in a man waisting their time on a childs play like writeing up articles for a newspaper but just to stall him I said I would try and think up something and give it to him when I had it wrote up. Well him waiting for my article will be like me waiting for mail because I don't want nobody to take me for a newspaper man because I seen enough of them in baseball and one time we was playing in Phila. and I had them shut out up to the 8th inning and all of a sudden Weaver and Collins got a stroke of paralysis and tipped their caps to a couple ground balls that grazed their shoe laces and then Rube Oldring hit one on a line right at Gandil and he tried to catch it on the bounce off his lap and Bill Dinneen's right arm was lame and he begin calling everything a ball and first thing you know they beat us 9 to 2 or something and Robbins one of the Chi paper reporters that traveled with us wired a telegram home to his paper that Phila. was supposed to be a town where a man could get plenty of sleep but I looked like I had set up all the nights we was there and of course Florrie seen it in the paper and got delirious and I would of busted Robbins in the jaw only I wasn't sure if he realy wrote it that way or the telegraph operator might of balled it up.

So they won't be no newspaper articles in mine Al but I will be anxious to see what Pierson's paper looks like when it comes out and I bet it will be a fine paper if our bunch have the writeing of it because the most of them would drop in a swoon if you asked them how to spell their name.

Your pal, JACK.

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Somewheres in France, March 9.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I guess I all ready told you about them getting up a newspaper in our regt. and Joe Pierson asked me would I write them up something for it and I told him no I wouldn't but it seems like he overheard me and thought I said I would so any way he was expecting something from me so last night I wrote them up something and I don't know if the paper will ever get printed or not so I will coppy down a part of what I wrote to give you a idear of what I wrote. He wanted I should write them up something about the stragety of baseball and where it was like the stragety in the war because one night last month I give them a little talk at one of their entertainments about how the man that used their brains in baseball was the one that win just like in the army but I guess I all ready told you about me giveing them that little talk and afterwards I got a skinfull of the old grape and I thought sure they would have me up in front of the old court marshall but they never knowed the difference on acct. of the Way I can handle it and you take the most of the boys and if they see a cork they want to kiss the Colonel. Well any way here is the article I wrote up and I called it War and Baseball 2 games where brains wins.

"The gen. public that go out to the baseball park and set through the games probably think they see everything that is going on on the field but they's a lot of stuff that goes on on the baseball field that the gen. public don't see and don't know nothing about and I refer to what we baseball boys calls inside baseball.

"No one is in a better position to know all about inside baseball then a man like I who have been a pitcher in the big league because it is the pitchers that has to do most of the thinking and pull off the smart plays that is what wins ball games. For inst. I will write down about a little incidents that come off one time 2 yrs. ago when the Boston club was playing against the Chicago White Sox where I was one of the stars when the U. S. went into the war and then I dropped baseball and signed up a contract with Uncle Sam to play for my country in the big game against the Kaiser of Germany. This day I refer to I was in there giveing them the best I had but we was in a tight game because the boys was not hitting behind me though Carl Mays that was pitching for the Boston club didn't have nothing on the ball only the cover and after the ball left his hand you could have ran in the club house and changed your undershirt and still be back in time to swing when the ball got up there.

"Well it come along the 9th. inning and we was tied up with the score 2 and 2 and I had Larry Gardner swinging like a hammock all day but this time he hit a fly ball that either Weaver or Jackson ought to of caught in a hollow tooth but they both layed down and died on it and Gardner got on second base. Well they was 2 men out and Hoblitzel was the next man up and the next man after he was Scott their shortstop that couldn't take the ball in his hand and make a base hit off a man like I so instead of me giveing Hobby a ball to hit I walked him as we call it and then of course it was Scott's turn to bat and Barry their mgr. hesitated if he should send Ruth up to hit for Scott or not but finely he left Scott go up there and he was just dragging his bat off his shoulder to swing at the first strike when I whizzed the third one past him.

"That is what we call inside baseball or stragety whether its in baseball or war is walking a man like Hoblitzel that might be lucky enough to hit one somewheres but if you don't give him nothing to hit how can he hit it and then I made Scott look like he had been sent for but couldn't come. Afterwards in the 11th. inning Duffy Lewis hit a ball that he ought to of been traded for even swinging at it because it come near clipping his ear lob but any way he swang at it and hit it for three bases because Jackson layed down and died going after it and Lewis scored on a past ball and they beat us 3 to 2.

"So that is what we call stragety on the baseball field and it wins there the same like in war and this war will be win by the side that has gens. with brains and use them and I figure where a man that has been in big league baseball where you can't never make a success out of it unless you are a quick thinker and they have got a big advantage over men that's been in other walks of life where its most all luck and I figure the army would be a whole lot better off if all the officers and gens. had of played baseball in the big leagues and learned to think quick, but of course they ain't everybody that have got the ability to play baseball and stand the gaff but the man that has got the ability and been through the ropes is just that much ahead of the rest of them and its to bad that most of our gens. is so old that they couldn't of knew much about baseball since it become a test of brains like it is now.

"I am afraid I have eat up a lot of space with my little Article on War and Baseball so I will end this little article up with a little comical incidents that happened dureing our training trip down in Mineral Wells, Tex. a year ago this spring. The first day we was out for practice they was a young outfielder from a bush league and Mgr. Rowland told him to go out in right field and shag and this was his reply. 'I haven't never been in this park before so you will half to tell me which is right field.' Of course right field, is the same field in all parks and that is what made the incidents so comical and some of the boys is certainly green when they first break in and we have manys the laugh at their expense."

That is what I wrote up for them Al and I wound it up with that little story and I was reading over what I wrote and Johnny Alcock seen me reading it and asked me to leave him see it so I showed it to him and he said it was great stuff and he hadn't never dreamt they was that much stragety in baseball and he thought if some of the officers seen it they would pop their eyes out and they would want to talk to me and get my idears and see if maybe they couldn't some of them be plied to war fair and maybe if I showed them where it could I would get promoted and stuck on to the gen. staff that's all made up from gens. that lays out the attacks and etc.

Well Al Alcock is a pretty wise bird and a fine boy to if you know how to take him and he seen right off what I was getting at in my article and its true Al that the 2 games is like the other and quick thinking is what wins in both of them. But I am not looking for no staff job that you don't half to go up in the trenchs and fight but just lay around in some office somewheres and stick pins in a map while the rest of the boys is sticking bayonets in the Dutchmen's maps so I hope they don't none of the gens. see what I wrote because I come over here to fight and be a soldier and carry a riffle instead of a pin cushion.

But it don't hurt nothing for me to give them a few hints once in a wile about useing their brains if they have got them and if I can do any good with my articles in the papers why I would just as leaf wear my fingers to the bone writeing them up.

Your pal, JACK.

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Somewheres in France, March 13.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I bet you will pretty near fall over in a swoon when you read what I have got to tell you. Before you get this letter you will probably all ready of got a coppy of the paper I told you about because it come out the day before yesterday and I sent you a coppy with my article in it only they cut a part of it out on acct. of not haveing enough space for all of it but they left the best part of it in.

Well Al somebody must of a sent a coppy to Gen. Pershing and marked up what I wrote up so as he would be sure and see it and probably one of the officers done it. Well that's either here or there but this afternoon when we come in they was a letter for me and who do you think it was from Al. Well you can't never even begin to guess so I will tell you. It was from Gen. Pershing Al and it come from Paris where he is at and I have got it here laying on the table and I would send it to you to look at only I wouldn't take no chances of looseing it and I don't mean you wouldn't be carefull of it Al but of course the mail has got to go across the old pond and if the Dutchmens periscoped the boat the letter was on it it would be good night letter and a letter like this here is something to be proud of and hold onto it and keep it for little Al till he grows up big enough to appreciate it. But they's nothing to prevent me from copping down the letter so as you can read what it says and here it is.

Private Keefe,

Dear Sir: My attention was called today to an article written by you in your regimental paper under the title War and Baseball: Two Games Where Brains Wins. In this article you state that our generals would be better able to accomplish their task if they had enjoyed the benefits of strategic training in baseball. I have always been a great admirer of the national game of baseball and I heartily agree with what you say. But unfortunately only a few of us ever possessed the ability to play your game and the few never were proficient enough to play it professionally. Therefore the general staff is obliged to blunder along without that capacity for quick thinking which is acquired only on the baseball field.

But I believe in making use of all the talent in my army, even among the rank and file. Therefore I respectfully ask whether you think some of your baseball secrets would be of strategic value to us in the prosecution of this war and if so whether you would be willing to provide us with the same.

If it is not too much trouble, I would be pleased to hear from you along these lines, and if you have any suggestion to make regarding a campaign against our enemy, either offensive or defensive, I would be pleased to have you outline it in a letter to me.

By the way I note with pleasure that our first names are the same. It makes a sort of bond between us which I trust will be further cemented if you can be of assistance to me in my task.

I shall eagerly await your reply. Sincerely,

Black Jack Pershing,

Folies Bergere, Paris, France.

That is the letter I got from him Al and I'll say its some letter and I bet if some of these smart alex officers seen it it would reduce some of the swelling in their chest but I consider the letter confidential Al and I haven't showed it to nobody only 3 or 4 of my buddys and I showed it to Johnny Alcock and he popped his eyes out so far you could of snipped them off with a shears. And he said it was a cinch that Pershing realy wrote it on acct. of him signing it Black Jack Pershing and they wouldn't nobody else sign it that way because it was a private nickname between he and some of his friends and they wouldn't nobody else know about it.

So then he asked was I going to answer the letter and I said of course I was and he says well I better take a whole lot of pains with my answer and study up the situation before I wrote it and put some good idears in it and if my letters made a hit with Gen. Pershing the next thing you know he would probably summons me to Paris and maybe stick me on the war board so as all I would half to do would be figure up plans of attacks and etc. and not half to go up in the trenchs and wrist my life and probably get splattered all over France.

So I said "Well I am not looking for no excuse to get out of the trenchs but its just the other way and I am nuts to get in them." So he says "You must be." But he showed me where it would be a great experience to set in at them meetings even if I didn't have much to say and just set there and listen and hear their plans and what's comeing off and besides I would get a chance to see something of Paris and it don't look like none of us only the officers would be give leave to go there but of course I would go if Black Jack wanted me and after all Al I am here to give Uncle Sam the best I have got and if I can serve the stars and strips better by sticking pins in a map then getting in the trenchs why all right and it takes more than common soldiers to win a war and if I am more use to them as a kind of adviser instead of carrying a bayonet why I will sacrifice my own feelings for the good of the cause like I often done in baseball.

But they's another thing Alcock told me Al and that is that the war board they have got has got gens. on it from all the different countrys like the U. S. and England and France and Spain and of course they are more French gens. than anything else on acct. of the war being here in France so probably they do some of their talking in French and Alcock says if he was I he would get busy and try and learn enough French so as I could make myself understood when I had something to say and of course they probably won't nothing come out of it all but still and all I always says its best to be ready for whatever comes off and if the U. S. had of been ready for this war I wouldn't be setting here writeing this letter now but I would be takeing a plunge in one of them Berlin brewry vats.

Any way I have all ready picked enough French so as I can talk it pretty good and I would be O. K. if I could understand it when they are talking it off but to hear them talk it off you would think they seen their dinner at the end of the sentence.

Well Al I will tell you how things comes out and I hope Black Jack will forget all about it and lay off me so as I can get into the real fighting instead of standing in front of a map all the wile like a school teacher or something and I all most wished I hadn't never wrote that article and then of course the idear wouldn't of never came to Black Jack that I could help him but if he does take me on his staff it will be some pair of Jacks eh Al and enough to open the pot and if the Germans is sucker enough to stay in they will get their whiskers cinched.

Your pal, JACK.

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Somewheres in France, March 14.

FRIEND AL: Well this is the second letter I have wrote today and the other one is to Gen. Pershing and I have still got the letter here yet Al and I will coppy it down and tell you what I wrote to him.

Gen. Jack Pershing,

Care Folies Bergere, Paris, France.

Dear Gen: You can bet I was supprised to get a letter from you and when I wrote that article I didn't have no idear that they would something come out of it. Well Gen. I come into the army expecting to fight and lay down my life if nessary and I am not one of the kind that are looking for an out and trying to hide behind a desk or something because I am afraid to go into the trenchs but I guess if you know something about baseball you won't accuse me from not having the old nerve because they can't no man hold onto a job in the big leagues unless a man is fearless and does their best work under fire and especially a pitcher. But if you figure that I can serve old glory better some other way then in the rank and files I am willing to sacrifice myself like I often done in baseball. Anything to win Gen. is the way I look at it.

You asked me in your letter did I think some of my idears would help out well gen. a man don't like to sound like they was bragging themself up but this isn't no time for monking and I guess you want the truth. Well gen. I don't know much about running a army and their plans but stragety is the same if its on the battle field or the baseball diamond you might say and it just means how can we beat them and I often say that the men that can use their brains will win any kind of a game except maybe some college Willy boy game like football or bridge whist.

Well gen. without no bragging myself up I learned a whole lot about stragety on the baseball field and I think I could help you in a good many ways but before I tried to tell you how to do something I would half to know what you was trying to do and of course I know you can't tell me in a letter on acct. of the censors and of course they are Americans to but they's a whole lot of the boys that don't mean no harm but they are gabby and can't keep their mouth shut and who knows who would get a hold of it and for the same reason I don't feel like I should give you any of my idears by mail but if I could just see you and we could have a little talk and talk things over but I don't suppose they's any chance of that unless I could get leave off to run down to Paris for a wile and meet you somewheres but they won't give us no leave to go to Paris but of course a letter from you that I could show it to Capt. Seeley would fix it up and no questions asked.

So I guess I better wait till I hear from you along these lines and in the mean wile I will be thinking the situation over and see what I can think up and I all ready got some idears that I feel like they would work out O. K. and I hope I will get a chance in the near future to have a little chat with you.

I note what you say about our name being both Jack and I was thinking to myself that lots of times in a poker game a pair of jacks is enough to win and maybe it will be the same way in the war game and any way I guess the 2 of us could put up a good bluff and bet them just as if we had them. Eh gen?

Respy, JACK KEEFE.

That's what I wrote to him Al and he will get it some time tomorrow or the next day and I should ought to hear from him back right away and I hope he will take my hint and leave me stay here with my regt. where I can see some real action. But if he summonses me I will go Al and not whine about getting a raw deal.

Well I happened to drop into a estaminet here yesterday and that's kind of a store where a man can buy stuff to take along with him or you can get a cup of coffee or pretty near anything and they was a girl on the job in there and she smiled when I come in and I smiled at her back and she seen I was American so she begin talking to me in English only she has got some brogue and its hard to make it out what she is trying to get at. Well we talked a wile and all of a sudden the idear come to me that I and her could hit it off and both do the other some good by her learning me French and I could learn her English and so I sprung it on her and she was tickled to death and we called it a bargain and tomorrow we are going to have our first lessons and how is that Al for a bargain when I can pick up French without it costing me a nickle and of course they won't be only time for I or 2 lessons before I hear from Black Jack but I can learn a whole lot in 2 lessons if she will tend to business but the way she smiled at me when I come out and the looks she give me I am afraid if she seen much of me it would be good night so I will half to show her I won't stand for no foolishness because I had enough flirtations Al and the next woman that looks X eyed at me will catch her death of cold.

Your pal, JACK.


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Somewheres in France, March 16.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal it looks like they wouldn't be no front line trenchs for this baby and what I am getting at is that the word was past around today that Black Jack himself is comeing and they isn't no faulse alarm about it because Capt. Seeley told us himself and said Gen. Pershing would be here in a day or 2 to overlook us and he wanted that everybody should look their best and keep themself looking neat and clean and clean up all the billets and etc. because that was what Gen. Pershing was comeing to see, how we look and how we are getting along and etc.

Well Al that's what Capt. Seeley said but between you and I they's another reason why he is comeing and I guess he figures they will be a better chance to talk things over down here then if I was to go to Paris and I am not the only one that knows why he is comeing because after supper Alcock called me over to I side and congratulated me and said it looked like I was in soft.

Well I will be ready for him when he comes and I will be ready to pack up and blow out of here at a minute's notice and I can't help from wondring what some of these smart alex officers will say when they see what's comeing off. So this won't be only a short letter Al because I have got a lot to do to get ready and what I am going to do is write down some of my idears so as I can read them off to him when he comes and if I didn't have them wrote down I might maybe get nervous when I seen him and maybe forget what I got to say because the boys says he's a tough bird for a man to see for the first time till you get to know him and he acts like he was going to eat you alive but he's a whole lot like a dog when you get to know him and his bark is worse then a bite.

Well Al how is that for news and I guess you will be prouder then ever of your old pal before this business gets over with and I would feel pretty good with everything breaking so good only I am getting worred about Ernestine that little French gal in the estaminet and I wished now I hadn't never seen her or made no bargain with her and I didn't do it so much for what I could learn off of her but these French gals Al has had a tough time of it and if a man can bring a little sunshine into their life he wouldn't be a man unless he done it. So I was just trying to be a good fellow and here is what I get for it because I caught her today Al with that look in her eye that I seen in so many of them and I know what it means and I guess about the best thing for me to do is run away from Gen. Pershing and go over the top or something and leave the boshs shoot my nose off or mess me up some way and then maybe I won't get pestered to death every time I try and be kind to some little gal.

I guess the French lessons will half to be cut out because it wouldn't be square to leave her see me again and it would be different if I could tell her I am married but I don't know the French terms for it and besides it don't seem to make no difference to some of them and the way they act you would think a wife was just something that come out on you like a sty and the best way to do was just to forget it.

Well Al as I say I caught her looking at me like it was breaking her heart and I wouldn't be supprised if she cried after I come away, but what can a man do about it Al and I have got a good notion to wear my gas mask everywhere I go and then maybe I will have a little peace once in a wile.

I must close now for this time and get busy on some idears so as Black Jack won't catch me flat footed but I guess they's no danger of that eh Al?

Your pal, JACK.

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Somewheres in France, March 18.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal I am all set for Gen. Pershing when he comes and I have got some of my idears wrote down just the bear outlines of them and when he asks me if I have got any I can just read them off from my notes like I was a lecture and here is a few of the notes I have got wrote down so you can get some idear of what I am going to spring on him.

1

In baseball many big league mgrs. before a game they talk it over in the club house with their men and disgust the weakness of the other club and how is the best way to beat them and etc. For inst. when I was pitching for the White Sox and suppose we was going to face a pitcher that maybe he was weak on fielding bunts so before the game Mgr. Rowland would say to us "Remember boys this baby so and so gets the rabbis if you lay down bunts on him." So we would begin laying them down on him and the first thing you know he would be frothing at the mouth and triping all over himself and maybe if he did finely get a hold of the ball he would throw it into the Southren League or somewheres and before the other mgr. could get another bird warmed up they would half to hire a crossing policeman to straiten out the jam at the plate. And the same thing would be in war like in baseball and instead of a army going into it blind you might say, why the gens. ought to get together before the battle and fix it up to work on the other side's weakness. For inst. suppose the Germans is weak on getting out of the way of riffle bullets why that's the weapon to use on them and make a sucker out of them.

2

Getting the jump on your oppts. is more then 1/2 the battle whether its in the war or on the baseball field and many a game has been win by getting the jump on your oppts. For inst. that reminds me of a little incidents that happened one day when we was playing the Washington club and I was pitching against the notorious Walter Johnson and before they was a man out Geo. McBride booted one and Collins and Jackson got a couple hits and we was 2 runs to the good before they was a man out. Well Johnson come back pretty good and the rest of the game the boys acted like they was scared of him and kept one foot in the water bucket but we would of win the game at that only in the 9th. inning Schalk dropped a third strike on me and Judge and Milan hit a couple of fly balls that would of been easy outs only for the wind but the wind raised havioc with the ball and they both went for hits and they beat us 3 to 2 and that's the kind of luck I genally always had against the Washington club.

3

In baseball of course they's only nine men on a side and that is where a gen. in the war has got the advantage on a mgr. in baseball because they's no rules in war fair to keep a man from useing all the men he feels like so it looks to me like a gen. had all the best of it because suppose the other side only had say 50 thousand men in a certain section they's nothing to prevent a gen. from going after them with a 100 thousand men and if he can't run them ragged when you got to them 2 to I its time to enlist in the G. A. R. All though as I say a mgr. can't only use nine men at a time in baseball, but at that I know of incidents where a mgr. has took advantage of the oppts. being shy of men and one time the St. Louis club came to Chi and Jones was all crippled up for pitchers but the game was on our home grounds so it was up to Mgr. Rowland to say if the game should be played or if he should call it off on acct. of cold weather because it was in the spring. But he knowed Jones was shy of pitchers so he made him play the game and Jones used big Laudermilk to pitch against us and they beat us 5 and 2.

4

Another advantage where a gen. got it on a baseball mgr. because in baseball the game begins at 3 o'clock and the other club knows when its going to begin just the same as your club so they can't neither club beat the other one to it and start the game wile the other club is looking out the window.

But a gen. don't half to tell the other side when he is going to attack them but of course they have observers that can see when you are going to get ready to pull something. But it looks to me like the observers wouldn't be worth a hoop and he -- ll if the other gen. made his preparations at night when it was dark like bringing up the troops and artilery and supplys and etc. and in that way you could take them by supprise and make them look like a fool, like in baseball I have often crossed the batter up and one day I had Cobb 3 and 2 and he was all set to murder a fast one and I dinked a slow one up there to him and the lucky stiff hit it on the end of his bat just inside third base and 2 men scored on it.

*       *       *       *       *

That's about the idears I am going to give him Al only of course I can talk it off better then I can write it because wile I am talking I can think up a lot more incidents to tell him and him being a baseball fan he will set there pop eyed with his mouth open as long as I want to talk. But now I can't hardly wait for him to get here Al and it seems funny to think that here I am a $30 dollar a mo. doughboy and maybe in a few days I will be on the staff and they don't have nobody only officers and even a lieut. gets 5 or 6 times as much as a doughboy and how is that for a fine nickname Al for men that all the dough they are getting is a $1 per day and the pollutes only gets 2 Sues a day and that's about 2 cents so I suppose we ought to call them the Wall St. crowd.

Well Al you should ought to be thankfull you are there at home with your wife where you can watch her and keep your eyes on her and find out what she is doing with her spare time though I guess at that they wouldn't be much danger of old Bertha running a muck and I don't suppose she would half to wear bob wire entanglements to keep Jack the Kisser away but when a man has got a wife like Florrie and here I am over here and there she is over there well Al a man don't get to sleep no quicker nights from thinking about it and I lay there night after night and wonder what and the he -- ll can she be doing and she might be doing most anything Al and they's only the one thing that its a cinch she ain't doing and that's writeing a letter to me and a man would pretty near think she had forgot my first name but even at that she could set down and write to me and start it out Dear Husband.

But the way she acts why even if they was any fun over here I wouldn't be haveing it and suppose I do get on Gen. Pershing's staff and get a lieut. or something and write and tell her about it, why she would probably wait till a legal holiday to answer me back and then she would write about 10 words and say she went to the Palace last week and when she come out after the show it was raining.

Well Al you can't blame a man for anything he pulls off when their wife acts like that and if I give that little Ernestine a smack the next time she bulges her lips out at me whose fault is it Al? Not mine.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, March 20.

FRIEND AL: Well Al the sooner the Germans starts their drive let them come and I only hope we are up there when they start it and believe me Al if they come at us with the gas I will dive into it with my mouth wide open and see how much of it I can get because they's no use Al of a man trying to live with the kind of luck I have got and I'm sick in tired of it all.

Wait till you hear what come off today Al. In the first place my feet's been going back on me for a long wile and they walked us all over France yesterday and this A. M. I couldn't hardly get my shoes on and they was going out for riffle practice and I don't need no riffle practice Al and besides that I couldn't of stood it so I got excused and I set around a wile after the rest of the bunch was gone and finely my feet got feeling a little better and I walked over to the estaminet where that little gal's at to see if maybe I couldn't brighten things up a little for her and sure enough she was all smiles when she seen me and we talked a wile about this in that and she tried to get personal and called me cherry which is like we say dearie and finely I made the remark that I didn't think we would be here much longer and then I seen she was going to blubber so I kind of petted her hand and stroked her hair and she poked her lips out and I give her a smack Al but just like you would kiss a kid or something after they fell down and hurt themself. Well Al just as this was comeing off the door to the other part of the joint opened up and in come her old man and seen it and I thought all Frenchmens talked fast Al but this old bird made them sound like a impediment and he come at me and if he hadn't been so old I would of crowned him but of course I couldn't do nothing only let him rave and finely I felt kind of sorry for him and I had a 20 frank note on me so I shoved it at him and it struck him dumb Al and I got out of there and come back to the Ark and it seems like I had been away a whole lot longer then I meant to and any way I hadn't hardly no more then got my shoes off and layed down when in come some of the boys.

Well Al what do you think? Gen. Pershing was out there to the riffle practice to overlook them and I suppose he heard we was going to be out there and he went out there to be sure and catch me and he was makeing a visit around the camp and instead of him stopping here he went out there to see us and instead of me being out there Al, here I was mixed up in a riot with an old goof over nothing you might say and Black Jack wondring where and the he -- ll could I be at because Alcock told me he noticed him looking around like he mist somebody. And now he's on his way back to Paris and probably sore as a boil and I can't do nothing only wait to hear from him and probably he will just decide to pass me up.

And the worst of it is Al that when they brought us the mail they was 2 letters for me from Florrie and I couldn't of asked for nicer letters if I had wrote them myself only why and the he -- ll couldn't she of wrote them a day sooner and I would of no more thought of getting excused today then fly because if I had knew how my Mrs. mist me and how much she cares I wouldn't of been waisting no time on no Ernestine but its to late now and Black Jack's gone and so is my 20 franks and believe me Al 20 frank notes is tray pew over here. I'll say they are.

Your pal, JACK.




Chapter IV

Decorated


Somewheres in France, April 2.

FRIEND AL: Well Al yesterday was April Fool and you ought to seen what I pulled on 1 of the boys Johnny Alcock and it was a screen and some of the boys is still laughing over it yet but he is I of the kind that he can't see a joke at their own expenses and he swelled up like a poison pup and now he is talking about he will get even with me, but the bird that gets even with me will half to get up a long time before revelry eh Al.

Well Al I will tell you what I pulled on him and I bet you will bust your sides. Well it seems like Johnny has got a girl in his home town Riverside, Ill. near Chi and that is he don't know if he has got her or not because him and another bird was both makeing a play for her, but before he come away she told him to not worry, but the other bird got himself excused out of the draft with a cold sore or something and is still there in the old town yet where he can go and call on her every night and she is libel to figure that maybe she better marry him so as she can have some of her evenings to herself and any way she might as well of told Johnny to not scratch himself over here as to not worry because for some reason another the gal didn't write to him last month at lease he didn't get no letters and maybe they got lost or she had writers cramps or something but any way every time the mail come and nothing for him he looked like he had been caught off second base.

Well the day before yesterday he was reading 1 of the letters he got from this baby 5 or 6 wks. ago on acct. of not haveing nothing better to read and he left the envelope lay on the floor and I was going to hand it back to him but I happened to think that yesterday would be April Fool so I kept a hold of the envelope and I got a piece of paper and wrote April Fool on it and stuck it in the envelope and fixed it up so as it would look like a new letter and I handed it to him yesterday like it was mail that had only just came for him and you ought to see him when he tore it open and didn't find nothing only April Fool in it. At first he couldn't say nothing but finely he says "That's some comedy Keefe. You ought to be a end man in the stretcher bearers minstrels" and he didn't crack a smile so I said "What's the matter with you can't you take a joke?" So he said "What I would like to take is a crack at your jaw." So I said "Well it's to bad your arms is both paralyzed." Well Al they's nothing the matter with his arms and I was just kidding him because as far as him hitting anybody is conserned I was just as safe as the gen. staff because he ain't much bigger than a cutie and for him to reach my jaw he would half to join the aviation.

Well of course he didn't start nothing but just said he would get back at me if it took him till the duration of the war and I told some of the other boys about putting it over on him and they couldn't hardly help from smileing but he acts like a baby and don't speak to me and I suppose maybe he thinks that makes me feel bad but I got to be 25 yrs. old before I ever seen him and if his head was blowed off tomorrow A. M. I would try and show up for my 3 meals a day if you could call them that.

But speaking about April Fool Al I just stopped writeing to try and light a cigarette with 1 of these here French matchs and every one of them is a April Fool and I guess the parents of the kids over here don't never half to worry about them smokeing to young because even if they had a box of cigarettes hid in their cradle they would be of age before they would run across a match that lit and I wouldn't be scared to give little Al a bunch and turn him loose in a bbl. of gasoline.

Well Al I suppose you been reading in the papers about the Dutchmens starting a drive vs. the English up in the northren part of the section and at first it looked like the English was going to leave them walk into the Gulf Stream and scald themself to death, but now it seems like we have got them slowed up at lease that's the dope we get here but for all the news we get a hold of we might as well of jumped to the codfish league on the way over and once in a wile some of the boys gets a U. S. paper a mo. old but they hog onto it and don't leave nobody else see it but as far as I am conserned they can keep it because I haven't no time to waist reading about the Frisco fair or the Federal League has blowed up and etc. And of course they's plenty of newspapers from Paris but all printed in la la la so as every time you come to a word you half to rumage through a dictionary and even when you run it down its libel to mean 20 different articles and by the time you figured out whether they are talking about a st. car or a hot bath or a raisin or what and the he -- ll they are talking about they wouldn't be no more news to it then the bible and it looks to me Al like it would be a good idear if you was to drop me a post card when the war is over so as I can tell Capt. Seeley or he will still be running us ragged to get in shape a couple of yrs. after the last of the Dutchmens lays molting in the grave.

Jokeing to 1 side Al you probably know what's going on a long wile before we do and the only chance we would have to know how a battle come out would be if we was in it and they's no chance of that unless they send us up to the northern part of the section to help out because Van Hindenburg must have something under his hat besides bristles and he ain't a sucker enough to start driveing vs. the front that we are behind it unless he is so homesick that he can't stand it no longer in France.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, April 6.

FRIEND AL: Well Al 1 of the Chi newspapers is getting out a paper in Paris and printed in English and I just seen a copy of it where the Allys has finely got wise to themself and made 1 man gen. of all the Allys and it was a sucker play to not do that long ago only it looks to me like they pulled another boner by makeing a Frenchman the gen. and I suppose they done it for a complement to the Frenchmens on acct. of the war being here, but even suppose this here Foch is a smart gen. and use his brains and etc. it looks to me like it would of been a whole lot better to of picked out a man that can speak English because suppose we was all in a big battle or something and he wanted we should go over the top and if he said it in French why most of the boys hasn't made no attempts to master the language and as far as they was conserned he might as well be telling them to wash their neck. Or else they would half to be interpeters to translate it out in English what he was getting at and by the time he give the orders to fire and the interpeter looked it up and seen what it meant in English and then tell us about it the Dutchmens would be putting peep holes through us with a bayonet and besides the French word for fire in English is feu in French and you say it like it was few and if Gen. Foch yelled few we might think he was complaining of the heat.

But at that its better to have I man running it even a Frenchman then a lot of different gens, telling us to do this in that and the other thing every one of them different and suppose they done that in baseball Al and a club had 3 or 4 mgrs. and suppose for inst. it come up to the 9th. inning and we needed some runs and it was Benz's turn to hit and 1 mgr. would tell him to go up and hit for himself and another mgr. would tell Murphy to go up and hit for him and another mgr. would send Risberg up and another would send Russell and the next thing you know they would be 2 of them swinging from 1 side of the plate and 2 from the other side and probably busting each other in the bean with their bats but you take most bird's beans and what would break would be Mr. Bat. But its the same in war like in baseball and you got to have 1 man running it. With a lot of different gens. in command, 1 of them might tell the men to charge while another was telling them to pay cash. Jokeing to 1 side Al some of our boys have overtook a section up along the Moose river and I wouldn't dast write about it only its been printed in the papers all ready so I am not giveing away no secrets to the Dutchmens. At lease they don't mind us writeing something that's came out in the papers though as far as I can see how would the Dutchmens know it any more if it was in the papers or not, because they ain't so choked with jack over in Germany that they are going to spend it on U. S. papers a mo. old and even when they got them they would half to find somebody that could read English and hadn't been killed for it and it would be like as if I should spend part of my $15 a mo. subscribeing to the Chop Suey Bladder that you would half to lay on your stomach and hold it with your feet to get it right side up and even then it wouldn't mean nothing. But any way the Dutchmens is going to know sooner or later that we are in the war and what's the differents if they meet us at the Moose or the Elks? Jokeing a side Al I guess you won't be supprised to hear how I have picked up in the riffle practice and I knew right along that I couldn't hardly help from being a A No. 1 marksman because a man that had almost perfect control in pitching you might say would be bound to shoot straight when they got the hang of it and don't be supprised if I write you 1 of these days that I been appointed a snipper that sets up in a tree somewheres and picks off the boshs whenever they stick their head up and they call them snippers so pretty soon my name is libel to be Jake Snipe instead of Jack Keefe, but seriously Al I can pick off them targets like they was cherrys or something and maybe I won't half to go in the trenchs at all.

I guess I all ready told you about that little trick I pulled on Johnny Alcock for a April Fool gag and at first he swelled up like a poison pup and wouldn't talk to me and said he wouldn't never rest till he got even. Well he finely got a real letter from the gal back home and she is still waiting for him yet so he feels O. K. again and I and him are on speaking turns again and I am glad to not be scraping with him because I don't never feel right unless I am pals with everybody but they can't nobody stay sore at me very long and even when some of the boys in baseball use to swell up when I pulled 1 of my gags on them it wouldn't last long because I would just smile at them and they would half to smile back and be pals and I always say that if a man can't take a joke he better take acid or something and make a corps out of himself instead of a monkey.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, April 11.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I don't suppose you knew I was a detective but when it comes to being a dick it looks like I don't half to salute Win. Burns or Shylock or none of them.

Seriously Al I come onto something today that may turn out to be something big and then again it may not but it looks like it was something big only of course it has got to be kept a secret till I get the goods on a certain bird and I won't pull it till I have got him right and in that way he won't suspect nothing until its to late. But I know you wouldn't breath a word about it and besides it wouldn't hurt nothing if you did because by the time you get this letter the whole thing will be over and this bird to who I refer will probably own a peace of land in France with a 2 ft. frontidge and 6 ft. deep. But you will wonder what am I trying to get at so maybe I better explain myself. Well Al they's a big bird in our Co, name Geo. Shaffer and that's a German name because look at Schaefer that use to play ball in our league and it was spelt different but they called him Germany and he thought he was funny and use to pull gags on the field but I guess he didn't feel so funny the day Griffith sent him up to hit against me in the pinch I day at Washington and if the ball he hit had of went straight out instead of straight up it would of pretty near cleared the infield. But any way this bird Shaffer in our Co. is big enough to have a corporal to himself and they must of spent the first Liberty Loan on his uniform and he hasn't hardly said a word since we been in France and for a wile we figured it was just because he was a crab and to grouchy to talk, but now I wouldn't be supprised Al if the real reason was on acct. of him being a Dutchman and maybe can't talk English very good. Well I would feel pretty mean to be spying on most of the boys that's been good pals with me, but when a man is a pro German spy himself they's no question of friendship and etc. and whatever I can do to show this bird up I won't hesitate a minute.

Well Al this bird was writeing a letter last night and he didn't have no envelope and he asked me did I have I and I said no and he wouldn't of never spoke only to say Gimme but when I told him I didn't have no envelope he started off somewheres to get 1 and he dropped the last page out of the letter he had been writeing and it was laying right there along side of me and of course I wouldn't of paid no tension to it only it was face up so as I couldn't help from seeing it and what I seen wasn't no words like a man would write in a letter but it was a bunch of marks like a x down at the bottom and they was a whole line of them like this x x x x x x x x x x x

Well that roused up my suspicions and I guess you know I am not the kind that reads other people's letters even if I don't get none of my own to read but this here letter I kind of felt like they was something funny about it like he was writeing in ciphers or something so I picked the page up and read it through and sure enough they was parts of it in ciphers and if a man didn't have the key you couldn't tell what and the he -- ll he was getting at.

Well Al I was still studing the page yet when he come back in and they wasn't nothing for me to do only set on it so as he wouldn't see I had it and he come over and begin looking for it and I asked him had he lost something to throw him off the track and he said yes but he didn't say what it was and that made it all the more suspicious so he finely give up looking and went out again.

Well I have got it put away where he can't get a hold of it because I showed it to Johnny Alcock this A. M. and asked him if it didn't look like something off color and he said yes it did and if he was me he would turn it over to Capt. Seeley but on 2d thoughts he said I better keep it a wile and at the same time keep a eye on Shaffer and get more evidents vs. him and then when I had him dead to rights I could turn the letter and the rest of the evidents over to Capt. Seeley and then I would be sure to get the credit for showing him up. Well Al I figure this 1 page of his letter is enough or more then enough only of course its best to play safe and keep my eyes pealed and see what comes off and I haven't got time to copy down the whole page Al and besides they's a few sentences that sounds O. K. and I suppose he put them in for a blind but you can't get away from them x marks Al and I will write down a couple other sentences and I bet you will agree that they's something fishy about them and here is the sentences to which I refer:

"In regards to your question I guess I understand O. K. In reply will say yes I. L. Y. more than Y. L. M. Am I right."

"Have you saw D. Give him a ring and tell the old spinort I am W. C. T. U. outside of a little Vin Blank."

Can you make heads or tales out of that Al? I guess not and neither could anybody else except they had the key to it and the best part of it is his name is signed down at the bottom and if he can explain that line of talk he is a wonder but he can't explain it Al and all as he can do is make a clean brest of the whole business and Alcock thinks the same way and Alcock says he wished he had of been the 1 that got a hold of this evidents because whoever turned it over to Capt. Sceley along with what other facts I can get a hold of will just about get a commission in the intelligents dept. and that's the men that looks after the pro German spys Al and gets the dope on them and shows them up and I would probably have my head quarters in Paris and get good money besides my expenses and I would half to pass up the chance to get in the trenchs and fight but they's more ways of fighting then 1 and in this game Al a man has got to go where they send you and where they figure they would do the most good and if my country needs me to track after spys I will sacrifice my own wishs though I would a whole lot rather stay with my pals and fight along side of them and not snoop round Paris fondleing door nobs like a night watchman. But Alcock says he would bet money that is where I will land and he says "You ought to feel right at home in the intelligents dept. like a camel in Lake Erie" and he says the first chance I get I better try and start up a conversation with Shaffer and try and lead him on and that is the way they trap them is to ask them a whole lot of questions and see what they have got to say and if you keep fireing questions at them they are bound to get balled up and then its good night.

Well I don't suppose it seems possible to you stay at homes that they could be such a thing like a pro German spy in the U. S. army and how did he get there and why did they leave him in and etc. Well Al you would be supprised to know how many of them has slipped in and Alcock says that at first it amounted to about 200% but the intelligents officers has been on their sent all the wile and most of them has been nailed and when they get them they shoot them down like a dog and that's what Shaffer will get Al and he is out of luck to be so big because all as the fireing squad would half to do would be look at their compass and see if he was east or west of them and then face their riffle in that direction and let go.

I will write and let you know how things comes along.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, April 14.

FRIEND AL: Well Al I am closeing the net of evidents around Shaffer and I guess I all ready got enough on him to make out a case that he couldn't never wrinkle out of it but Capt. Seeley is away and I can't do nothing till he gets back.

I had my man on the grill today Al and I thought he would be a fox and not criminate himself but I guess I went at him so smooth he didn't never suspect nothing till along towards the finish and then it was to late. I don't remember all that was said but it run along these lines like as follows: In the first place I asked him where he lived and he said Milwaukee Ave. in Chi and I don't know if you know it or not Al but that's a st. where they have got traffic policemens at the corners to blow their whistles once for the Germans to go north and south and twice for them to go east and west. So then I said was he married and he says no. So then I asked him where he was born and he said "What and the he -- ll are you the personal officer?" So I laughed it off and said "No but I thought maybe we come from the same part of the country." So he says something about everybody didn't half to come from the country but he wouldn't come out and say where he did come from so then I kind of led around to the war and I made the remark that the German drive up on the north side of France didn't get very far and he says maybe they wasn't through. How was that for a fine line of talk Al and he might as well have said he hoped the Germans wouldn't never be stopped.

Well for a minute I couldn't hardly help from takeing a crack at him but in these kind of matters Al a man has got to keep a hold of themself or they will loose their quarry so I kind of forced a smile and said "Well I guess they would have kept going if they could of." And then he says "Yes but they half to stop every once in a wile to bring up Van Hindenburg." So I had him traped Al and quick is a flash I said "Who told you their plans?" And he says "Oh he -- ll my mother in law" and walked away from me.

Well Al it was just like sometimes when they are trying a man for murder and he says he couldn't of did it because he was over to the Elite jazing when it come off and a little wile later the lawyer asks him where did he say he was at when the party was croked and he forgets what he said the 1st. time and says he was out to Lincoln Pk. kidding the bison or something and the lawyer points out to the jury where his storys don't jib and the next thing you know he is dressed up in a hemp collar a couple sizes to small.

And that's the same way I triped Shaffer getting him to say he wasn't married and finely when I have him cornered he busts out about his mother in law. Well Al I don't know of no way to get a mother in law without marrying into one. So I told Alcock tonight what had came off and he says it looked to him like I had a strong case and if he was me he would spill it to Capt. Seeley the minute he gets back. And he said "You lucky stiff you won't never see the inside of a front line trench." So I asked him what he meant and he repeated over again what he said about them takeing me in the intelligents dept. So it looks like I was about through being a doughboy Al and pretty soon I will probably be writeing to you from Paris but I don't suppose I will be able to tell you what I am doing because that's the kind of a job where mum is the word.

Your pal, JACK.

*       *       *       *       *

Somewheres in France, April 16.

FRIEND AL: Well old pal don't be supprised if I write you the next time from Paris. I have got a date to see Capt. Seeley tomorrow and Lieut. Mather fixed it up for me to see him but I had to convince the lieut. that it wasn't no monkey business because they's always a whole lot of riffs and raffs asking Capt. Seeley can they have a word with him and what they want is to borry his knife to pair their finger nails.

But I guess he won't be sorry he seen me Al not when I show him the stuff I have got on this bird and he will probably shake me by the hand and say "Well Keefe Uncle Sam is proud of you but you are waisting your time here and I will be sorry to loose you but it looks like you belong in other fields." And he will wire a telegram to the gen. staff reccomending me to go to Paris.

I guess I all ready told you some of the stuff I have got on this bird but I have not told you all because the best one didn't only happen last night. Well on acct. of I and Alcock being friends he has kind of been keeping a eye pealed on Shaffer to help me out and he found a letter last night that Shaffer had wrote and this time it was the whole letter with the address and everything and who do you suppose it was to? Well Al it was to Van Hindenburg himself and I have got it right here where I can keep a eye on it and believe me it's worth watching and I wished I could send it to you so you could see for yourself what kind of a bird we are dealing with. But that's impossible Al but they's nothing to keep me from copping it off.

Well the letter is wrote in German and to show you what a foxy bird he is he wrote it out in printing so as if it got found by somebody they couldn't prove he wrote it because when words is wrote out in printing it looks just the same who ever wrote it and you can't tell. But he wasn't foxy enough to not sign G. S. down to the bottom of it and that stands for his name George Shaffer and he is the only G. S. in the Co. so it looks like we had him up in a tree. Here is what the letter says:

"Field Marshall Van Hindenburg, c/o Die Vierten Dachshunds, Deutscher Armee, Flanders. 500,000 U. S. Soldaten schon in Frankreich doch. In Lauterbach habe Ich mein Strumpf verloren und ohne Strumpf gehe Ich nicht heim. xxxxxxx G.S."

Notice them x marks again Al like in the other letter and the other letter was probably to Van Hindenburg to and I only wished I knew what the x marks means but maybe some of the birds that's all ready in the intelligents dept. can figure it out. But they's no mystery about the rest of it Al because Alcock understands German and he translated it out what the German words means and here is what it means:

500,000 United States soldiers in France all ready yet. Will advise you when to attack on this front.

How is that Al for a fine trader and spy to tell the gen. of the German army how many soldiers we got over here and to not attack till Shaffer says the word and he was probably going to say it wile we was all asleep or something. But thanks to me Al he will be the one that is asleep and it will be some sleep Al and it will make old Rip and Winkle look like they had the colic and when the boys finds out what I done for them I guess they won't be nothing to good for me. But it will be to late for them to show their appreciations because I won't be here no more and the boys probably won't see me again till its all over and we are back in the old U. S. because Alcock was talking to a bird that's in the int. dept. and he says 1 of their dutys was to keep away from everybody and not leave them know who you are. Because of course if word got out that you was a spy chaser the spys wouldn't hardly run up and kiss you on the st. but they would duck when they seen you and you would have as much chance to catch them as though you was trolling for wales with a grass hopper.

And from this bird's dope that Alcock was talking to I will half to leave off my uniform and wear plain close and maybe wear false whiskers and etc. so as people who see me the 1st. time I will look different to them the next time they see me and maybe I will half to let my mustache grow and grease it so as they will think maybe I am a Dutchman and if they are working for the Kaiser I could maybe pump them.

But they's 1 thing I don't like about it Al because Alcock says Paris is full of women that isn't exactly spys but they have been made a fool out of and they are some German's duke but the Dutchmens tells them a whole lot of things that Uncle Sam would like to know and I would half to find them things out and the only way to do that would be to get them stuck on me and I guess that wouldn't be no chore but when a gal gets stuck on you they will tell you everything they know and wile with most gals I ever seen they could do that without dropping another nickle still and all it would be different with these gals in Paris that's been the tools of some Dutchmens because you take a German and he don't never stop braging till he inhales a bayonet.

But it don't seem fair to make love to them and pertend like I was nuts over them and then when I had learned all they was to know I would half to get rid of them and cast them to 1 side and god knows how many wounds I will leave behind me but probably as many as though I was a regular soldier or snipper but then I wouldn't feel so bad about it because it would be men and not girlies but everything goes in war fair as they say Al and if Uncle Sam and Gen. Pershing asks me to do it I will do whatever they ask me and they can't nobody really hold it vs. me because of why I am doing it.

But talking about snippers Al I noticed today that I wasn't near as good as usual in the riffle practice and it was like as if I was haveing a slump like some of the boys does in baseball when they go along 5 or 6 days without finding out who is umpireing the bases and I am afraid that is how it would be with me in snipping I would be O. K. part of the time and the rest of the time I couldn't hit Europe and maybe I would fall down when they was depending on me and then I would feel like a rummy so I guess I better not try and show up so good in practice even when I do feel O. K. because they might make a snipper out of me without knowing my weakness and I figure its something the matter with my eyes. Besides Al it don't seem like its a fair game to be pecking away at somebody that they can't see you and aren't looking for no supprise and its a whole lot different then fighting with a bayonet where its man to man and may the best man win.

Well Al I guess I have told you all the news and things is going along about as usual and they don't seem to be no prospects of us overtakeing a section up to the front but its just train and train and train and if the ball clubs had a training trip like we been haveing they would be so tired by the 1 of May that they wouldn't run out a base on balls. Yesterday we past by a flock of motor Lauras that was takeing wounded back to a base hospital somewheres and Alcock was talking to 1 of the drivers and he said that over 100% of the birds that's getting wounded and killed these days is the snippers and the boshs don't never rest till they find out where there nests is at and then they get all their best marksmens and aim at where they think the snipper has got his nest and then its good night snipper and he is either killed right out or looses a couple of legs or something. I certainly feel sorry for the boys that's wounded Al and every time we see a bunch of them all us boys is crazy to get up there to the front and get even for what they done.

Well old pal I will half to get busy now and overlook the dope I have got on Shaffer so as I will have everything in order for Capt. Seeley and I will write and let you know how things comes out.

Your pal, JACK.

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Somewheres in France, April 18.

FRIEND AL: Well Al they's a whole lot of birds that thinks they are wise and always trying to pull off something on somebody but once in a wile they pick out the wrong bird to pull it on and then the laugh is on the smart Alex themself.

Well Alcock and some of them thought they was putting up a game on me and was going to make me look like a monkey but before I get through with them Al they will be the suckers and I will be giveing them the horse laugh but what I ought to do is bust them in the jaw and if I was running this war every bird that tried to pull off some practical joke to put a man in bad, I would give a lead shower in their honor some A. M. before breakfast.

Alcock was trying to make me believe that 1 of the boys in the Co. name Geo. Shaffer was a German spy or something and they framed up a letter like as if he wrote it to Van Hindenburg giveing away secrets in German about our army and etc. but they made the mistake of signing his initials to the letter so when I come to think it over I seen it must be a fake because a bird that was a real spy wouldn't never sign their own name to a letter but they would sign John Smith or something.

But any way I had a hold of this letter and a peace of another letter that Shaffer really did write it and I thought I would show them to Capt. Seeley and play it safe because they might be something in them after all and any way it would give him a good laugh. So yesterday I went and seen him and he says "Well Keefe what can I do for you?" So I said "You can't do nothing for me sir but this time I can do something for you. What would you think if I told you they was a trader and a German spy in your Co." So he says "I would think you were crazy." So I said "I am afraid you will half to think so then but maybe you won't think I am so crazy when I show you the goods."

So then Al I pulled that 1st. peace of a letter on him and showed it to him and he read it and when he got through he says "Well it looks suspicious all right. It looks like the man that wrote it was hacking up a big plot to spring a few dependents on his local board the next time they draft him." So I said "The bird that wrote that letter is a Dutchman name Geo. Shaffer." So Capt. Seeley says "Well I wish him all the luck in the world and a lot of little Shaffers." So I said "Yes but what about them x marks and all them letters without no words to them?" So he said "Didn't you never correspond with a girl and put some of them xs down to the bottom of your letter?" So I says "I have wrote letters to a whole lot of girls but I never had to write nothing in ciphers because I wasn't never ashamed of anything I wrote." So he said "Well your lady friends was all cheated then because this is ciphers all right but its the kind of messages they love to read because it means kisses."

Well Al of course I knew it meant something like that but I didn't think a big truck horse like Shaffer would make such a mushmellow out of himself. But anyway I said to Capt. Seeley I says "All right but what about them other initials without no words to go with them?" And he says "Well that's some more ciphers but they's probably a little gal out in Chi that don't half to look at no key to figure it out."

So then I pulled the other letter on him the 1 in German and he also smiled when he read this one and finely he says "Some of your pals has been playing a trick on you like when you come over on the ship and the best thing you can do is to tear the letters up and keep it quite and don't leave nobody know you fell for it. And now I have got a whole lot to tend to so good by."

So that's all that was said between us and I come away and come back to quarters and Alcock and 2 or 3 of the other boys was there and Alcock knew where I had been and I suppose he had told the other birds and they was all set to give me the Mary ha ha but I beat them to it.

"Well Alcock" I says when I come in "you are some joke Smith but you wouldn't think you was so funny if I punched your jaw." So he turned kind of pail but he forced a smile and says "Well I guess the Vin Blank is on you this time." So I said "You won't get no Vin Blank off me but what you are libel to get is a wallop in the jaw." So he says "You crabbed at me a wile ago for not takeing a joke but it looks like you was the one that couldn't take them now." So I said "What I would like to take is a poke at your nose." So that shut him up and they didn't none of them get their laugh because I had them scared and if they had of laughed I would of made them swallow it.

So after all Al the laugh is on them because their gag fell dead and I guess the next time they try and pull some gag they will pick out some hick from some X roads to pull it on and not a bird that has traveled all over the big leagues and seen all they is to see.

Well Al I am tickled to death I won't half to give up my uniform and snoop around Paris like a white wings double crossing women and spying and etc. and even if the whole thing hadn't of been just a joke I was going to ask Capt. Seeley to not reccomend me to no int. dept. but jest leave me be where I am at so as when the time comes I can fight fair like man to man and not behind no woman's skirts like a cur.

So you see Al everything is O. K. after all and the laugh is on Alcock and his friends because they was the ones that expected to do all the laughing but instead of that I made a monkey out of them.

Your pal, JACK.

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Somewheres in France, April 23.

FRIEND AL: Well Al if you would see my face you would think I had been attending a barrage or something or else I had been in a bar room fight only of course if it was a fair fight I wouldn't be so kind of marred up like I am. But I had a accident Al and fell over a bunk and lit on the old bean and the result is Al that I have got a black eye and a bad nose and my jaw is swole a little and my ears feels kind of dull like so I guess the ladys wouldn't call me Handsome Jack if they seen me but it will be all O. K. in a few days and I will be the same old Jack.

But I will tell you how it come off. I was setting reading a letter from Florrie that all as she said in it was that she had boughten herself a new suit that everybody says was the cutest she ever had on her back just like I give a dam because by the time I see her in it she will of gave it to little Al's Swede. But any way I was reading this letter when in come Shaffer the bird that was mixed up in that little gag about the fake spy and he come up to me and says "Well you big snake who's male are you reading now?" Well Al him calling me big is like I would say hello Jumbo to a flee. But any way I says "My own male and who and the he -- ll male would I be reading?" So he said "Well its hard to tell because you stole some of mine and read it and not only that but you showed it to the whole A. E. F. so now stand up and take what's comeing to you."

Well Al I thought he was just kidding so I says "I come over here to fight Germans and not 1 of my own pals." So he says "Don't call me no pal, but if you come to fight Germans now is your chance because you say I'm 1 of them."

Well he kind of made a funny motion like he wanted to spar or wrestle or something and I thought he meant it in a friendly way like we sometimes pull off a rough house once in a wile so I stood up but before I had a chance to take holds with him he cut loose at me with his fists doubled up and I kind of triped or something and fell over a bench and I must have hit something sharp on the way down and I kind of got scratched up but they are only scratchs and don't amt. to nothing. Only I wished I knew he had of been serious and I would of made a punching bag out of him and you can bet that the next time he wants to start something I won't wait to see if he is jokeing but I will tear into him and he will think he run into a Minnie Weffers.

Well I suppose Alcock was sore at me for getting the best of him and not falling for his gag and he was afraid to tackle me himself and he told big Shaffer a peck of lies about some dam letter or something and said I stole it and it made Shaffer sore and no wonder because who wouldn't be sore if they thought somebody was reading their male. But a man like Shaffer that if he stopped a shell the Dutchmens would half to move back a ways so as they would be room enough in France to bury him hasn't got no right to pick on a smaller man especially when I wasn't feeling good on acct. of something I eat but at that Al size don't make no difference and its the bird that's got the nerve and knows how that can knock them dead and if Shaffer had of gave me any warning he would of been the 1 that is scratched up instead of I though I guess he is to lucky to trip over a kit bag and fall down and cut himself.

But my scratchs don't really amt. to nothing Al and in a few days I will be like new.

Your pal, JACK.

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Somewheres in France, April 25.